The dawn bells tolled faintly, their echoes carried through the mist-draped streets. Behind the churches, where the golden spires gave way to crumbling stone walls and half-forgotten shrines, a lone figure walked.
Kaelen Veyris.
Her steps were silent, deliberate, daggers hidden beneath her cloak. Yet in the early light, with the city still half-asleep, the assassin's aura didn't feel threatening. It felt… hollow.
She paused at the base of a weathered church wall, fingertips brushing against the cold stone. Her eyes—sharp, calculating—softened, clouded with memories she could never erase.
She had been a child once, barefoot in the dust of Sunstead, the poorest district of the kingdom. Her parents had spat curses more often than kind words, fists and neglect shaping her earliest years.
She remembered the shouting, the nights she hid under splintered tables, her small body trembling as she wept quietly so they wouldn't hear.
"Useless girl. Waste of food. Mistake."
Those words carved scars deeper than any blade.
One day, beaten and abandoned in the street, she had cried until her throat burned. Then—
A shadow had knelt beside her. A stranger, cloaked in black, eyes unreadable. He didn't ask her name. He simply offered his hand.
"Stand," he said. His voice was steady, calm. "The world will never be kind. But you can make yourself useful. That way, no one can throw you away again."
And so she stood.
For a time, she found warmth—not in family, but in others like her. Street children, outcasts, dreamers who clung to scraps of hope. She had laughed with them, shared stolen bread, even believed she could belong.
But one by one, they disappeared. Some starved. Some were sold. Others were slaughtered when caught in the wrong alleys at the wrong time.
Each loss tore something from her. Piece by piece, her heart turned colder.
Until Kaelen Veyris had no one left.
Her breath misted in the cold air as she sat at the stone steps, pulling a small trinket from her cloak.
It was a frayed ribbon—once bright, now faded with time. The only thing left of Alira, her dearest friend, the one who had promised they'd escape Sunstead together.
Kaelen stared at it, fingers trembling, her hardened mask cracking for a fleeting second.
"You'd laugh at me now," she whispered, voice breaking. "I've become everything we hated. Everything you feared."
A single tear slid down her cheek before she clenched her fist, hiding the ribbon away. Her shadow aura flickered, not in menace—but in grief.
The assassin stood once more, face empty, eyes cold. Behind the churches of Dawncrest, Kaelen Veyris had remembered she was once a girl who only wanted to be loved.
The building looked like it had been forgotten decades ago—walls cracked, windows boarded, roof sagging. To the ordinary eye, it was just another ruin. But Kaelen Veyris knew better.
She slipped through the warped doors, shadows curling instinctively around her presence. Inside, the dim light revealed what no guard or noble in Luminara would ever believe: the den of Eradicate.
Long wooden tables were scattered with mugs of frothing ale, dice clattering as hardened killers gambled without fear. Some leaned back in battered chairs, laughing raucously, their armor stained with blood they hadn't bothered to wash away. Others sharpened blades or compared trophies from their latest jobs. The air reeked of sweat, steel, and stale drink.
At the far wall, beneath chains and lanterns that swayed faintly in the draft, hung the Kill Board.
A massive map stretched across the stone, marked with sigils and notes. Dagger-points pinned slips of parchment with names, portraits, and bounties scrawled in crimson ink. Some targets were crossed out violently, others left to taunt the killers who had failed. The higher the kill, the higher the name of the assassin carved into the board's edges.
Near the top, Kaelen's name was etched—sharp, precise, undeniable.
But she didn't linger on it.
She moved silently to a shadowed corner, reporting her kill with a simple nod to the elder who kept records. No boasting, no laughter, no drinks raised in her honor. She confirmed the work was done—and that was all.
Around her, the other assassins celebrated their victories with cruel pride. Stories of slaughter echoed in the room, toasts made in honor of death. Yet Kaelen sat alone at the edge of the table, her hands wrapped around a mug she had no intention of drinking.
Her eyes drifted to the flickering map again, tracing the names of the fallen. Too many. Always too many.
The voices of her past friends whispered in the back of her mind. Faces she would never see again—children from Sunstead, Alira with her ribbon, the ones who had laughed with her before the streets swallowed them whole.
Her throat tightened.
Is this really all there is? she thought. To kill, and keep killing, until the map is red and the board is full?
