Caelan is summoned to the Syndicate's command bunker—walls lined with arcane tech and reinforced steel. Commander Rell hands him a sleek folder.
Inside: a photo of Lucien Valemar.
There's something wrong with Caelan the moment he sees the image. His vision goes out of focus, heart skips. But he hides it.
There's something wrong with Caelan the moment he sees the image. His vision goes out of focus, heart skips. But he hides it.
Order: Infiltrate the masquerade gala hosted by Lucien. Poison him. Confirm the kill. Leave no trace.
"He's dangerous. You'll be doing the world a favor," Rell says.
"Make it clean. Charming, even. You're good at that."
Caelan leaves with the folder.
But later that night, he throws up in the sink without knowing why.
Later, Before leaving for mission. Caelen couldn't wipes away the strange familiarity.
Caelan prepares for the hit—examines blueprints of the manor, crafts a lethal colorless poison, perfects his disguise as a servant.
• When studying Lucien's profile, his hands shake.
• A melody haunts him—notes he hums without knowing where he learned them.
• He dreams of rain, broken altars, and a warm hand he can never quite hold.
He tries to drown it out with training, whiskey, silence.
"You're a weapon. You don't remember. You don't need to." But the ache doesn't stop. That voice. In his head.