Swift woke with the clean energy only followed by a rare, dreamless night of sleep. Well-rested and with a clear mind, he was ready—finally ready—to bless the helmet.

  But the events of the previous night hadn’t faded.

  As he sat on the edge of his bunk, pulling on his boots, the memory of Brother Cozbin’s even, practiced voice echoed back at him. Calm, polite, dangerous. Swift didn’t believe for a second the Church had simply let him go out of goodwill. If anything, the calm dismissal had been the real warning. And in every film, every military briefing, every interrogation debrief he’d ever studied in his old life—Swift remembered one rule:

  The suspect is always watched. At least for twenty-four hours.

  Probably longer.

  Especially if they’re still not sure if they believe me.

  Which meant blessing the helmet today was out of the question. If someone was following him, they'd be watching his every move. What he needed was to be boring. Predictable. A model marksman with nothing unusual to show for himself.

  So Swift came up with a plan: make the day so monotonous that any spy would wish they’d picked someone more exciting to tail.

  He started with training. A full morning of it.

  Running, stretching, shadowboxing, repetition drills. Swift didn’t push himself to look flashy—he worked like a disciplined soldier, focused and forgettable. No fancy footwork. No weapon tricks. Just pure, clean repetition. Like a man trying to stay sharp, not trying to show off.

  Still, one detail nagged at him.

  Lee.

  If he didn’t show up at all, she might worry. And if she acted strange, it could draw more attention.

  So he decided to visit—but as a stranger.

  Just after midday, Swift cleaned himself up and dressed plainly. He ate lunch at the standard mess hall with a few instructors, chatting just enough to stay social. The conversations were about exactly what they were supposed to be—boring. Training. Recruits. Weapon alignment. He laughed at all the right times. Made a few bad jokes.

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  Then he slipped out into the streets of Crescent City.

  As he walked toward Lee’s workshop, he deliberately slowed his pace and stopped frequently—peering into shop windows, pretending to admire gear he didn’t need or couldn’t afford. Every now and then, he’d look back over his shoulder, not as a check, but as if distracted by a noise or familiar voice. Just enough to look like a normal citizen.

  When he finally reached Lee’s shop, she turned around as the bell rang and started to greet him—but he cut her off before she could say a word.

  “I’m looking for a gift,” he said, voice a shade too charming. “Something... handmade, but not too flashy.”

  Lee blinked. Then caught on instantly. She straightened up, put on her merchant smile, and played along.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” she said brightly. “We specialize in subtle craftsmanship here.”

  He bought a small carved glass trinket—barely worth more than a meal—and as he placed the coins into her hand, he slipped in a small folded note between his fingers.

  “Perfect,” he said, smiling like a man thrilled with his purchase. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  Lee bowed her head. “Come again anytime.”

  Swift gave a wink and left.

  Back at the barracks, he placed the trinket in his locker like a man storing a gift. Then made his way to firearms training and taught a small group of newer recruits. He didn’t demonstrate anything fancy—just stances, corrections, and simple advice. He let them laugh at their own mistakes and clapped a few on the back for minor improvements. He was, by all accounts, a regular Marksman doing his job. Dinner was just around the corner when Swift stepped outside the barracks, intending to head for the tavern.

  Swift stopped mid-step.

  Stepping out of the military headquarters, Brother Cozbin, in his silver-trimmed robes. Cozbin didn’t flinch at the sight of him. If anything, the priest looked like he’d been hoping for the encounter.

  “Marksman Swift,” he said, giving a shallow nod as he approached. “I trust your day has been productive?”

  Swift answered with a polite, measured smile. “Mostly teaching recruits. Physical training this morning, a little range work this afternoon.”

  Cozbin nodded slightly. “Good. Routine is the root of discipline.”

  He paused, just long enough to let the moment stretch between them, then gave a parting smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “May your five weeks be peaceful.”

  He turned and disappeared down the path—walking calmly, deliberately.

  Swift watched him go.

  Why the headquarters building?

  Was he gathering information? Meeting the commander? Setting up a deeper form of surveillance? Dozens of possibilities bloomed in his mind, none of them good.

  By the time he finally continued walking, his appetite had dulled. The calm of the day had been carefully orchestrated—by him.

  But Cozbin, what’s his game?