Chapter 8 — The First Piece Moves
The city of Calvess was not meant to be beautiful.
It was a city of iron gates and spire-bound watchtowers, its cobbled veins choking beneath the boots of merchants, pilgrims, and those who walked in shadows.
Azael preferred the shadows.
His boots made no sound as he moved along the narrow alleys, his black coat brushing against stone slick with rain. The night was his mantle; the whispers in his mind were his compass.
You will take the first step, Draevan's voice coiled through him — not a command, but a certainty. The High Priest thinks he owns the roads. Show him otherwise.
Azael's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "And here I thought we were starting slow."
Before him, a warehouse loomed — unmarked, yet guarded by men whose eyes held the cold focus of trained killers. The emblem hidden beneath their collars marked them for what they were: covert enforcers of the Goddess's faith, an invisible arm of the High Priest's will.
Inside, the night hummed with the scent of steel, parchment, and blood not yet dry. He did not need to see it to know — contraband scriptures, stolen artifacts, perhaps even imprisoned heretics awaiting transport to the cathedral's hidden vaults.
This is a message, Azael, Draevan whispered. Burn their hands before they draw their swords.
The champion moved.
He was not a storm; storms announced themselves. He was the absence of light between lightning and thunder. One guard turned — a flicker of confusion, then a red line blossomed across his throat before breath could form a warning.
The others followed in silent collapse, their bodies folding like poorly-kept puppets. Azael stepped over them without pause, drawing a small vial from his coat. The liquid inside shimmered like molten shadow.
A tilt of his hand, and the vial emptied across the floor. The darkness spread, not as smoke, but as something deeper — swallowing light, heat, and even the sound of his footsteps.
By the time the last candle died, he was gone.
By the time the enforcers' replacements arrived, the warehouse was an empty shell, its contents and prisoners vanished without trace.
Far above the city, Draevan watched through mortal eyes, satisfaction glinting like a blade beneath calm waters.
Yet in the marble halls of the Cathedral, the High Priest paused mid-step, his gaze narrowing toward some unseen horizon. He had not seen the strike, but he had felt the wound in his network — a quiet, deliberate cut.
"A new hand moves upon the board," he murmured.
And for the first time in years, the High Priest sent out a summons not to his subordinates… but to the Hero himself.