The council square still reeked of blood.
By dawn, the corpses were cleared, the marble scrubbed, but no amount of water washed away the whispers. Nobles whispered of the Monarch's shadows dragging cultists into the open. Merchants repeated the words of the dying man before Selene silenced him.
And everywhere, in every corner, one question grew sharper:
Had the Hand of the Veil slipped?
Selene Varadis stood alone in the Vellor estate's grand hall. Torches burned low, their light painting her silver hair in streaks of fire. Her blade rested across her lap, its crimson edge still faintly humming with the residue of blood.
Her guards had been dismissed. She wanted no ears, no eyes, not tonight.
She replayed the moment over and over. The Monarch dragging her pawns into the open. The living witness crying her name. The crack in her control as her blade silenced him.
The memory clawed at her chest. She had ruled with composure, with control, with fear. But last night, in front of the council, she had shown anger.
Vulnerability.
Her grip tightened on the blade. Unacceptable.
She rose, voice steady, calm, precise.
"If shadows cannot be killed with rumor," she whispered, "then they must be pierced with steel."
Her silver eyes glowed faintly. "The Monarch will die."
That evening, cloaked figures entered the estate. They were not cultists. They bore no crimson tattoos. Their armor was blackened, their movements sharp, efficient. Assassins—not pawns, but professionals.
Selene sat at the head of the table, her blade resting before her.
"You will find him," she said. "The Monarch hides in ruins and alleys, but he leaves whispers. Follow them. Do not face him in open shadow—strike him where he cannot summon, where his theatrics are useless."
One assassin, his mask carved with jagged lines, leaned forward. "And if he is what they say? If shadows truly rise at his command?"
Selene's lips curved faintly. "Then you do not fight him. You bleed him. Force him into the open. Every shadow bleeds when you cut the master deep enough."
The assassins bowed. Their forms melted back into the night.
Selene exhaled slowly, her hand brushing her blade.
"This war is no longer of masks. It is of blood."
In his cathedral refuge, Kael sat cross-legged before the Eye of Dusk. The relic pulsed softly, its whispers low, urgent. His legion knelt in silence, violet eyes glowing faintly in the ruin's gloom.
Kael's gaze sharpened. He felt it—not through rumor, not through spies, but through the Veil itself.
Hunting intent. Sharp. Focused. Moving closer.
Assassins.
His lips curved faintly. So, Selene sharpens her hand.
He rose, cloak stirring. His voice carried calm command.
"Tonight, we do not wait. Tonight, we bait."
His knights bowed. His spies melted into the gloom.
Kael's eyes glowed violet as he touched the Eye of Dusk.
"Let her hunters come. They will find shadows waiting."
The assassins struck at midnight.
Kael felt the shift before the blade came—a ripple in the Veil, a heartbeat too quick. He moved, shadows flaring as steel sang past his throat. The assassin materialized from the rafters, dagger dripping venom.
Kael's hand snapped upward. Shadows coiled around the assassin's wrist, twisting bone until it cracked. The man screamed once before being dragged into the floor, swallowed whole.
But more followed.
Figures emerged from every angle—daggers flashing, wires slicing, blades glinting in the moonlight. They struck in perfect silence, their teamwork precise.
Kael stood at the center, cloak billowing, shadows erupting around him in a storm. His knights rose, intercepting blades, their armor shattering under poison-tipped strikes. For every assassin that fell, another pressed forward.
Kael's eyes narrowed. These were not pawns. These were trained to kill kings.
Good.
"Then bleed with me," he murmured.
The cathedral erupted in battle.
From the far rooftop, crimson eyes gleamed.
Cid leaned against the spire, watching as Kael's cathedral lit with violet flame. Assassins darted like shadows within shadows, only to be swallowed by Kael's storm.
"Oh, this is beautiful," Cid murmured, grinning wide. "Assassins, shadows, relics, masks—it's everything a play needs."
He laughed softly, eyes glinting. "I wonder how long you'll keep your mask, Monarch. Or if you even realize you're wearing one."
Back in the estate, Selene stood at her window, silver hair drifting in the breeze. She closed her eyes, listening—not with ears, but with instinct.
She felt it, faintly. The clash. The storm of shadows against her assassins.
Her lips curved faintly.
"Dance well, Sovereign. The tighter you weave your net, the sharper my blade will cut."
Her eyes opened, gleaming with cold certainty.
"And when I strike, there will be no veil left to hide you."