The capital's heart never slept.
By day, it pulsed with the rhythm of merchants, nobles, and whispers beneath silk. By night, the heartbeat changed—quieter, darker, layered with secrets and shadow. It was in this darker hour that Cassian Vale moved, cloaked not in fabric but in intent. Every step through the undercity was a stroke in the painting of his rise.
He walked alongside Eran—his first true follower, the boy who once feared death and now craved purpose. Behind them, two other orphans Cassian had saved from the fire followed silently. Lena and Bran, both clever, both broken in different ways. Just like him.
Cassian had not built an army yet. But he had gathered embers.
And tonight, he would feed the flame.
They arrived at the rendezvous—an abandoned aqueduct, half buried by vines and years. The door beneath the overgrown statue was real, not myth, and behind it lay what few in the capital still dared to speak of:
The Masked Circle.
A secret gathering of dissenters, rogue scholars, mercenary scribes, and forgotten knights who once pledged loyalty to the old line of emperors before the current dynasty's bloody purge.
Cassian knocked thrice. Paused. Then twice more.
A panel slid open. Eyes peered out. "Name?"
Cassian stepped forward. "The one they buried."
A hiss. A click. The stone door groaned open.
Inside, the air was thick with candle smoke and paper. Maps. Artifacts. Ancient blades. Scrolls older than the Empire's current name.
A dozen masked faces turned to him.
He stepped forward. "You don't know me yet. But you will."
They watched in silence as he moved to the center table, where a map of the Empire was spread. Inked lines showed battle paths, noble domains, black-market tunnels. It was more detailed than any map he'd seen even in the Third Prince's war room.
Cassian placed his hand flat on the capital's mark.
"This city will burn," he said. "Not in fire. But in truth. In revolt. And when it does—I will be the one who lights the first flame. But I won't do it alone."
One of the masked figures stepped forward, taller than the others. A woman. Eyes sharp behind her porcelain mask.
"And who are you to make promises of fire?" she asked, voice soft and firm.
Cassian smiled. "I am the forgotten. The betrayed. The one who saw the gears behind the thrones—and lived. I am Cassian Vale."
That name hung in the air like a blade.
The Masked Circle froze. Murmurs erupted.
"He's dead."
"No, executed—"
"Impossible—"
The woman raised her hand. Silence returned.
"Prove it," she said.
Cassian reached into his coat. From a hidden pouch, he drew a ring—crimson-gemmed, engraved with the seal of the Third Prince. The same ring he had once worn as a false sign of favor. The same ring the executioner never found, because Cassian had hidden it not on his person—but in the dirt beneath the Tower.
He tossed it onto the table.
They stared.
Then the woman stepped forward again—and removed her mask.
Lena, Eran, and Bran stiffened.
She was young. Perhaps twenty-five. Raven-black hair. A scar down her cheek. Eyes not just sharp—but hurt. Hardened.
"My name is Elyra. I was once a knight of the lost House Vaelthorn. I watched my brother behead my father to curry favor with the new Emperor." She looked Cassian dead in the eyes. "And I've waited for someone like you."
She knelt.
One by one, so did the others.
Cassian didn't smile. He just whispered: "Begin the gathering of crows."
That night, Cassian returned not to the cell he had once called home—but to the rooftops above the noble quarter, where moonlight painted slate with silver. He stood alone. Or so he thought.
A soft step behind him.
He turned. Lena.
Her flame-red hair fluttered in the wind. She wore no mask now, no cloak. Just her—the girl he had saved from the fire, the one who had stabbed a guard in the leg without flinching when they were chased by patrols two nights ago.
"You should rest," he said.
She looked at him. "You don't."
He didn't reply.
"You're building something," she continued, stepping closer. "Something bigger than revenge."
"Yes."
"But you can't carry it alone."
He met her gaze. "I know."
A silence settled, heavier than most. But not unwelcome.
Then, softer, she added, "I still have nightmares… from the orphanage. From the flames."
He turned to her fully. "So do I."
"Then maybe… when they come… we wake each other."
She reached up, brushing a strand of soot-darkened hair from his forehead. For a brief moment, time slowed.
Cassian didn't pull away.
He had hardened himself, yes. Steeled his soul against betrayal and fire. But in her touch, there was no agenda. No politics. No mask.
Just warmth.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since his rebirth… he felt human.
The next morning shattered peace like glass.
A report from Eran. Urgent.
The Third Prince's forces were hunting again—not for rebels this time, but for a stolen item.
A relic.
One last used by the Old Emperor.
And the worst part?
Cassian had it.
Unknowingly.
Among the vault scrolls he took after killing the orphanage warden, one bore the crest of the Old Line—the sigil erased from history. A binding seal.
It was a key.
And the Empire wanted it back.
Worse yet, the Inquisitors had been dispatched.
The true monsters of the Empire.
Not soldiers. Not guards. But mage-slayers. Torture-experts. Trained in mind-break, not just death.
And they were already here.
Elyra stormed into the Circle's chamber. "We have two hours, maybe less."
Cassian glanced at the map. "They'll close off the eastern tunnels first. Then the Watchtower."
"We're outnumbered."
"No," he corrected. "We're unknown."
He grabbed his coat. "Let's use that."
Outside, the city began to twist in fear.
The Inquisitors wore no armor. Only black robes, bone-threaded. They moved in silence, eyes shrouded, faces marked with runes. Where they passed, people averted their gaze.
And in a darkened alley, Cassian watched.
He turned to Lena, Eran, and Elyra.
"No fighting. Not yet. We shadow them. Learn who leads. Learn what they know. If we strike without knowledge, we die."
They nodded.
But even as they melted into the undercity shadows… Cassian knew:
This was not a mere search.
It was a message.
The Empire had caught wind of something.
And Cassian's ghost had whispered too loudly.
It was no longer just about revenge. Or survival.
Now… it was war.