The vast doors of Thornleigh's palace swung open with a groan, their weight dragging against stone as though reluctant to release the figure who emerged from their shadowed halls. Caldris stepped forth, his cloak trailing like a black tide unfurling, and the last embers of daylight caught faintly upon his frost-grey eyes, now dimmed with weariness and storm. The evening air met him with a chill, yet it was not colder than the iron lodged within his heart.
The courtyard stretched before him, cobblestones glistening faintly beneath the gathering gloom. At its edge waited his carriage, lacquered black, its lanterns already lit, glowing like muted stars against the dusk. A row of his men lined the path, heads bowed in solemn reverence, their figures stiff against the encroaching night. Their silence was complete, the kind reserved for funerals, as though each of them too had felt the weight of grief that clung to their master's shoulders.
Caldris did not look at them. He moved with the deliberate pace of a man carved of marble, each footfall echoing against stone like a tolling bell. Behind him followed his most trusted servant, a shadow bound to his heel, his countenance hidden behind the mask that veiled his features. Yet behind that mask, unseen by others, glimmered eyes that watched with a strange intensity, sharp as a hawk's in twilight—gleaming, unreadable, as though he alone bore witness to the storm gnawing within his master's breast.
The driver, hat lowered, opened the carriage door in silence. Caldris ascended the step, the hem of his dark cloak brushing against the wheel as he entered. The interior swallowed him whole—an enclosed world of polished wood and velvet cushions, the air faintly perfumed with cedar and dust, as though even here lingered the scent of time and memory. He seated himself with a rigid grace, one hand tightening briefly upon the hilt of his sword before falling to his knee. His jaw was taut, his throat tight with words unsaid, vows unbroken, grief unvoiced.
Opposite him, upon the facing seat, his servant settled with noiseless poise. The flicker of the carriage lanterns caught upon the mask, gilding its edge, casting twin shadows where eyes lay hidden. Those eyes glinted faintly still, like coals beneath ash, unwavering upon their master. In that silence—thick, oppressive—the air seemed to shudder with unspoken truths.
The door was drawn shut. A muffled command to the driver, and with a jolt, the carriage lurched forward. Hooves struck stone, iron against cobble, their rhythm steady yet mournful, carrying them away from Thornleigh's marble grandeur into the veins of the city beyond. The world outside blurred into twilight, windows spilling pale light, chimneys exhaling thin trails of smoke, while within the carriage there remained only the two men—the master adrift in tempest, the servant a silent sentinel, watching, waiting.
And as the wheels carried them into the deepening night, the vow in Caldris's breast burned hotter, etched against his soul as though by flame.
Inside, the palace of Thornleigh's secret chamber. Upon a couch of damask—rich fabric of blood-red hue, stitched with fading gold—reclined Duke Alexandrino, lord of power and intrigue. He sat half-leaning, fingers laced beneath his chin, beige eyes. flickering with the weight of thoughts too turbulent for sleep. His mind swirled like a tempest over black waters. The murderers. slain with cruel precision, another still writhing beneath the shadow of poison. Their deaths gnawed at him. It bore the taste, at first glance, of the Eclipse Elite—the infamous assassins whose very name darkened courts across the continent.
The method was strange, the blade unfamiliar, yet Duke Alexandrino would not waver. No hand but the Eclipse could wield such precision. No other spectre could trespass so boldly across his dominion.
The scrape of boots interrupted his brooding. Two figures entered, shadows dissolving into flesh and form as they bowed with a grace that bespoke discipline honed to art. They moved like dancers trained in silence, as though the very floor bent to their will. His most trusted men: spies, hunters of whispers, snatchers of truths from the tangled web of deceit.
The first stepped forward, the more elegant of the pair. His carriage was almost too refined for the cloak he wore, too graceful for a man whose hands had oft dealt in poison and parchment alike. When he spoke, his voice bore that same polish—measured, steady, like a blade drawn without haste.
"Your Grace," he began, bowing lower still. "The investigation of the two murders proceeds apace. We have followed their footsteps, sifted through their belongings, and traced their last associations. Every detail was laid bare, every shadow questioned—yet…"
He faltered, and the word fell into silence like a pebble into deep water.
Alexandrino's eyes sharpened, a flicker of ire lighting their depths. "But what?" he demanded, his voice curling like smoke.
The second man, hesitant yet resolute, stepped forward. He was of gentler men, shy in bearing, his movements touched with a grace that seemed almost misplaced in the brutal trade of espionage. His voice, though, when it rose, carried a quiet beauty, like a violin string drawn with trembling sincerity.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing as though the very air were sacred between them. "The killing method was not of Eclipse Elite. We searched for their signature—daggers wrought in silver, poisons brewed from their hidden apothecaries, the precise cuts they favour. None were present. There were no symbols, no tokens, no trace of their craftsmanship."
He swallowed, his throat tight as though the truth itself resisted its release.
"Your Grace… the hand behind these murders belongs to someone else."
The words hung in the chamber, heavy, reverberating against stone as if the very vault recoiled at the thought. Alexandrino leaned back into his chaise, one hand lifting to stroke the curve of his jaw. His gaze flickered with fascination, with a cruel spark of wonder.
"Someone else?" he murmured, his voice almost tender with disbelief. "How can that be? The Eclipse Elite weave shadows across the world. No blade falls but by their design. No life is taken that they have not marked. How then… does another phantom dare trespass in their dominion?"
The elegant spy bowed his head, lips sealed. The shy one, trembling but steadfast, answered again.
