"Death Was Here"
The candle flickered.
Lord Varrin pressed the seal down on the parchment, hands trembling despite the heat of the wax. Shadows danced on stone walls, shifting like spectre's as wind whispered through the stained glass. His breath fogged in the cold night air.
He wasn't supposed to be afraid. Not here. Not in the heart of his humble abode.
But fear crept in anyway.
"Your arrogance will be your undoing," the queen had warned days earlier, though her voice had held no venom — only pity.
He scoffed now, muttering to himself. "That girl wouldn't harm a soul."
And yet… the rumors.A masked killer. A phantom.One word whispered in back alleys and brothels.
A personification, the embodiment of one word.
Death.
Ridiculous. Just stories to frighten traitors into loyalty.
A faint creak. Behind him.
He turned sharply. Nothing. Just the wind.
No—The candle flame had stilled.
He reached for his dagger...
Too slow.
A blur of movement. Cold steel kissed his throat. A hand, gloved in black, silenced his scream.
His eyes widened as the masked figure leaned close, gaze expressionless through a single slit of shadow.
Then the blade sank into his chest.
Once.
Twice.
Varrin gasped, choking on blood. He fell to the marble, limbs spasming.
The killer crouched beside him, dipped fingers into the blood pooling at his side, and began to write on the wall closest to them.
Three words. Every stroke deliberate.
Death was here.
The figure rose, stepped into the darkness, and was gone.
The candle burned on, unbothered. And outside, the city slept. Blissfully unaware that the war for the crown had already begun.