Night had fallen over Elandra, and the city's glow flickered like a sea of fireflies trapped beneath the veil of stars. Lanterns swayed on iron posts. Taverns hummed with laughter. And guards—armored, yawning, half-alert—marched their usual routes, unaware that something ancient and malevolent had slipped past their walls.
They never heard the first blade.
A sentry atop the southern tower blinked, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his waterskin. A second later, his throat opened in a clean, perfect line. No noise. No struggle. Just a sharp exhale of surprise as he collapsed behind the crenellations, eyes still wide.
A shadow moved behind him.
It didn't walk. It glided. Draped in charcoal-gray wrappings that drank the light, the assassin wiped the blade and slid it back into its sheath. The body was dragged silently into a hatch in the tower floor and hidden behind stacked crates. The assassin left no trace—only a faint whiff of brimstone that vanished on the wind.
