Shadows could be seen in a thin slip of trail that vanished into thickets—an old hunters' path choked by broad-leafed shrubs and vines that curled like sleeping serpents.
A single fig tree loomed over the hollow, its roots gnarled and half-exposed, offering a natural canopy that swallowed the last of the dying light.
Four masked men clustered beneath the fig tree, black scarves concealing mouths and noses; only the hard lines of their eyes and the restless tap of boots on dry earth betrayed them.
They didn't declare their names, as they were assassin's, but instead went by code names; one, two, three, and four.
One was the man who was talking with the eager trader a while ago, he was also an assassin given a job to take out the emperor, he put out the work and was able to recruit three others who were also willing to get paid to kill the emperor. Two was a watchful scout; Three, a careful planner; and Four, a cold-handed marksman who preferred the click of a bolt to conversation.
"One's" hand still smelled faintly of coin. He had been the one to talk to the trader; his voice now slid out soft and sharp at once. "From the trader I just met, an interesting guy" he said, leaning against the fig's flaking bark, "he, the emperor, is arriving in Region Four today. Intel checks out. We eliminate the emperor, we get paid. Simple, easy-peasy." One slid his hand across his throat as he spoke.
Two shifted his weight and sniffed the air like a guard dog. "Simple how?" he asked. "We can't just walk up to him with banners flying, saying we are assassins, we've come to kill you—he's never without twelve men and a damn war-elephant on parade." Two added a joke and a small laugh.
Three, who had the look of someone who preferred calculations to conversation, dropped a folded map onto his knee and tapped the route with a gloved finger. "Long-range," he said flatly. "Crossbows. Arrows from cover. We don't engage the escort. We make it look like an accident—one clean shot, chaos, vanish into the brush." He spoke as if listing ingredients for a stew, not a murder.
"One" nodded, eyes narrowed in the dim. "Exactly. With the kind of protective detail he keeps—armoured riders, scouts—there's no point trying for a close kill. We take distance, take out the target, we earn the coin, and go home with our hearts full and our employers' satisfied."
They turned then to Four, who had been silent the whole time. He leaned slightly apart, back against exposed shrub, fingernails picking at the dirt near his foot. His mask sagged at the chin; he chewed his lip beneath the cloth and raised one eyebrow when looked at.
"You got anything to add?" One asked, more to fill the silence than expect counsel.
Four made a slow, careless motion, digging at his ear as if annoyed at the interruption. "Na," he said finally, casual as a man ordering beer. "You kids Point me in the direction and I shoot. You lot can go on doing the thinking."
Two bristled. "How dare you talk to me like that—"
Three pointed in vexation. "It's your grandmother that's a kid," he returned,
"So touchy..." Four smirked, amusement cutting through the edge of his tone.
One closed his eyes for half a breath, then spat a single small laugh. "Always the poet," he muttered, but the lightness vanished as quickly as it had come.
One then held up a hand. "Everybody...Relax. We've one hour before the caravan hits the northern ford. Two and Three, you take the east flank—dense cover, enough to get a clean line. Four, you get high ground on the ridge near the old quarry. I will be on watch and will send the signal." He pointed—sharp, decisive—toward a crooked notch where moonlight would first kiss the leaves. "No fireworks. One shot, maximum chaos, then disappear into the reeds. No prisoners."
Two and Three exchanged a look—reluctant, practiced—and melted away into the bush, barely more than five seconds had gone by, before their silhouettes were swallowed by the undergrowth.
Four sprang up at once, eager rather than careful, and darted forward to claim a hiding spot where the ground fell away. He moved with the quick, sure steps of someone used to running at night.
One watched him go, then gave a second, lingering glance at the path where the trader had said the emperor's caravan would appear. He checked the strap of his quiver, loosened the bowstring just enough to test the tension, and swallowed. There was a cool, metallic tang to the air—dread and possibility braided together. With a soft shake of his head, he squared his shoulders, shouldered his pack, and slipped after his companions, becoming once more just another shadow among the creeping vines.
**
The streets of Region Four pulsed with life. Crowds packed the avenues, spilling into alleys and marketplaces, all eyes fixed toward the great road that led to the emperor's expected path. It had been one year and two months since his coronation—a year of absence, and yet a year in which his unseen hand had guided them. New schools, better trade routes, fairer levies—progress had come from the shadows, carried by his decrees, even though his face remained hidden.
Now the people hungered to see him again. Not the idea of him, not the statues carved in his likeness, but the living man they loved and revered.
At the monumental gate of Region Four, the air was electric. Banners whipped in the wind, soldiers stood in polished rows, and nobles in bright robes clustered in small knots, whispering to one another with smiles of restrained excitement.
Governor Raphael MacNelly stood tall at the centre of it all. A seasoned statesman with streaks of silver in his hair, his robes were heavy with shining embroidery, befitting his office. Around him, his personal guards and attendants formed a circle, holding back the more enthusiastic nobles who tried to crowd in too close.
He leaned slightly toward his assistant, lowering his voice. "I hear Inspector Granero is coming as well. Tell me, Suleman, is the rumour true?"
"Yes, sir. Without doubt," answered Suleman Eize, a lanky, sharp-featured man whose loyalty to the governor was matched only by his keen ear for gossip. "The inspector has confirmed his arrival. His purpose is to review the schools established by His Majesty's order, and to evaluate the progress made across the region."
At the mention of Granero's name, several nearby nobles pricked their ears. Everyone remembered his story. He was the boy whose mother had nearly been killed in the chaos of the old opposition war against the scorpion empire more than a year ago—his life and that of his mother was hanging on a thin thread until Josh himself had intervened, striking down the principal attackers, enslaving the army and in the process, saving them both. That single act had transformed Granero's destiny.
Josh had later appointed him as inspector, a position of both honour and responsibility. Since then, Granero's cultivation had surged with unusual speed, his growth so rapid that whispers spoke of divine favour resting on him.
Now, he was not merely a survivor but a figure of respect, his every decision carrying the weight of the emperor's blessing.
The governor's lips curved into a faint smile. "Good. The presence of both the emperor and the inspector will silence doubters about our progress. Today, Region Four will shine brighter than ever."
Behind him, the city roared with chants, the people's voices climbing in waves:
"Black Dragon! Black Dragon!"
The governor closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the chants roll over him. The emperor was not yet in sight, but already it felt as if the very air was bowing to his presence.