Marquis Rhion Veyr stood before the tall windows of his war chamber, watching the mist roll over the rooftops of Veyrhold. Even from this high in the spire, the city looked dull and heavy under the morning sky—gray roofs, silent courtyards, the movements of servants and sentries barely dots from the position he was standing on.
The chamber behind him was lined with polished obsidian panels, a long table set for meetings he never attended. He didn't bother with council today.
He was waiting for one man.
The door opened with a faint creak, and that man entered without a word.
He wore no uniform. No armor. Just a fitted gray coat and boots designed for silence. His face was gaunt but calm, and his expression so blank it seemed unnatural. Only a narrow scar across the bridge of his nose betrayed any hint of violence. He didn't walk like a soldier. He didn't carry himself like a killer.
He simply existed.
"Shut the door," Rhion said.
It clicked shut behind him.
Rhion still didn't turn. "You've read the request?"
"Yes."
"I trust you understand its implications."
"I do."
Now the Marquis turned, hands still behind his back.
"There can be no disruption. No mess. No trace, No evidence that bites us back." he said.
The man nodded.
"He is no longer part of this house. No longer shielded by title or blood. You will not be restrained by the usual codes."
Another nod.
"You are not to make an example of him. You are not to draw attention. This is not revenge—it's redirection. The boy overstepped, and now he needs to be... repurposed."
The man's voice was even. "Alive or dead?"
"Dead," Rhion said simply. "But not visibly so. Not here. Not where it leaves stains."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Rhion walked to the end of the blackwood table, lifted a folded, wax-sealed scroll from a carved box, and placed it at the center.
The man stepped forward and took it.
"You will not speak his name," Rhion said. "You will not claim him as a kill. There will be no tally, no record, no stories told in shadow."
The man gave a shallow bow—not respect, just acknowledgment.
"You'll find him in the western pinebelt. Heading for the fief I assigned. I expect you to reach him before he reaches the next wall, I wanted to revoke the order of assigning him that fief, but it will make us lose face, Just go and make sure he does not reach the fief."
"Yes, my lord."
Rhion's voice dropped a shade lower. "Make it look like nothing ever happened."
The man turned to leave, silent as a thought.
And just before the door closed behind him, Rhion added without looking, "If anyone else stands between you and your task… remove them too."
The door shut.
Rhion poured himself a drink from the decanter near the window. It was a deep red, older than his younger son, with a smoky scent that matched the city below.
He raised the glass, not in toast—but like a surgeon lifting a scalpel.
"One less thread," he said quietly.
And drank.
Back in the forest-
The fire had long since burned down to tired embers, their glow flickering against the dark canopy above. The pine-scented night was still, but Auren didn't sleep. He crouched low beside the coals, arms slung over his knees, eyes unfocused.
His breath was steady. His body wasn't.
Every few minutes, his fingers twitched—residual tremors from the backlash. He could feel the weight of Serai's emotion still clinging to the edge of his spine. Rage, cold and distant now, but not gone. It never really left.
Footsteps approached from the east. Precise. Even. Not masked, but still soft.
Wazir stepped into the fire's dying light, brushing pine needles from his shoulders. He looked at Auren without greeting, face unreadable.
"They've sent someone," he said.
Auren didn't move. "I assumed."
"Not just anyone." Wazir crouched across the fire. "They sent the Clean Knife."
Auren slowly turned his head. "That's not a myth?"
"Unfortunately not. No House sigil. No trace. When he takes a name, it disappears." Wazir looked into the fire. "He doesn't cause scenes. He removes the parts of the world people forget to look for."
Auren exhaled, sharp. "So he's already close."
"Three days if he walks. Less if he's interested."
"And you're telling me that now?"
Wazir smiled slightly. "I needed to be sure. But now I am."
Auren stood and paced once around the fire, his boots sinking into pine mulch. "So we leave. Tonight."
"We do more than that," Wazir replied. He reached into his coat and pulled a weathered scrollcase, unrolling it onto a flat stone between them. The map it revealed wasn't clean or printed—it was a stitched-together canvas of overlapping sketches, notes in three different inks, and notations that didn't follow any border Auren recognized.
"This," Wazir said, tapping one point, "is where we are. Western pinebelt. No patrols, no roads. But that'll change once someone realizes you're not dead."
He traced a curved line south-eastward.
"And here—this is the fief Rhion gave you. Exile in all but name. Rotten trade routes, contested farmland, and no real claim to resources. He expects you to either sell it to House Levtan or quietly die on it."
Auren leaned over the map. "So we go there anyway."
"We do. For two reasons," Wazir said. "One—it gives us a legitimate place to stand. Two—there's a ruined containment field near the border. Old Echo burial zone. Supposedly inert."
"Supposedly," Auren echoed.
"Depends if someone's dumb enough to stir it."
Auren pointed to a red mark in the corner, where the letters spelled out Shatterweft? in a scratchy, frantic script.
"And that?"
Wazir didn't blink. "Later."
"Why do I ask?"
"To confirm your curiosity still outweighs your fear."
Auren scoffed and turned his gaze to the horizon.
"So we reach the fief," he said. "Then what?"
"We watch. We listen. You meet the local heads, walk the land. If it's worth holding, we fortify it. If not, we make a deal with Levtan—but on your terms, not Rhion's."
"And if the assassin finds us?"
Wazir rolled up the map. "Then we see if your spine is stronger than his blade."
Auren didn't answer. The forest around them felt like it was holding its breath.
A sound behind them—crackling brush, measured steps.
Serai stepped into view, hood up, arms crossed over her chest. She looked between them, her eyes sharper now, less distant than the day before.
"I assume we're not staying," she said flatly.
"No," Auren said. "Change of plans."
"Change of plans," she muttered. "What a surprise."
She moved closer, eyes catching on the last red glow of the fire. "Where to?"
"A fief," Wazir said. "Your friend's inheritance. Burnt land and no allies. Should be fun."
Serai raised an eyebrow at Auren. "Are you going to rule from a broken throne now?"
"Something like that."
She sighed. "Fine. Just don't expect me to curtsy."
Wazir stood and gave the fire one final glance. "Pack light. I'll forge the seals. You ride ahead."
Auren picked up his bag and looked at the cold remains of the fire. The last flickers of warmth dimmed.
"Let's go," he said.
The forest said nothing.
But something in it had already started moving.