⚜️ Reader’s Discretion ⚜️

This story contains strong language, graphic violence, and mature themes that may be unsuitable for younger audiences.

It explores dark fantasy elements, psychological tension, and intense romantic undertones that may be emotionally or morally complex.

Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Also all characters in here are based on fiction, and non from real life....

The council chamber murmured like a restless storm until the grand doors creaked open. Silence swept through the marble hall as King Cyrus entered. His presence alone demanded it—calm, composed, and terrifyingly assured.

He took his seat at the round table, fingers tapping against the cold surface before his voice, smooth yet edged, broke the quiet.

“Ryker was foolish,” he began. “He let his emotions cloud his judgment and fell to the Emperor of Nyxshire—who now bears the title of Lethal Lord.”

“Lord Zypher Lancaster?” an elder asked cautiously.

“Yes,” another whispered. “The man who lost the goddess of realms—the daughter of the King of Sunfire Isle.”

Cyrus leaned back, his expression unreadable. “At least Zypher earned that title. Not every Lethal Lord deserves to be called one.”

The weight of his words lingered in the air. Every council member knew precisely whom he referred to, yet none dared to speak his name aloud.

“Your Majesty,” said Elder Lance, his tone tight with frustration. “It’s been years since we’ve tried to bring down King Alastor, and every assassin we’ve sent to Erevania has vanished without a trace.”

Cyrus’s low laugh echoed, cold and deliberate. “Vaeloria is not weak, Elder Lance. Our realm will never unite while a monster like Alastor rules as its Lethal Lord.”

“Then what do you propose, Your Highness?”

Cyrus exhaled softly, interlacing his fingers.

“Achlys.”

The name drifted through the chamber like frost. The air thickened, and unease rippled through the table. Some smiled knowingly—others swallowed their doubts.

“Achlys will be our weapon,” Cyrus said, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “And Alastor’s undoing.”

Elder Lance bowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I’ll arrange the meeting.”

The council dispersed, but Lance lingered.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “Are you certain? Sending our finest assassin into Erevania is—”

“—a decision long overdue.” Cyrus rose from his chair, his tone unwavering. “And she is not merely one of our best, Lance. She is the best.”

The great doors of the throne room swung open.

A figure entered, moving like a shadow given form. Achlys.

Sunlight spilled across the floor, glinting off her white hair. The dark ink of her tattoos—each one a mark of victory—spoke louder than any introduction. Upon her arm rested a skull insignia, the emblem of a killer who had never failed.

She knelt before the throne.

“You summoned me, Your Majesty.” Her voice was steady, her tone void of fear.

“Rise, Achlys.”

She obeyed, standing tall under his gaze. Cyrus’s eyes traveled the length of her form—an appraisal, perhaps admiration—but it vanished beneath the discipline of a king.

“Daughter of Blades,” he said. “I have a mission for you. One that concerns the kingdom of Erevania. I trust you will not disappoint me.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Whose head shall I bring before you this time, my King?”

Cyrus chuckled as he descended the throne steps. “Their king, of course.”

Achlys froze. The name unspoken between them weighed heavily.

“King Alastor,” she breathed.

Cyrus tilted his head. “Is something wrong?”

“No, my King.”

“Speak your mind.”

She met his gaze, her eyes cold steel. “He is a Lethal Lord. Are we to defy the will of the gods themselves?”

Cyrus hesitated, but his voice softened when he spoke. “Not all are worthy of the titles they bear, Achlys.”

Her brow arched. “Then you believe the gods made a mistake?”

Her question caught him off guard. But he couldn’t summon anger—only a flicker of reluctant admiration. He stepped closer until the distance between them vanished.

“The gods never err,” he murmured. “But sometimes, they allow mortals to finish what they began.”

He reached up, his fingers brushing her cheek. “You swore never to take a wrong life, Achlys. And I swore never to let you make one. But this man—Alastor—is a shadow that must be erased.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“I know the risk,” he said, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. “But I also know why I chose you. Do not fail me, Daughter of Blades.”

“I won’t, my King.”

Cyrus lingered a moment longer, then stepped away. “You depart at dawn. The fate of Vaeloria lies in your hands.”

Achlys bowed once more and turned toward the doors. Her steps echoed through the chamber until only silence remained.

And thus began the hunt that would shake the realms.

The moon hung low over Vaeloria’s walls as Achlys tightened the straps of her leather gauntlet.

