The moon hung low over the city of Veyndral, its pale glow spilling across the cobbled streets like ghostly fingers. Altharion walked with deliberate steps, his cloak drawn tightly around him, the hood shadowing his face. The whispers he had intercepted earlier in the evening were troubling—someone was plotting an assassination, and the name mentioned had been his own.
It wasn't the first time people had tried to kill him, but the tone of the whispers… it was different. This wasn't some common thug hoping to earn a bounty. This was precision. This was personal.
His boots barely made a sound as he moved through the narrow alleys. The city's heartbeat at night was faint: the muffled laughter from a tavern, the distant clatter of hooves on stone, the rustle of rats scavenging in the dark. Yet beneath all that, Altharion felt the faint tremor of danger, the almost imperceptible shift in the air when someone's gaze lingers too long.
He turned a corner, and the sensation sharpened.
A shadow detached itself from the wall ahead, tall and slender, wielding a pair of curved daggers that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Another figure appeared behind him, blocking his retreat. They moved with the silent confidence of seasoned killers.
"You've walked a long road, magus," the figure in front said, voice muffled by a black scarf. "But it ends here."
Altharion's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "If you were sent to end me, you should have brought more friends."
The first assassin lunged, dagger flashing. Altharion sidestepped effortlessly, his hand snapping up. With a muttered incantation, a crackling arc of blue lightning leapt from his palm, forcing the attacker back with a pained hiss. The second assassin struck from behind, blade aimed at his spine—but Altharion spun, his cloak swirling like a stormcloud, and the dagger met the steel shaft of his staff instead.
"Clever," the second assassin said. "But magic won't save you forever."
"Magic isn't what's going to kill you," Altharion replied.
The street erupted in sudden chaos. A wave of telekinetic force hurled both assassins back into the alley walls, their daggers clattering to the ground. Before they could recover, Altharion drew a glyph in the air—a spiraling pattern of silver light. It expanded in an instant, and from its heart burst a spear of molten flame.
The first assassin rolled aside just in time, the fire searing past his cloak. The second wasn't so lucky; the blast caught him square in the chest, and he crumpled with a strangled cry. The smell of scorched leather and flesh filled the air.
The surviving assassin, realizing the fight was lost, threw a smoke bomb to the ground. Thick black mist billowed around them, choking visibility. But Altharion's eyes glowed faintly as he whispered another spell, letting him see through the haze. He caught a glimpse of the fleeing figure darting toward the rooftops.
With a gesture, he called forth a spectral chain of shimmering light. It shot forward like a serpent, wrapping around the assassin's ankle mid-leap. The man crashed onto the tiles with a grunt.
Altharion walked over, dragging him down from the roof with a flick of his wrist. "Tell me who sent you," he said, his voice a calm, lethal promise.
The assassin struggled, his eyes burning with defiance. "You think you're untouchable, magus… but the Circle remembers. They always remember."
Before Altharion could press for more, the man bit down on something hidden in his mouth. His body went rigid, and within seconds, he was dead.
Altharion stared down at him, the weight of the words sinking in. The Circle. An old enemy. One he had thought destroyed.
He turned, pulling his cloak tighter against the night air. If the Circle was back, then shadows would no longer be safe—and neither would anyone he cared about.