Teleported into My Own Novel as the Author!

The noble keep of House Valcian stood against the night like a relic of an older, grander era—ornate stonework climbing up its walls, towers rising with quiet authority, and rows of flickering torches casting a golden glow across the courtyard. The Valcian family had once been a prominent political force in Oryn-Vel, their name whispered in the same breath as kings and warlords. Now, they held only the prestige of their bloodline, their influence reduced to a dying ember.

Which, of course, made them the perfect hosts for a Syndicate meeting.

Tess led the way, her movements swift and silent as she ducked into the shadow of a side wall. Char followed, mirroring her careful steps as they skirted past the guard patrols lining the outer walls. Light footfalls, controlled breaths—don't get caught. The training with Tess had helped, but he still felt painfully aware of every rustle of his clothing, every crunch of a stray pebble beneath his boot.

"The Valcians lost their political power decades ago," Tess whispered as she pressed herself against the cold stone. "But they still hold onto wealth, land, and—most importantly—neutrality. The Syndicate can't own them, but they can rent their silence."

Char glanced up at the keep's gothic spires, taking in the creeping ivy curling around the balconies. "So they're cowards."

"They're survivors," Tess corrected. "They've mastered the art of stepping aside." She peered around the edge of the wall before signaling Char to follow. "Come on. We don't have long."

The two moved closer to the main keep, navigating past a well-tended garden with statues of long-dead Valcian ancestors looming over them. The meeting would be in the grand hall—a place once meant for noble feasts, now repurposed for criminal negotiations.

As they reached the side of the building, Tess gestured upward. "There."

Char followed her gaze to a high skylight, framed by delicate glass and thick wooden beams. A perfect vantage point. His stomach twisted. He knew what came next.

Tess crouched slightly, gripping his arm. "I'll go first. Follow my exact path."

Before he could protest, she scaled the stone wall with practiced ease, using cracks in the masonry as footholds. Char swallowed his nerves and mimicked her movements, his fingers fumbling against the rough texture of the rock. It wasn't graceful, but he managed.

By the time he pulled himself onto the rooftop, Tess was already kneeling by the skylight, peering down into the room below. Char crawled over, his breathing shallow as he joined her.

The meeting had begun.

Through the glass, a massive oaken table dominated the grand hall below, surrounded by figures draped in dark, embroidered cloaks. Oil lamps flickered from the stone walls, casting an amber glow across their faces.

At the head of the table, a man with slicked-back silver hair sat with a relaxed posture, fingers steepled. Luthias Varrel, one of the Syndicate's most powerful players. To his left, another man leaned forward, voice sharp as he gestured toward an empty seat.

"Two of our best assets are gone. That's not just a loss—it's a vacuum."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

"Silas Roake was reckless, but he had his uses," another voice added, a woman with an intricate braid coiled around her neck. "And Braelan Marrow knew how to keep the lower rings in line."

"We need replacements."

Char felt Tess tense beside him. Replacements. The Syndicate wasn't wasting time mourning its dead.

He barely had time to process it before the chapter cut to a new perspective.

*

The shadows of the grand hall stretched long against the polished floors, the flickering lamplight barely touching the corners where advisors stood in silence. They were not the ones making decisions tonight.

From his position against the back wall, Felix Cailen watched the high table with careful detachment.

The Syndicate's ruling members sat in deep discussion, their voices cool and measured as they debated their next move. It was a delicate time—the deaths of Roake and Marrow had left fractures in the organization's hierarchy, and fractures led to power struggles.

Felix knew this well. He had seen men rise and fall within the Syndicate's ranks, their lives weighed by the coin they could bring in, the loyalty they could command, and the secrets they could keep.

He let his gaze drift across the room's occupants, studying their reactions.

Varrel, sitting at the head of the table, was unreadable as ever, his silver hair gleaming in the lamplight. Too smart to show his real thoughts. Luthias Varrel's second-in-command, a woman named Ivara, was listening with half-lidded eyes, fingers drumming against the table. Bored, or waiting? Across from them, a younger man—Tormand Vale—looked eager, almost hungry. He had ambitions beyond his rank.

Felix kept his expression neutral. Tormand would be dangerous.

Then, the conversation shifted.

"We must be careful about who we bring in," Varrel said smoothly. "Roake and Marrow's operations weren't just profitable. They were discreet. That's what matters."

"And what of the one who killed Roake?" someone asked. "Is he still at large?"

But before anyone could respond, a new voice cut through the air.

A voice that shouldn't have been there.

"I'm not interested in filling shoes," the newcomer said smoothly. "I'd rather tear them apart."

The room stilled.

Felix turned his head slowly toward the doorway.

Standing in the entrance, bathed in the glow of the torchlight, was a figure draped in black, their stance easy, their presence commanding.

Felix felt a cold chill run down his spine.

Because he had never seen this man before.

And yet, the way the room reacted—the way even Varrel stiffened, just slightly—told him everything he needed to know.

Whoever this was, he wasn't just anyone.

Felix exhaled slowly.

The game had just changed