Chapter 23
The City of Shadows
The marble hall of Aethelgard was a jewel of the kingdom, vast and echoing, its beauty both invitation and warning. Its floor was polished white stone veined with grey, so smooth one might think it was frozen water. The ceiling arched high above a painted canopy of scenes from Veridia's long history: gods descending on fire, rivers flowing from the touch of ancient conjurers, and finally, the founding of the kingdom itself, when the houses bowed to one banner. Sunlight filtered through the tall stained windows, falling in colored shards across the length of the chamber.
At the hall's heart stretched the marble table, long enough to seat twenty nobles with ease. Around it, the officials and lords of Veridia were gathered, robed in silk or clad in polished mail, each bearing the weight of their house's pride. At the head of that table, upon the throne that overlooked all, sat Queen Elara.
Her presence commanded silence even when she did not speak. She wore no heavy crown that morning, only a slender circlet of black steel set with a single dark gem. Her mantle, clasped at her shoulder, draped down her back like the shadow of a raven's wing. Her eyes sharp, dark, and unyielding-surveyed the nobles as a hawk surveys prey.
Behind her stood her guards. Miss Vance, stern and unwavering, rested a gauntleted hand upon her sword, her eyes scanning the chamber for the slightest hint of threat. Another knight, broader in build, stood at the opposite flank, visor lowered, armour gleaming like a polished mirror.
The air was thick with the voices of the court.
"My queen," droned Councilor Morel, his voice thin but insistent, "the Ardonian army lingers yet upon our border. A month they have stood there, banners raised, claiming still that they seek bandits. Tell me, Majesty who hunts brigands with an army?"
"Aye!" cried Lady Vance, her fist striking the table with a sharp crack. Her eyes flashed, hawk-like, as her words cut through the hall. "It is insult, nothing less. They mock us, Majesty. They treat Veridia as though we were weaklings, too timid to answer their provocation. Shall we sit idle while their steel gleams at our doorstep?"
"Idle?" rasped Financier Rossi, sweat glistening upon his brow. He dabbed at it with a fine cloth, his silks too fine for such heat. "Lady Vance, pride feeds no mouths. While you thirst for battle, our merchants thirst for coin. The border is sealed. Trade falters. The coffers grow thin. What good is a war of honour if the kingdom starves before the first blade is drawn?"
The nobles broke into argument, voices clashing like swords in a melee. Some called for strength, others for patience, still others begged for gold to be spared to their houses. The din grew so loud that even the frescoed gods upon the ceiling seemed to frown upon them.
Elara sat unmoving. Her hand rested lightly upon the arm of her throne, her gaze cold and unreadable. She let them clash. Let their pride spill out, their fears laid bare. For in the chaos of their tongues, she read them clearer than any book.
Then, with a groaning of doors, the chamber shifted.
A messenger stumbled into the hall, breathless from haste. His garb was plain, his hair plastered to his brow with sweat, but in his trembling hands he carried a scroll. Upon it was pressed the crest of Ardon.
He fell to one knee before the queen. "Majesty… a message… from King Theron of Ardon."
The chamber hushed.
Elara extended her hand. The scroll was placed upon her palm. She broke the seal with one flick, unrolled it, and read.
Her eyes moved across the words, though her face betrayed nothing. Always the same. Always excuses. A claim that the troops hunted bandits, that peace was desired, that no insult was meant. Yet the army remained. Always remained.
She let the parchment fall to the marble table with a soft slap.
The messenger quailed beneath her gaze, his hands trembling as though the weight of her silence were heavier than chains. He fled before a word could be spoken, the doors banging shut behind him.
For a moment there was stillness. Then Councilor Morel rose, his hands spread wide. "Majesty! Will you endure this mockery? Each day their words grow bolder while their blades draw nearer!"
Lady Vance followed, her voice sharp as drawn steel. "This is proof enough! They weave lies with one hand while sharpening daggers with the other. We must march, Majesty. We must show Ardon that Veridia does not kneel."
"No!" countered Rossi, voice high with desperation. "No, my queen! March and you doom us! Our granaries run thin, our traders cannot pass the border. To war now is to set fire to the very heart of Veridia. It is ruin!"
Others rose, voices mingling, clashing, swelling into another storm of noise. Accusation and plea, pride and fear, crashing against each other until it seemed the hall itself would tremble.
Elara rose.
Her mantle fell about her shoulders, black as night. She did not raise her hand, nor her voice. She simply stood. And silence fell like a blade's stroke.
Her eyes, dark and unwavering, swept across the table. Each noble she looked upon faltered, words dying on their lips.
At last she spoke, her voice low but carrying, every word sharp as steel.
"I will be visiting Ardon."
The hall erupted.
"My queen!" cried Morel. "You cannot! The capital is unsettled — unrest grows in the villages—"
"Majesty!" Lady Vance shouted, half-rising. "Your presence is needed here. To leave now is perilous. It invites chaos—"
Lord Rynor struck the table with his palm. "I forbid it! A queen should never walk into a wolf's den. It is folly!"
Their cries clattered against one another, loud and desperate. Yet when Elara raised her hand, they stilled.
"My mind is set," she said.
Her words rang in the chamber. Final. Unyielding.
The nobles shifted, uneasy, but dared not defy her further. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint echo of boots upon marble as a servant passed beyond the far doors.
Elara lowered herself once more into her throne. Her face was calm, but her thoughts were a storm.
She knew the truth, though she had not spoken it aloud. Ardon did not seek bandits. Ardon sought cause. They longed for war but not for the stain of first blood. They waited for Veridia to strike, for some spark that could be claimed as provocation.
