PART 1: THE ASSASSIN'S SUMMON.

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.

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