The obsidian vaults of Elarith Vale stretched like the ribs of some colossal beast, their arches swathed in shadows older than kingdoms. At the heart of that cavernous hall lay the throne, hewn of cold stone and veiled in mystery. Its master sat enthroned, shrouded in a mantle of darkness; silver and gold embroidery shimmered faintly upon his veil, each thread glimmering like captive starlight. The rest of his cloak was black as midnight waters, swallowing the torchlight whole.
Before him stood Kellian Vesper and Elysian Nevan, unwavering as statues, their heads inclined in reverence. The silence was not empty—it thrummed with power, as though the stones themselves bent to hear the command of the hidden lord.
The master's voice, when it came, resounded like iron striking marble.
"Well then, Kellian," he intoned, tilting his veiled head ever so slightly. "How progresses the design?"
Kellian dropped to one knee, his cloak whispering against the flagstones. His voice was low, yet steady.
"Master, all proceeds according to plan… save for one matter."
The master's head inclined further, a gesture both languid and lethal.
"And what matter is that?"
"It is Samuel, my lord," Kellian replied, his gaze fixed upon the floor. "He has yet to fulfill his appointed task."
A pause fell—long enough for the fire to snap within the braziers. Then, in a voice edged with mockery, the master asked,
"Has he still not unraveled so simple a knot? He was sent to silence Thornleigh's spies. And yet…"
Kellian dared not answer. Elysian, silent as ever, shifted only the barest degree, his cold eyes narrowing.
As if summoned by the weight of his failure, the echo of footsteps reverberated through the hall. The vast doors groaned open, and Samuel entered. His cloak was dust-stained, his posture rigid with unease. Without hesitation, he sank to both knees before the throne.
"My lord," Samuel said, his voice trembling between devotion and dread, "I return. Forgive me—I did not complete the task as ordered."
The air tightened, as though the very stones held their breath. Kellian's head turned sharply, his expression unreadable; Elysian's gaze flickered with cool disdain.
The master tapped his fingers against the arm of his throne, each sound like a knell upon stone.
"And what excuse do you dare bring before me?"
Samuel bowed lower, his voice breaking with urgency.
"Master, it was no ordinary hindrance. He was there—the one masked in white and black."
The hall darkened further, though no flame had died. The master leaned forward, and though his face was veiled, the weight of his attention was enough to crush the heart.
"What of him?" the master asked, every syllable deliberate.
Samuel swallowed hard.
"That unamused bastard appeared—unexpected, unbidden. He hindered my blade. He lingers too long in Argentum when his dominion is Khyronia. He stood between me and your will."
The name coiled in the air like venom. The master's veiled face inclined, and a low hum issued from behind the embroidery.
"So. Caldris toys with borders he cannot hold. Intriguing… but no matter."
"Master," Samuel pressed, his forehead nearly to the stone, "I swear—I will finish what remains undone. I will finish those spies."
At this, the master exhaled—a sound neither sigh nor laugh, but something between.
"Rise," he commanded, with a flick of his hand. "All of you—leave me. You will have your chance to prove yourselves worthy of my patience, or unworthy of breath. Go."
One by one, they obeyed. Kellian Vesper bowed with measured elegance, though his gaze lingered on Samuel with something like disdain. Elysian Nevan followed, his silence sharper than any word. Samuel rose last, his failure heavy as iron chains about his shoulders.
Together they passed from the great hall of Elarith Vale, and behind them the master remained upon his throne—still, inscrutable, a shadow upon the world.
The vast iron doors of the master's hall groaned shut, their echoes fading into the hollow corridors of Elarith Vale. Outside, the torchlight guttered against the stone walls, painting long shadows that moved like restless phantoms. It was here that Kellian Vesper stood, tall and severe, his black cloak trailing behind him like a storm cloud. Elysian Nevan lingered a step behind, his arms folded, his pale gaze watchful and unreadable. Samuel trailed after them, shoulders squared but his jaw set in defiance, the weight of his failure still fresh upon him.
Kellian turned suddenly, his eyes burning beneath his dark lashes. His voice, though low, carried the sharp edge of a blade.
"How is it, Samuel, that you still cannot finish a mere task? What were you truly doing while the spies walked free?"
Samuel's head snapped up, rage answering rage.
"What do you mean by that? I know how to finish my work better than you presume, Kellian. Do not question my blade."
Kellian stepped forward, his hand tightening into a fist at his side.
"Oh, truly? If your skill matches your boasting, then why did you not strike down that masked bastard when he appeared before you?"
Samuel's voice rose, the words hot with resentment.
"Because I was forbidden to face him! You know as well that no one is allowed to face that bastard without the master's word."
For the first time, Elysian moved, his voice slicing through the air like ice through fire.
"And what are the two of you doing now? Snapping at each other like hounds. If you waste your strength on this quarrel, tell me—how shall we ever finish the tasks set before us?"
Kellian's jaw tightened, his teeth clenched hard enough to grind. He took another step, his towering presence eclipsing Samuel's.
"It is his fault," he spat, his voice quaking with restrained fury. "He let them escape when their blood should have already soaked the earth."
Samuel's temper ignited anew, his lips curling in contempt.
"Oh, truly? You fancy yourself the strongest among us, Kellian? Then why not prove it? Or perhaps all your strength lies only in your tongue."
The insult hung in the air like smoke before steel rang against steel—not from blades, but from the violent clash of fists. Kellian's punch landed first, sending Samuel staggering back against the stone. Samuel roared in reply, driving his shoulder forward and striking Kellian hard in the ribs.
