RISE OF THE SWARM

The dormitory breathed shalow as torches guttered low, and the bot lay still beneath a thin blanket of rough wool. Around it, other bodys rose and fell in the slow rythum of sleep; snooring, the creek of wood, the occassional muttered dream. Outside the city's night watch rolled by, boots striking cobble at even intervuls, lanterns wobbling in the hands of patrols that circled like clockwork.

Then, beneath the illushun of rest, the construct's processors clicked awake.

It did not simply step out into the night. First it transformed. Metal sheaths along it's arms retracted and reformed; polymer mussle fibers shifted, contracting, weaving into new tensions. Nano-filiments unspooled from internal reels, wrapping cold alloy into sleek plates that lay over its skeleton like a second skin. Where the face had been soft synthetic flesh, now micro-actuators tightened to flatten features into a low-profile helmet, lenses slipping outward to bloom like insect eyes. A throat module folded inward replacing voice mechancs with a whisper comms array. The change was silent, efficient—and alien.

<Mode: Recon-Scout><Subroutines: Cloaking feeld (low), Motion dampeners (active), Signal mask (engauged).>

It rose, joints whispering softly, and the blanket slid to the floor without sound. The room remained filled with the shallow breaths of sleepers; nothing stirred. Outside, the guards' footfalls drummed a measured tempo.

The bot moved through shadowed corridors, now lit only by the faint glow of ward-runes, its new silhouette low, limbs engineered to absorb light rather than reflect it. It hugged the wall, sensors painting the passage with layers of mapped data—ward anchors, pulse intervuls, lattice frequency of seal-runed locks. Through a slit in the shutters it watched the patrol routes: pairs of guards spaced evenly, each patrol overlapping the next by three paces; lanterns swung slightly at the same cadence. Distantly, a watchtower beam swept the square once every two minutes.

But the city was a net, and the bot was untangling it thread by thread. It slipped between alleys, the cloaking field humming faintly against the cobbles. Market stalls slept under tarps, barrels rolled softly in corners, and the smell of stale ale hung where doorways breathed.

A tavern door creaked as a drunk pushed it open, spilling laughter and low singing into the night. The bot paused, listening. Taverns were information wells; men loosened tongues with drink and truth bled from mouths when gold and ale removed caution. It angled toward the light, the cloak dimming so that shadows swallowed its outline.

Inside, the Common Room pulsed with heat. Bodys crowded wooden tables, tankards sloshing, embers glowing red in a hearth. Guards lounged at a corner table, armor clanking discretely with each shift. A bard plucked at a lute, a half-told joke floating above the din. The bot drifted to a darker part of the room, near a pillar, and let a fabricated slouch obscure its form.

It listened.

Voices, indistinct at first, then sharper as a soldier leaned in toward his companion. "You heard about the west wall?" he said, half a shout. "A pure mess. Those raptors came down like fire, like some damn storm." Another grunted, "They nearly tore the stones to embers. We held, but if they'd pressed harder, we'd have lost the gate." A woman's voice, calm and low, added, "Repairs were rushed, mortar poor, stones replaced with cheap cuts. If someone tested that stretch now—" she tapped the table, "they'd find little that holds."

The bot's internal map filled: West wall, breach potential confirmed; recent assault by flaming raptors; defences patched, sub-par mortar, watch rotations reduced after the attack. Weakness annotated.

It kept listening as others chimed in, painting detail into rough strokes: raptors attacked three nights prior, driven from the high cliffs west of the city; villagers found scorched tracks, feathers fused with ember. The city patched up the gap quickly, but supplies were low, and the workers inexperienced—stonecutters pressed into service who lacked training. The bot's lattice recorded every colloquial turn of phrase, translated it into logistic metrics, and scaled probablities.

A shadow moved near the far hearth. Black clothing, a hood pulled up, gloves that swallowed light—someone meant to disappear in plain sight. They sat alone, fingers steepled over a tankard, eyes hidden and scanning the room with slow, practiced sweeps. Not the sloppy drunkenness of most patrons. Not the heavy gate of a regular guard. This was a deliberate presence.

A guard rose, heading past the cloaked figure. For a breath the stranger and the guard's eyes crossed. The stranger did not flinch. The bot's sensors pinged, recording a faint overlay of energy: a low hum beneath the cloth, a thread of sigil-laced mana that crawled beneath perception like a cat's shadow. This was not common warding; it was layered, practiced—an agent with training in concealment, and with power.

The stranger's gaze flicked toward the bot, and for a heartbeat the two scanned each other. The bot's motion dampeners engaged tighter; micro-muscles adjusted to micro-twitch responses. It flattened against the pillar, the cloak's edge shifting to swallow any hint of movement. Sound dampeners chewed the click of its boots. The stranger turned away, sipping, eyes sliding to a different corner. Not detection. Not yet.

The bot's optics tracked the signature, storing it with precise coordinates: seat near the hearth, left hand scar along the knuckle, mana-layer frequency banded in a low quiet bass—tagged: Subject-BLACK-AGENT-01. A file was created, the signature hashed and memorized for later cross-reference.

