Dusk settled over Velryn like a shroud, deep purple bleeding into black, smearing the edges of rooftops and alleys. Aelthir Nightwhisper crouched atop the eastern battlements, her pale green eyes tracing the streets below. The World Record System hummed faintly at the edge of her mind, a constant pulse reminding her of the ledger yet to be balanced.
New Objective: High-Value Target #31. Location: Crimson Keep. Authority: Hero-Blooded Noble. Threat Level: Extreme.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. This target was different. Not a petty lord or corrupt merchant—this was a man who had inherited the legacy of heroes, but whose deeds were nothing short of tyranny. The system highlighted weak points in patrols, guards, and magical wards, but no calculations could measure the danger of facing someone armed with relics from the Hero Age.
A soft rustle behind her pulled her attention. Myra landed silently, daggers sheathed at her hips, crimson cloak blending with the shadows. "You're overthinking again," she whispered, smirk curling her lips. "Remember: stealth first, sentiment never."
Aelthir's eyes flicked to the rooftops, then back to her ally. "It's not sentiment. The system… it flags anomalies in emotional impact. This one carries echoes stronger than usual. The ledger is heavier."
Myra's grin faltered, faintly, but she nodded. "Fine. Let's move."
Thren and Serelune joined from the alley below, muscles tense, robes brushing cobblestones with ghostlike silence. The Ashveil was complete. Together, they melted into the city, shadows within shadows, each step measured, each glance calculated.
The Crimson Keep loomed ahead, walls blackened from age and war, banners fluttering in the dying light. Guards moved in predictable patterns, but Aelthir noticed subtle deviations—signals, minor gestures indicating command, whispers of corruption hidden beneath the veneer of discipline. The system highlighted potential weak points, marking three entrances that could be exploited.
Silent Step: Active. Detection Risk: 5%.
"Here," she whispered, crouching atop a parapet. "We split. Myra and I will infiltrate from the east. Thren, Serelune, stay on the perimeter. Cover exits."
"Understood," Thren rumbled, eyes scanning for threats.
The first step was always the hardest. Aelthir slid down a narrow drainpipe, landing silently on a shadowed ledge. Every sense was alert: the brush of wind, the faint metallic scent of blood from past executions, the echo of guards' boots. She paused, letting the system feed her information—positions, patrol patterns, magical wards, even the emotional resonance of the noble's lingering aura.
Echoes of the Fallen Age detected. Emotional impact: extreme. Memory fragments stored.
Fragments of history flickered before her eyes: laughter in halls now burned, ceremonies twisted into tyranny, heroism twisted into cruelty. Her dagger felt heavier, not from metal, but from the weight of remembering. She exhaled softly, pushing it down. The ledger would be balanced, and yet the echoes would remain.
The first guards passed. Aelthir's hand was lightning-fast, her dagger slicing through leather and bone with surgical precision. Myra mirrored her movements from another angle, a red streak in the shadow. The pair moved like twin phantoms, untraceable, lethal.
Finally, they reached the inner chamber. The noble awaited, tall and imposing, eyes glinting beneath the hood of ceremonial armor. One hand rested on the hilt of a relic sword, etched with runes that hummed faintly with ancient magic.
"You've come far, little fox," he said, voice smooth as oil, eyes narrowing. "But some threads of fate cannot be cut so easily."
Aelthir's pulse quickened—not with fear, but anticipation. The system's calculations surged. Probability of success: 62%. Adjusted for skill, allies, and environment: 78%.
Skill Active: Instant Execution. Silent Step: Active. Fatepicker: Standby.
The duel began before a single word could finish. Steel sang against steel. Magic flared silently through the chamber as Serelune and Thren engaged guards outside, the battlefield silent to anyone beyond the Keep. Every strike, every step, every dodge was recorded by the system, feeding Aelthir's reflexes, highlighting weak points, storing emotional echoes.
The noble was formidable, but he was mortal. And he underestimated the quiet ghost at his heels—the female elf who moved like thought, who bore the weight of centuries, and whose ledger of justice demanded his life.
Aelthir smirked faintly, dagger poised. Even relics could not rewrite the balance of shadows.
Word count: ~705 words