The city of Istanbul breathed in slow, layered rhythms: the cry of gulls over the Bosphorus, the chatter of merchants in narrow alleys, the scent of spice drifting through cold night air. In a quiet gallery on a forgotten street, a woman hung a painting on a whitewashed wall and pretended she was no one.
Sable Quinn. That was the name on her passport, her bank accounts, her lease. She had built this identity with precision, every forged document and fabricated history designed to make her invisible. To the rest of the world, Morgana Thayle was dead. She had died in the purge, buried in the rubble of the House.
But ghosts didn't stay buried.
---
Life After Death
By day, she curated art—a modest gallery specializing in emerging artists from war-torn countries. She liked the anonymity of the work. People came to look at the paintings, not at her. She wore her hair shorter now, dyed black, and a pair of glasses that softened her sharp features. A long coat hid the scars on her arms.
By night, she used different skills. Istanbul's underworld was full of secrets waiting to be traded, and sometimes, Sable Quinn was the one who made the exchange. She kept her distance from anything that might touch the House again. The House had cost her everything.
Still, some nights, when the call to prayer echoed over the rooftops, she would find herself standing at her window, staring at the horizon, remembering the faces she had left behind.
---
The Attack
It happened on an ordinary night.
The gallery had closed hours earlier. She was alone, cataloging a shipment of paintings. The building was silent except for the creak of the old wood floor. When the power went out, she froze.
Her hand went to the back of her neck, where the faintest ghost of an implant scar still tingled. Instinct took over.
The first man came through the side door with a blade. She ducked low, sweeping a crate into his knees, and caught his wrist before the knife could fall. A twist, a pull, and the blade clattered to the floor. He didn't have time to scream before she drove an elbow into his throat.
Two more followed. Silent. Efficient.
They weren't here to rob her. They were here for her.
---
Old Skills
She moved through the gallery like a phantom. A roll, a lunge, the sound of shattered glass as a display case exploded behind her. She grabbed a steel rod from one of the crates and used it like a weapon, blocking, striking, disarming. One man went down with a broken wrist. Another crashed through a canvas, leaving a streak of red on the white wall.
But the third was faster. He caught her from behind, his forearm locking around her throat. She clawed at him, twisting, feeling the world darken.
And then she saw it.
Pinned to his jacket, a silver chess piece.
A king.
---
The Message
Rage flared. She slammed her head backward, breaking his nose. His grip loosened. She turned and sent him sprawling. Before he could recover, she pressed his own blade to his throat.
"Who sent you?" she hissed.
Blood poured from his broken nose, but he smiled through it. "The Board moves next," he whispered.
Then he bit down hard. Poison. His body convulsed, and within seconds, he was still.
The gallery was silent once more, except for her ragged breathing.
On the floor beside him was a folded note, stained with his blood. She picked it up with shaking hands.
The King is dead. The Board moves next.
---
The Ghost Awakens
Sable stood among the wreckage, her chest heaving. She thought she had left this life behind. She had burned it in the purge, along with Emil. But the shadows had followed her across continents.
The Board. She had heard whispers once, years ago—an invisible cabal even the House feared. If Emil had been their knight, what were they now without him?
She looked at her reflection in a shattered frame. Sable Quinn stared back. But deep inside, beneath the new face and new name, Morgana Thayle stirred.
She wiped the blood from her hands and whispered to herself, "If they want a ghost, they'll get one."
---
Far from Istanbul, in a secure operations room of the House, Callen stared at a grainy satellite image. A woman with black hair and glasses was locked in combat with three attackers. Her movements were unmistakable.
"Director," Callen said softly. "We've found her."