And within her court, she knew, a spy's hand worked. For rumors had spread too swiftly, whispers too sharp, unrest too deliberate. Influence was at play — influence born not of common tongues, but of noble ones.
She could not name the spy. Not yet. But she would draw them out. And for that, she must give them chance to act.
So she would go to Ardon. She would stand in their gilded halls, walk amidst their treachery, and let the wolf bare its fangs. Only then could she see clearly which hound of hers served two masters.
Her gaze drifted across the table once more. The nobles sat stiff, uneasy beneath her eyes. She said nothing more.
But in her silence, she had already declared war of a different kind.
Far across the borders of Veridia, beyond the hills and rivers that divided kingdoms, there lay a city where the sun seemed forever banished.
It was a place without dawn. Clouds lay thick above its rooftops, not drifting like gentle veils but pressing down, as though heaven itself sought to crush the life beneath. The streets were narrow, winding like the coils of a serpent, the stones slick with moisture that never dried. Lanterns burned even at midday, their dim light casting shadows that swallowed more than they revealed.
The buildings stood tall and close, their eaves curving like the wings of crows. Their timbers were darkened by rain and time, their tiled roofs sharp as blades. To walk those streets was to feel watched, though by whom, none could say.
Here, in this city where light faltered and shadow ruled, men gathered who belonged to neither kingdom nor law.
In a narrow alley, where rainwater dripped steadily from a crooked beam, three figures stood apart from the silence.
Each wore robes of black from crown to heel, bound tight so no loose fold betrayed movement. Upon their heads sat wide straw hats, their rims shading their faces from prying eyes. Masks of pale wood covered what the hats did not, leaving only the faint glimmer of eyes visible. Upon their backs were strapped curved swords — katanas, sheathed but restless, their hilts bound in dark cord.
Two stood together, their bodies relaxed but their hands never straying far from their blades. The third sat against the wall, one knee bent, the other stretched out upon the wet stones, his hand draped over the hilt of his sword. He did not speak, nor did he look at his companions. His head tilted forward as though in thought, or perhaps in brooding silence.
The drip of water marked the moments, steady as a clock.
At last, the silence broke.
A fluttering shadow descended from above — a black bird, its wings whispering against the damp air. It alighted upon a wooden beam overhead, its claws clutching tightly. From its beak dangled a scroll sealed in black wax.
One of the standing assassins reached up, plucked the letter, and broke the seal. The paper crackled softly in the gloom as his eyes scanned the lines.
When he had finished, his mask turned slightly toward his companions. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, quiet, and sharp.
"A mission."
The other standing man tilted his head. "Speak it."
The first assassin lowered the parchment, his fingers tight upon it. "To kill."
The seated man lifted his gaze at last, dark eyes glinting beneath the brim of his hat. His voice was deeper than the others, roughened by years. "Whom?"
The reader hesitated. His eyes flickered once more across the scroll, then slowly shook his head.
"It does not say. Only this: the target is in Veridia. Someone… important."
The silence that followed was heavier than steel.
The second standing assassin shifted, lowering his mask just enough that his mouth showed in the dim light. His face bore the sharpness of an eastern heritage, his lips thin, his jaw set with unease.
"An important one? Then it is no merchant, no soldier. It is blood of power they ask for."
"Aye," murmured the first. "Perhaps a lord, perhaps more."
The seated man gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Perhaps a queen."
The words hung in the air like smoke. None answered quickly.
At last, the second man tugged his mask back down. "And for such a deed, no name is given? We strike blind, and we are told only that our prey is… important?"
The first folded the letter slowly, tucking it away within his robes. "So it is written."
"And so it shall be done?"
The seated man's hand tapped upon the hilt of his katana, once, twice, in steady rhythm. His eyes never left the wet stones before him. "So it has always been. We are not asked to question. We are asked to kill."
"But without a name—"
"Without a name," the first interrupted, his tone harder now, "we trust the sender. As we always have."
The second fell silent, but his unease lingered in the air like a sour taste.
The bird above them gave a sudden cry, harsh and shrill, before beating its wings and vanishing into the thick clouds. Its absence left the alley quieter still.
The three men remained where they were, their black garb blending into the shadows until even their outlines seemed to vanish.
Only their eyes marked them as living things — sharp, restless, glinting faintly like steel in the dark.
The seated man shifted at last, rising slowly to his feet. The sound of his movement was near nothing, only the faint brush of cloth against stone. He stood tall, broader than the other two, his presence heavier, like a storm pressing upon the air.
"Then we go," he said simply.
The first gave a nod.
The second hesitated, but in the end bowed his head as well.
Together, without another word, they slipped from the alley. Their steps made no sound. The shadows swallowed them whole.
The city itself seemed to know of their departure. Dogs ceased their barking as they passed. Lanterns flickered though no wind stirred. The few souls that walked those streets at such an hour lowered their gazes, feeling the brush of unseen presence.
And above, the clouds pressed heavier still, as though to smother the world beneath their weight.
The three assassins vanished into the labyrinth of alleys, their forms shifting from shadow to shadow until they were gone entirely, leaving nothing behind but the drip of water and the memory of silence.
Yet the mission they bore lingered, heavier than any sound:
A death in Veridia. A figure of importance. Blood to be spilled, though whose, none yet know.
And so, while the kingdoms argued and the queen plotted, while the prince rode beyond the gates with his warlord, unseen hands drew blades in darkness.
The game was no longer words. It was death waiting, patient and silent, within the veil of shadow.