The two collided with raw ferocity, the sound of their blows echoing through the empty passage. Cloaks whipped in the air, boots scraped the stone, and the hiss of their ragged breaths mingled with the crack of knuckles against flesh.
"Enough!" Elysian's command lashed out, his eyes flashing like tempered glass. He stepped between them, yet neither man relented. Kellian's fist caught Samuel's cheek; Samuel retaliated with a savage uppercut that split the corner of Kellian's lip.
Still, they fought on, bound by pride and venom, until Elysian's patience snapped. His hand went to the hilt at his side, and his voice thundered in the narrow hall.
"Cease this madness—or I will end it myself."
For a heartbeat, the silence was absolute. The two men froze, chests heaving, blood already bright upon their mouths. The quarrel had not ended, not truly—but for now, beneath Elysian's gaze, it lay coiled like a serpent, waiting to strike again.
The clash of fists had barely subsided, their ragged breaths still fogging the cold air, when a sudden voice cleaved through the corridor.
"Master Kellian."
All three men turned at once. From the shadows emerged a lesser assassin, his cloak plain, his steps measured with the humility of one who bore tidings rather than power. He bowed low, a parchment clasped tightly in his gloved hands, his face half-concealed by the mask of the Vale's servants.
Kellian straightened, his chest still heaving from the altercation, his lip stained with blood. His voice, though edged with restrained fury, was imperious and unyielding.
"What is it?"
The messenger lifted his head only slightly, extending the parchment with both hands as though it were some relic too heavy for his station.
"Your report, master. I was bidden to keep you informed… concerning the boy named August."
At that name, the tension in the corridor shifted. Samuel and Elysian exchanged a glance, the remnants of their quarrel forgotten for an instant. Kellian stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he snatched the parchment from the messenger's trembling hands.
"And what," Kellian demanded, unfolding the seal with a swift, impatient gesture, "is written here about him?"
The assassin's voice was steady, though his posture remained low, as if fearful of the storm his words might unleash.
"Master… the boy is poisoned. Yet—despite his affliction—he is said to bear knowledge of the Forbidden Place."
The words struck the air like the tolling of some dreadful bell. Kellian froze, the parchment crumpling slightly within his grasp. His eyes flickered, shadows darting like phantoms across their black depths.
"What did you say?" His voice was a growl, low and dangerous.
"The Forbidden Place," repeated the assassin softly, his head still bowed. "It is whispered he holds its secrets."
Elysian's composure, so often glacial, fractured for the briefest instant. His pale eyes sharpened, his lips parting in a rare flicker of astonishment. The very mention of the tome—a relic of legend, bound in silence and shadow—was enough to unnerve even him.
Samuel, however, was less subtle. His face twisted with disdain, his voice biting.
"What nonsense is this? Poisoned and yet bearing secrets of such weight? And what, pray tell, is this 'forbidden' thing?"
Kellian's head snapped toward him, his glare like a blade unsheathed.
"None of your concern," he hissed, each syllable dipped in venom. "You who cannot complete the simplest of tasks shall not lay claim to knowledge that eclipses your worth."
Samuel's eyes narrowed, fury burning in his breast. He returned Kellian's glare with equal venom, yet said no more. His silence was not surrender but the silence of one who plots revenge in shadows.
Kellian turned his back upon him with deliberate scorn, his cloak sweeping against the stone floor like a raven's wing. Elysian fell into step beside him, his silence carrying its own grave weight. The messenger, dutiful and unremarkable, followed swiftly behind, clutching the emptied air where parchment had once been.
Samuel lingered a moment longer, his fists tightening, his teeth clenched until his jaw ached. The words Forbidden Place echoed within him, maddening in their secrecy, gnawing at his pride.
And so they departed from that corridor of stone, each man cloaked in his own tempest—Kellian driven by revelation, Elysian by calculation, Samuel by smouldering wrath—while above them the torches guttered and hissed, as though the very walls themselves disapproved of the secrets spoken there.
The long corridors of Elarith Vale stretched before them, their arches veiled in shadow, torchlight trembling upon the stone as though recoiling from the weight of whispered secrets. Their boots struck the marble in solemn cadence, the air thick with silence until Elysian's voice, soft yet piercing, cleaved it apart.
"Kellian," he said, his tone measured, each syllable deliberate, "the report—do you believe it? That boy… he truly knows of the hidden palace."
Kellian did not slow his stride, though a glimmer passed through his dark eyes, a flicker of revelation long suspected yet never confirmed. His jaw set, his voice a low rumble, sharpened with conviction.
"I knew it," he murmured, the words heavy as iron. "All this while, I sensed it. He holds the key—the whereabouts of the secret place."
Elysian's gaze, pale as winter frost, lingered on him, his expression unreadable save for the faintest tightening about his mouth.
"And if it is true?" he pressed, his voice like glass—clear, brittle, unrelenting. "What then? Will you drag him alive to our master, or will you silence him before the truth escapes his lips?"
Kellian halted at last, turning his head slightly, his cloak whispering against the stones. A cruel smile touched his mouth, though it did not reach the hardness of his eyes.
"Alive," he replied, almost savouring the word. "The master will want more than whispers—he will want the boy's blood and breath. We shall pry the secret from him, no matter the cost."
The torches sputtered as though disturbed by the vow, their flames bending in the draught. Elysian inclined his head, his silence an assent laced with unease. Together they resumed their stride, two shadows swallowed by a corridor that seemed to stretch into eternity.