The feast raged louder. Drunken laughter. Silverware clattering. Music climbing toward chaos.
All of it—Rayon's doing.
Every spilled drink, every broken plate, every misplaced step of a servant was his hand pulling unseen threads. The palace didn't know it, but it was already dancing to his rhythm.
Rayon, cloaked as a stablehand, moved through the edges of the hall. Hollow eyes locked on the stairway leading to the royal chambers. His strings shimmered faintly, invisible to the blind, vibrant to the damned.
Step one complete. Step two in motion. Step three: pull the crown itself.
He tugged.
The servant carrying wine stumbled forward—splash!—the queen's dress stained deep red.
The crowd gasped. Guards rushed. The king roared.
And Rayon smiled.
He pulled harder. One servant dropped a tray of meat, another tripped into a noble, a third screamed about rats. Chaos spiraled, all at once, like a storm breaking through glass.
The perfect cover.
Rayon slipped through the hall, climbing the stairway while nobles cursed below.
At the top of the stairs, the chamber doors loomed. Gold and white. Carved with lions. Locked.
But Rayon didn't reach them.
Because the shadows shifted.
From the corner, a voice crawled out, low and sharp.
"You think strings unseen make you untouchable?"
Rayon froze.
A man stepped into view—Alrik, the Whisperblade. His eyes were cold, blade curved and black, body barely more than shadow.
The strongest Sentinel when it came to killing men like Rayon.
Rayon's fingers twitched. Threads shimmered, wrapping the air.
"I don't fail," he said flatly.
Alrik's grin cut sharp. "Then you die here."
The Clash of Silence
In a blink, Alrik vanished.
Rayon's strings flared, webbing across the stairwell, an invisible net. Clink! Alrik's blade sliced through a strand—then another, then another, his speed unreal.
Rayon yanked, shifting perception. The whisper of footsteps echoed in Alrik's mind, left, right, forward, back. Phantom sounds pulling him off balance.
But Alrik was no fool. He closed his eyes. Moved by instinct. His blade kissed Rayon's cheek—blood beading.
Rayon grinned through the sting. "Good. A real fight."
His fists came next. No retreat. No hesitation. Rayon struck low, strings wrapping his knuckles, augmenting every blow. A mix of self-taught brutality and the invisible pull of his ability.
The stairwell thundered with fists, blades, and threads.
Just as Rayon's hypnosis began to worm into Alrik's senses—just as the man's focus faltered—something else stirred.
From the chamber doors, a presence pressed outward. Heavy. Choking. Wrong.
Rayon froze mid-strike. Not in fear—but recognition.
Because that pressure wasn't Alrik's.
It wasn't Sentinel.
It was something older. Something deeper.
The chamber doors creaked. A pale hand gripped the frame from within. Fingers long, skin translucent, veins glowing faint blue.
Alrik's smirk vanished. His blade lowered.
Even the Sentinel looked afraid.
Rayon's hollow eyes widened, threads trembling like nerves exposed.
"…That's not supposed to exist anymore."
The chamber opened wider, and a figure stepped halfway out—cloaked in white, faceless, strings of light dangling from its body.
And in its hollow chest, something pulsed like a second heart.
Not human. Not noble. Not anything Rayon had been prepared for.
For the first time in his life, Rayon felt his own strings tugged.