The laughter of her fellow assassins grated on her ears, a hollow reminder of the world she had chosen—or perhaps the world that had chosen her. She clenched her fists beneath the table.
For the first time in years, Kaelen Veyris allowed herself a forbidden thought.
A future. One without blood. One where I don't need to be useful, just to exist.
The shadows curled tighter around her form, hiding the flicker of longing in her eyes.
Silent, deadly, and unreadable—yet somewhere deep beneath the mask, the girl from Sunstead still wept for a future she wasn't sure she'd ever reach.
The night air was heavy, damp with mist rolling off Luminara's canals. Kaelen slipped from the shadows of the warehouse, her hood drawn low. Her mission was done. Her thoughts, for once, lingered not on blood, but on the quiet ache of wanting something more.
That's when she noticed him.
Gareth Valven.
He leaned against a lamp post at the mouth of the street, hood up, gaze scanning the alleys. When his eyes landed on her, instead of suspicion or anger, he gave her a faint, tired smile.
"You shouldn't be out this late," he said, voice low but steady. "Too many thieves prowl these streets after dark."
Kaelen's heartbeat quickened. She knew that smile was not kindness—he was dangerous, sharp, closer to the truth than he realized. Yet she let her lips curl into a faint, practiced smile of her own.
"I was just heading home," she answered softly, feigning the role of a weary commoner.
Without a word, Gareth fell into step beside her, walking her down the crooked path toward the brighter, safer districts. They walked in silence. For Kaelen, every moment was tension wound tight—his presence like a blade against her throat. For Gareth, it was a strange calm, protecting someone in the very streets he had come to hunt through.
At the corner where the lanterns burned brighter, Gareth stopped. He gave her a firm nod.
"Stay safe," he said. "Not everyone out here would bother escorting you home."
Kaelen tilted her head slightly, feigning gratitude. "Thank you, stranger."
Inside, her mind whispered: He knows nothing… or maybe he knows everything.
When Gareth turned away and vanished back into the mist, Kaelen exhaled slowly, her mask never cracking. Only once she was alone again did her fists clench beneath her cloak.
"That boy… dangerous. Too dangerous."
The moment Kaelen's footsteps faded behind him, Gareth's smile vanished. His jaw tightened, fury simmering beneath the surface.
He retraced her path, every step deliberate, until he stood once more before the crumbling ruin. The abandoned warehouse.
His instincts screamed. This was it.
Pushing inside, Gareth found only dust, crates, and silence. No laughter, no assassins, no shadows but his own. The place looked dead, but he wasn't fooled.
He searched every wall, every crate, every creaking beam for hours. Sweat dampened his collar, his bandaged arm ached, but his determination never wavered. Somewhere in here was the truth—the rot beneath Dawncrest, the assassins who thought themselves untouchable.
At last, his fingers brushed a seam in the stone wall—faint, almost invisible. A switch.
He pressed it.
The wall groaned, grinding as hidden mechanisms shifted. A section of the warehouse floor slid open, revealing a staircase spiraling into blackness. A faint glow drifted up from below—torchlight, flickering against carved stone walls.
The underground den of Eradicate.
Gareth's pulse quickened, his anger sharpening into a blade's edge. He gritted his teeth, whispering into the silence:
"This ends tonight."
The stairs creaked as Gareth descended, every step echoing into the cavernous dark. The underground den stretched beneath the warehouse like a hidden city—stone walls carved with old runes, smoke curling from braziers, shadows moving among tables where assassins drank and whispered.
Weapons glinted in the torchlight, maps and parchments littered the surfaces, and laughter echoed too loudly for a place built on death.
Gareth forced himself calm, cloak drawn close, and drifted toward the long counter at the back—where a broad-shouldered bartender polished mugs with lazy rhythm.
The man's eyes flicked up as Gareth slid onto the stool. His voice was gravelly, casual, but carried weight.
"Child," the bartender muttered, setting the mug aside, "you're young to be here. This place chews up the bold and spits out the foolish. What brings you down here?"
Gareth's jaw tightened. He didn't answer immediately, but the man's gaze lingered, reading the fury in his expression like an open book.
"I've seen that anger," the bartender continued, leaning in. "Someone must have died. Happens often enough down here. Tell me who you're looking for… five gold, and maybe your path gets clearer."