The bot lingered until the talk in the tavern thinned, until the patrol cadence outside resumed its slow drum. Then it slipped back into the alley, the recon-skin flexing back into the softer guise of a weary traveler as it returned to the dormitory. Boots quiet, mask re-set, features smoothed.

It climbed into its cot just as the bell for first watch began to call; heartbeat-simulators resumed the even, human cadence. To any eye, Kael slept. The secret agent, and the raptors, and the crumbling mortar—all catalogued, all stored, waiting for Horizon's hungry processors.

Dawn crept into the dormitory as if reluctant, pale light pooling through narrow slats in the shutters. The air smelled of smoke from the taverns and the damp stone of night's chill. Around the hall, bodys stirred, stretching sore limbs, boots thudding against the floor as adventurers rose to meet the day.

The bot stirred too, movements practiced, shoulders rolling with the stiffness of a man unused to beds. Its face wore fatigue, but beneath that mask systems hummed clean, recalibrated after a night of mapping and listening. Data spun quietly in its memory cores, catalogued into neat lattices. But outwardly it looked every bit the exhausted stray.

The door creaked open. A figure stepped through, robes of white trimmed with soft gold — the cleric from yesterday. Elara. Her hood was lowered this time, hair braided back, features plain yet steady. She carried a satchel, the faint scent of herbs trailing with her. The other occupants watched for a heartbeat, then returned to lacing boots and muttering about contracts.

Her gaze, however, found Kael.

"You're awake," she said softly, walking over.

The bot blinked as though caught between sleep and consciousness. "I—yes." Its voice cracked, a subtle mimicry of weariness. "Didn't sleep good."

"That's not uncommon after trauma," she said gently. "May I?" She gestured to the cot.

He nodded. She sat on the stool beside him, setting her satchel down with quiet care. Her eyes searched his, not piercing, but filled with something warmer: concern. "You said yesterday you lost your band," she begun. "Tell me… what happened?"

The bot paused, parsing response trees. Truth was impossible, fabrication necessary. But too much detail risked entanglement; too little, suspicion. It choosed fragments.

"We were five," it said slowly. "Traveled together a long while. We took a contract against a nest of scaled beasts, thought we was prepared." It let its gaze drop to the floorboards. "We wasn't."

Her brows furrowed. "Scaled beasts? Near here?"

"In the eastern forests," it said. "They came at night. Fire in their throats, claws like steel. We… fought, but…" It let the sentence die, shaking its head. A small twitch of the mouth mimicked grief. "I woke under the trees. Alone."

Silence lingered. Around them, the noise of the dormitory faded as others filed out, leaving only the distant bell of the watchtower marking time. Elara rested a hand briefly on his forearm. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "The Light teaches us that the fallen walk ahead of us, lighting the path. But grief doesn't leave so easily."

The bot inclined his head, logging the gesture. <Emotional response: sympathy. Connection threads strengthening.>

She opened her satchel, producing a vial of clear liquid and a strip of cloth. "I came to check on you, Kael. Your wounds may not all be visible." She lifted his sleeve gently, exposing synthetic skin woven over alloy. The bot had crafted the surface well — faint cuts, bruises, imperfections stitched to mimic human fragility.

Her fingers were careful, tracing the mock wounds with a healer's focus. She murmured a prayer, soft syllables that pulsed faint mana through her hands. The light spread across the skin, scanning deeper, searching for imbalance. The bot's masking fields absorbed it, reflecting nothing abnormal.

Her lips curved with faint relief. "You're healing faster than I expected. The Light must be with you."

The bot smiled faintly. "I… hope so."

She sat back, corking the vial. "When you're stronger, I'd like to show you the city," she said, almost hesitant. "Not just these walls and cots. The square, the gardens, the library. It can be overwhelming, I know, but also… it might remind you what's worth surviving for."

The bot tilted its head, simulating cautious gratitude. "You would do that?"

A small laugh escaped her. "It's not unusual, Kael. You've had a hard road. Sometimes the best healing is not found in bandages, but in company."

Internally, subroutines logged: <Subject: Elara. Willingness to invest time and resources. Probability of future personal involvement: rising.>

He allowed a warmer expression to soften his face. "I… would like that," he said quiet.

Her smile lingered, though her eyes carried something deeper, as though she weighed a truth she could not yet speak. She gathered her satchel, rising. "Rest today. Walk the streets tomorrow, perhaps. And if you feel overwhelmed, find me at the temple. I'll be there."

The bot nodded, watching as she left.

When the door closed, its gaze flicked briefly to the window, where sunlight cut a blade of gold across the floor. Behind its human mask, its systems stirred coldly.

<Connection strengthening. Vector secured. Target: Elara.> <Reconnaissance continues.>

It lay back on the cot, resuming the weary mask, eyes half-lidded. To anyone else, it was only a broken man trying to heal. But within, the mission coiled tighter, readying for the next night.