"We do not yet know, Your Grace. But we labour still, tracing threads unseen. Whoever they are, they cloak themselves with an art we scarce have witnessed. Yet we will not falter. We will find them."
Alexandrino's eyes narrowed, glimmering with fury unmasked. His voice rose, a low thunder.
"If this is not the Eclipse Elite, then some other master moves in shadows. And I would know the name of this architect of chaos. I would tear the mask from his face, grind his plots into dust."
He surged forward upon his couch, the fabric rustling like a serpent disturbed. His hand fell upon the armrest, fingers curling into talons.
"Go. Hunt deeper. Strip the night of its silence until it yields you truth. And bring me word—every scrap, every whisper, every lie. Do not Fail me."
The two bowed as one, their voices entwined in solemn vow. "Yes, Your Grace."
With fluid grace they withdrew, their forms swallowed once more by shadow. The door closed with a soft thunder, leaving Alexandrino alone with his seething storm.
He leaned back once more, his eyes alight with fury and fascination, the fire of revelation licking at his soul.
"If not Eclipse elite…" he whispered to the stones, voice thick with menace. "Then who dares?"
And the chamber, ancient and mute, offered him no answer.
chamber's silence did not break, though the torches spat and hissed as though they too wished to speak. Behind Duke Alexandrino, two of his sworn guards stood rooted like sentinels carved of iron, their hands resting firm upon the hilts of their swords. The faint gleam of steel peered from beneath their scabbards, ready to be summoned at a single breath of command. Their eyes, hawk-like, followed every subtle flicker of movement within the vaulted room, yet neither dared intrude upon the grave discourse that hung between their master and his spies.
It was not fear that restrained their tongues, but reverence—for Alexandrino's presence carried the weight of a crown not yet worn, a majesty that forbade interruption. Still, they heard. They drank every word as one drinks a draught of bitter wine, feeling the shadow of dread coil itself about the name that had been whispered: a murderer whose hand moved with a craft even beyond the Eclipse Elite.
The duke's voice, low and tempered, cut through the stillness like a blade drawn across velvet.
"keep this palace under guard," he commanded, his tone rich with the gravity of centuries. "Every corner, every chamber, every arch and corridor shall be watched as though it were the threshold of Heaven itself. Let no step pass unmarked, no whisper go unheard. There is a shadow within these walls that walks freer than it ought, and I will not suffer it."
The guards inclined their heads, the faintest rustle of their cloaks breaking the heavy air. Their spines straightened as though strung by divine command, and their gauntleted fingers tightened upon the cold iron of their swords. They did not question; for to question was to delay, and delay was death when the killer moved swifter than rumor and struck sharper than fate.
With a single gesture, Alexandrino dismissed the spies into the dark of the corridors, their departure swallowed by the stone like secrets buried in earth. The guards, however, shifted from their posts with measured steps, their boots echoing softly against the marble floor. They moved with the solemnity of priests carrying a relic, for the task laid upon them was no mere order—it was a vigil against an unseen adversary, a phantom more cunning than the dreaded assassins of the Eclipse Elite.
Outside the chamber, their voices rose, not with panic but with command. Every sentinel of Thornleigh's palace was summoned to stand as a wall of living steel. Lanterns were lit, shadows cast long upon the gilded halls, and the once-idle air trembled with the strain of watchfulness.
And thus the palace became a fortress of eyes. Windows no longer opened to the night with innocence, for behind them crouched vigilance. Corridors ceased to be paths of idle wandering; they became arteries of suspicion, coursing with the very tread of men sworn to guard. Every guest, every servant, every noble within Thornleigh's walls now bore the invisible scrutiny of blades unsheathed in silence.
Yet amid all this, the duke himself remained seated upon his chaise, a figure carved of resolve. His gaze burned with a fury restrained, a tempest caged within mortal form. For though his men carried swords and lit the corridors with vigilance, Alexandrino knew well: steel alone could not banish a shadow born of blood and mystery.
Somewhere within these walls walked the hand of death itself—craftier than the Eclipse elite, swifter than the falcon, crueler than the abyss.
And until it was revealed, Thornleigh would sleep with eyes wide open.
The guards, bearing the weight of Alexandrino's decree, stepped forth into the labyrinthine corridors of Thornleigh's palace. Their boots struck the marble with the measured certainty of war-drums, echoing into chambers still fragrant with incense and old stone. At every turning, at every shadow-draped alcove, their voices rose—low, stern, and commanding, carrying the weight of steel.
"Eyes open," one ordered, his tone sharp as the clash of blades. "No corner should be left unwatched, no whisper left to slither free."
The other, more deliberate, his voice like a tolling bell, spoke again. "Let vigilance be your breath, let suspicion be your shadow. This night, Thornleigh won't sleeps. This night, every sentinel shall be the eye of his Grace."
The words spread through the garrison like flame through dry reeds. Helmets turned, swords straightened in their sheaths, and the idle stance of men-at-arms stiffened into rigid watchfulness. Guards moved swiftly through gilded corridors, their torches sending restless flames across tapestries and polished glass. The palace, once a place of grandeur and ease, transformed beneath their command into a citadel of eyes, where every gaze lingered too long, and every sound was measured against suspicion
Servants scurried with lowered heads, their every motion noted, their every breath weighed. Nobles wandering the halls with idle curiosity found themselves under the unblinking scrutiny of armed men.
And so Thornleigh stood as though girded for siege—not from armies battering its gates, but from a single phantom hidden in plain sight.
"Keep your eyes open," the order rang again, etched into every ear, hammered into every heart.
For within those hallowed halls, danger did not prowl at the door.
It was already inside.