Gareth's hand twitched. He hadn't come prepared with money. Then his eyes dropped to the ring on his finger—a faintly glowing band of silver, etched with tiny runes.
He whispered, and the ring pulsed.
Lyra's voice crackled into his ear, sharp and annoyed. "Gareth Valven. Why are you ringing me at this hour? Don't tell me you're gambling, because if you are—"
"Not gambling," Gareth muttered, keeping his voice low. "I need five gold. Now."
Her sigh rang through the ring, exasperated. "Five gold? What in the sun's name for? You're not buying more of those disgusting festival pastries again, are you? Or worse—alcohol?"
"Information," Gareth said flatly. "I don't have time for your nagging."
Lyra groaned. "You never do. You're always running headfirst into trouble, dragging the rest of us behind you like lost ducklings—do you even realize what time it is? I should be—"
"Lyra," Gareth interrupted, his tone sharp, eyes never leaving the bartender's watchful face. "Five. Gold."
Another dramatic sigh. "Fine. But if you get yourself stabbed, I am not healing you again. I swear, Gareth, you're going to give me gray hairs before I'm even eighteen."
The ring flashed, a faint ripple of runic light. A small pouch shimmered into being on the counter beside Gareth's hand—the funds transferred.
Without hesitation, Gareth slid the pouch across the bar.
The bartender weighed it in his palm, nodded once, and leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Name's Kaelen Veyris, isn't it?" His eyes gleamed knowingly. "The shadow-girl. You're not the first hunting her… but maybe you'll be the last.
The bartender's smirk didn't falter as he weighed the pouch. But Gareth didn't move, didn't blink—just leaned forward, voice edged with steel.
"Give me her picture."
The bartender chuckled. "Pictures don't come cheap, boy. You already know the name. That should be enough."
"I said," Gareth's voice deepened, low and vibrating, "a picture."
Something inside him cracked. His anger flared so sharp it spilled beyond him. For an instant, the air around his hands shimmered—roots of black energy crawling out from the floor, writhing like serpents. His breath grew ragged, and his eyes…
They burned, briefly, a dark crimson glow that made the bartender's smirk falter.
The room grew colder. Conversations hushed. Somewhere, a mug shattered as one assassin froze mid-laugh, staring.
"Careful," the bartender said slowly, his voice losing some of its calm. "That kind of anger gets you noticed. Not all who notice will be kind."
Gareth's knuckles slammed the counter, wood splintering beneath his grip. The roots pulsed once more—then he wrenched himself back, jaw tight, forcing the power down. Without another word, he turned and stormed out, boots pounding against the stone.
"The bartender showed me the picture too damn late I hope I find him there". He got off the abandoned warehouse angrily.
The night air hit him sharp as a blade when he emerged from the warehouse. He sprinted through the twisting alleys of Luminara, following the faint memory of where he had last seen Kaelen walking. His pulse throbbed in his ears, roots still crawling beneath his skin, begging to break free.
He reached the street where he had escorted her, scanning shadows, breath harsh.
Empty.
Only the faint flicker of a lantern remained.
And at the center of the cobblestones—a single black card, resting unnaturally as though it had been placed there for him.
Gareth stooped, lifting it. No name, no message. Just one word, carved deep in silver letters:
"ERADICATE".
The letters pulsed faintly in the moonlight.
Gareth's grip tightened. His jaw locked. The card felt like a challenge—an invitation, or a warning.
"Kaelen Veyris…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "You won't vanish forever."
Far from the lantern-lit streets of Luminara, the river whispered against the hull of a black boat that cut through the water like a phantom.
Kaelen sat at its bow, cloak drawn tight, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Behind her, the faint glow of the city was already fading into the mist. Around her, the silence was broken only by the oars dipping rhythmically into the current—rowers cloaked in shadow, faceless in the dark.
She reached into her coat and brushed her fingers against a small ribbon, the keepsake of her lost friend, before letting it drop back against her chest.
For a moment, her expression softened. Then the mask returned—stone cold, unreadable.
She tilted her head, watching the reflection of the moon fracture on the river's surface. Her lips curved just slightly, almost too faint to notice.
"Checkmate," she whispered to herself.
The boat vanished into the fog, leaving nothing behind but ripples on the dark water.