The wind whispered against her cloak, carrying the faint scent of steel and rain.

Dawn was hours away, yet she could already feel the pulse of Erevania calling her name — a kingdom drenched in war and shadow.

“The king sends you to kill a god,” a voice echoed in her memory.

She smiled beneath her hood. Even I myself… am a god, she thought, silencing the heavy weight of defying divine will. But who was she to disobey the command of King Cyrus?

When the grand gates of Vaeloria creaked open, Achlys rode out like a shadow swallowed by the night.

King Cyrus could not sleep that night.

He sat by his window, candlelight casting restless silhouettes across his face.

He could still feel the ghost of Achlys’s warmth against his forehead — and the cold weight of guilt in his chest.

She’ll either return a legend... or she’ll never return at all.

The border between Vaeloria and Erevania was a graveyard of forgotten soldiers.

Achlys moved through the ruins in silence, each step guided by instinct — and by something older than fear.

A whisper brushed against her mind, soft and divine.

“You walk against the will of gods, Daughter of Blades.”

Her eyes darkened. No. I walk against the will of men.

A few miles from Erevania’s heart, she reined her horse to a halt and dismounted. Tying the reins to a low branch, she brushed a hand against the beast’s mane.

“Rest,” she whispered. “I’ll return before the dawn knows I was here.”

The rest of the way she went on foot — a phantom in the mist.

It was her first time seeing Erevania, and it was nothing like the blood-soaked ruin she had imagined.

It was beautiful — dark, but beautiful.

The air was different here, thicker, older, as if every breath carried the weight of ancient power. Truly, this was a kingdom ruled by a Lethal Lord.

Achlys scaled the outer walls with ease, her movements fluid and silent. She slipped past the guards like a shadow learning to breathe. When her boots touched the inner cobblestone, dawn had already begun to bleed across the horizon.

The sun here burned brighter than it ever did in Vaeloria — almost defiant.

With her hood drawn low, she blended among the waking streets. No one dared to look twice.

Her plan was simple: wait until nightfall. Strike clean. Vanish.

She entered a tavern tucked in a narrow alley, its air thick with smoke and ale. She could feel eyes watching her, studying her gait — the kind of scrutiny that said she did not belong. She ignored it, paid for a room, and retired without a word.

The room was surprisingly lavish for such a place. She shut the door behind her, locking it with precision before closing the curtains.

From her cloak, she unstrapped her weapons — rows of gleaming daggers, each etched with a mark of her victories.

She never carried a sword; they were too loud, too proud. Her blades whispered instead.

But one dagger she placed aside — the one she’d forged for this mission alone.

Its edge shimmered faintly crimson under the candlelight.

“For you, Your Majesty,” she murmured.

Night fell.

The kingdom of Erevania thrummed with life — laughter, music, the rhythm of a city that had long forgotten fear.

Achlys moved through the crowd dressed in absolute black. The mask covered half her face, and her hair, tied back in a sleek tail, glimmered under the moonlight.

She drew a steady breath, then vanished into the hum of the night.

At last, she saw it — the palace. Vast, gleaming, and watchful.

“Now… where would he be?” she whispered.

Scaling the outer wall was child’s play. Guards passed, unaware of the shadow slipping between them. She moved like smoke, unseen and unstoppable.

The throne room was empty. So were most of the chambers. It was too quiet — wrongly quiet.

Still, she pressed on until she reached a grand door at the end of a long hall.

“This must be it,” she breathed, pressing her palm against the cold steel.

The door opened without a sound.

And there he was — King Alastor, asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. Beside him, a woman half-naked beneath silken sheets.

“Pathetic,” Achlys muttered under her breath.

She drew her dagger, its tip catching the moonlight. This is too easy.

She hesitated for the first time — an unease twisting in her gut.

Why was this kill going to be so simple?

Was the will of the gods truly to be tested tonight?

He looked younger than she’d imagined — skin pale but radiant, hair divided into two shades, black and white. The woman beside him stirred, fragile against the vastness of his form.

He’s actually good-looking… too bad he has to die.

Achlys leaned closer, dagger poised above his heart—

When chains shot out from the darkness behind her.

They wrapped around her wrists and yanked her backward, the steel biting into her flesh as she hit her knees.

The sound of clashing metal shattered the quiet, jolting the sleepers awake.

The woman gasped, terror in her eyes as she scrambled for the sheets and fled the room—

Leaving Achlys bound before the King of Erevania.