Sorry for the delay guys, but I had my sems going on and an internship lined up soon so I was just preparing for it, will be writing more often now, so cheers!!!
This chapter is kinda short, hoping to write bigger chapters from now on.
Varian melted deeper into the shadows of Blackthorn Manor's shattered halls, every step measured, every breath controlled. The cacophony of explosions and screams had faded behind him, replaced by a heavy, almost sacred silence that pressed in from all sides. The mission was nearing its grim conclusion.
He'd watched the battle unfold from the perimeter — Raiden's ruthless carnage, Elara's delicate dance with the ancient wards, Zayn's silent command threading through the chaos like a shadow's whisper. And now, here he was, inside the heart of the enemy's fortress, the kill zone narrowing to a single point: Lord Varyn Deimos.
Varian's eyes scanned the dim corridors, fingers twitching near the dagger at his belt. But it wasn't the target he was focused on — not entirely. It was the man who had brought them here.
Zayn.
There was something magnetic about him. The golden-eyed leader who didn't just command with words, but with a presence that bent the very air. A man who made you feel like you were part of something larger — something worth fighting for, worth dying for.
Varian's thoughts flickered to the battlefield's aftermath. The eerie calm after Raiden's storm, the unsettling presence of Sienna—the king's illegitimate daughter—and how her strange devotion had settled like a shadow over the victory. Zayn had orchestrated it all with an iron mind and a calm smile, pulling threads no one else dared touch.
It was rare to find a master who inspired not just obedience, but curiosity. Varian's usual detachment was challenged. He had always been a blade in the dark, a silent ghost with no ties, no allegiances beyond coin and cause. But here—under Zayn's command—there was a pulse beneath the surface, a force that whispered of revolution and reckoning.
Varian paused, fingertips brushing the worn map tucked inside his cloak—the plan, the route, the target's rotation. It was meticulous, precise. No room for mistakes.
He felt a flicker of anticipation rise in his chest.
This was only the beginning.
With a final glance toward the manor's shadowed windows, Varian melted back into the night, a silent vow forming in his mind:
To follow this man, to see where the path led — even if it meant stepping deeper into the darkness than he ever had before.
Varian moved like a shadow through the dim corridors of Blackthorn Manor, every step measured and silent. The manor's oppressive silence was punctuated only by distant explosions and the occasional muffled scream. His breath was steady, his mind razor-sharp, silencing those he alerted.
At the heavy oak door of the study, he paused. Intricate wards shimmered faintly—Elara's magic had weakened them, but a trace of their original power lingered, like a stubborn ghost. Varian pressed his hand against the wood, feeling the residual hum of the enchantments dissolve.
He pushed the door open, slipping inside.
The room was cloaked in shadow, the flickering candlelight casting grotesque shapes on the walls. Behind a massive desk sat a man cloaked in dark robes, fingers tapping nervously against a twisted dagger—the infamous symbol of Varyn Deimos. His eyes darted to Varian, wild and uncomprehending.
"Who… who are you?" Varyn demanded, voice tight with fear and suspicion. "How did you get past the wards? Who sent you?"
Varian didn't flinch. "I'm the reckoning you never saw coming."
Varyn's gaze narrowed. "An assassin? For whom?"
Varian's lips curved in a faint, unreadable smile. "Not for someone you know."
There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in Varyn's eyes. Varian saw it—this man, powerful yet paranoid, had no idea how close his world was to crumbling.
In that silence, Varian's thoughts drifted briefly to Zayn—the enigmatic figure orchestrating this assault from the shadows. No one knew him well. No one truly understood his motives or origins. But Varian felt the pull of something rare in the man's command: a silent strength, a cold certainty that was magnetic.
He wondered what drove Zayn, what fire burned in his soul. And why Varian, a man accustomed to darkness and solitude, felt an unfamiliar spark of loyalty.
The blade in his hand moved with deadly precision.
As the final moment came, Varian whispered, "This is only the beginning."
He vanished back into the shadows, the weight of the night heavy on his shoulders—and the unspoken promise that under Zayn's unseen hand, their world would be reborn in blood and fire.