The road home is a lonely thing when your mother lies trapped in a slumber no healer can break, and your father's letter burns heavy in your pocket like a curse waiting to be unleashed.
The sky is a bruised canvas—dark clouds pressing close as if to smother the world itself. The trees along the path lean inward, their branches like bony fingers scratching at the wind. I keep my cloak tight around me, but it can't shield the weight crushing my chest.
I'm alone.
The king's summons was urgent, impossible to refuse.
I don't want to think about what waits for me at the palace.
But I can't not think about it.
My mother.
Her silent breaths like the faintest whisper of a dying star.
I swallow hard and quicken my pace.
The forest grows darker the further I go, the shadows twisting at the edges of my vision.
I know I'm not alone.
They've been watching me for days.
Five hunters lurking in the blackness—silent, patient, waiting for the moment I'd lower my guard.
That moment is now.
A soft snap behind me.
I spin, sword drawn before the breath leaves my lungs.
They're here.
Five figures emerge from the shadows like ghosts made of smoke and steel.
Assassins.
Each moves with a deadly grace, blades gleaming with the promise of death.
I know their kind.
They're not here to talk.
They're here to kill.
The first rushes at me, fast as a striking serpent.
I meet him with a roar, sword slicing through the air in a sharp arc.
Our blades clash with a ring like thunder.
Pain blossoms in my ribs, sharp and cruel.
But I don't falter.
I twist, spinning low, and drive my blade under his guard.
Bone snaps.
He screams, clutching his broken wrist.
The second attacker is already on me—fast, precise.
Steel meets steel again as I parry his strike, stepping back with a grunt.
A jagged slash catches my thigh.
Heat flares.
I bite back a curse, dropping low and sweeping his legs out from under him.
He crashes hard, breath knocked out.
I press forward, breath burning, muscles screaming.
The third assassin throws a dagger, spinning it like a deadly whisper.
I catch it between my fingers, cold metal biting into my skin.
Without missing a beat, I hurl it back.
It finds its mark.
His throat.
He gasps, eyes wide in shock.
Two remain.
They circle, blades poised, waiting for an opening.
I feel the weight of my injuries—ribs bruised, blood slick on my skin.
But my spirit burns brighter.
I am Delbeyrah.
Ghost of Delyra.
I don't know how many times I've survived death.
But I do know this—I will not die here.
The fourth lunges, fierce and desperate.
Our swords meet with sparks.
I twist and slam my blade into his side.
He gasps, stumbling back.
The final assassin watches, calculating.
I don't wait.
I charge, fury a wildfire beneath my skin.
My sword flashes, a crimson streak in the night.
He strikes, but I'm faster.
I dodge, weave, and slash with everything I have left.
His defense breaks.
I drive my blade through his heart.
He falls silent.
The forest is still.
Only my ragged breaths fill the cold air.
Pain gnaws at me from every wound.
But I am alive.
And I will carry this fight back to the kingdom.
Because my mother's life depends on it.
Because my father's cruelty will not break me.
Because I am Delbeyrah.
And I am not done fighting.