'Third Point of view'
The walls of the Drayven estate trembled with silence. No servants stirred. No guards patrolled. The entire southern wing, where Kael had left Lord Garrick bleeding and gasping, had been cordoned off. No one dared ask why.
Kael—Leon Drayven now in name and fear—sat alone in the War Room, staring at a spread of ancient maps, red threads, and burnt correspondence. His hands were stained with ink and dried blood. His heart beat with cold fury.
He couldn't afford mistakes anymore.
A single misstep would mean death—not just for him, but for the thin thread of fate he was trying to pull taut.
He had crossed a line the moment he slit Lord Garrick's throat and whispered into his ear, "This is your only redemption." He'd expected guilt. Instead, there was only purpose.
Kael's eyes lifted as the door creaked.
A boy—no older than thirteen—stepped in. Gaunt, soot-covered, with too-large eyes and a courier's satchel slung over one bony shoulder.
"I was told to deliver this… to the one they call the Shadow Prince," the boy said, his voice a whisper of wind.
Kael stood slowly, gaze locked on the boy. "Who sent you?"
The boy shook his head. "Didn't see the man's face. He left this." He handed over a parchment sealed with black wax—unmarked except for a knife-shaped imprint.
Kael snapped it open.
> We know what you are.
And we remember.
Come alone to the Iron Graveyard by midnight—or the next head on a spike will be hers.
Attached beneath the message was a lock of golden-blonde hair.
Kael's blood turned to ice. That hair… it belonged to Seraphina.
He crushed the note, veins screaming with fury.
Who?
Who dared threaten her?
He looked at the boy again. "Did he say anything else?"
The boy hesitated. "Just this—'The dead remember the fire.'"
Kael didn't wait for more. He turned, barking orders to summon Damien and the Raven Guard, but a second thought stilled him. Come alone, the note had said. If this was a trap—and it was a trap—bringing soldiers would seal Seraphina's death.
He slammed his fist against the war table.
You bastards want the villain? Then you'll get him.
---
Midnight. Iron Graveyard.
The sky wept a slow drizzle. Fog clung to the rusting battlefield ruins like phantom fingers. Jagged blades stuck out of the earth—rusted swords, shattered spears, and grave markers for warriors forgotten by time. The Iron Graveyard was cursed, they said. Souls lingered here, unable to move on.
Kael's boots crushed through the wet grass. Cloaked in black, sword sheathed at his side, shadows trailing him like dogs.
No one greeted him.
Then he saw her.
Seraphina—gagged, bound to a twisted iron pillar, her eyes wide with panic. Blood streaked down her temple. Her silver gown was torn and dirty.
And behind her… five masked figures. All in robes, faces hidden, each bearing a different weapon—an axe, a staff, twin daggers, a sickle, and a long curved blade.
The one with the sickle stepped forward. "Leon Drayven," he hissed. "You've awoken old ghosts."
Kael's voice was calm, cold. "You kidnapped a princess. That's a declaration of war."
"We declared war when your father burned our village to the ground," the axe-bearer snarled. "You just never listened."
So this was revenge. Not against Kael… but against the Drayvens. And he had inherited their sins.
Kael raised his hand slowly. "Let her go. I'm the one you want."
The one with twin daggers laughed. "We want your blood, Prince. But we want you to feel what we felt. Fear. Loss. Helplessness."
The curved blade whistled from its sheath.
They were going to kill Seraphina in front of him.
Kael moved.
Faster than the wind, his sword slid free and caught the curved blade mid-swing. Sparks flew. His body twisted like a dancer's—lethal, fluid, precise.
One strike—down went the dagger-wielder.
Another spin—he cut across the axe-bearer's chest, blood spraying like rain.
But the sickle struck from behind. Pain erupted through Kael's side as steel bit into him. He grunted, twisting, elbowing the attacker in the throat before driving his blade through the man's gut.
Three down. Two left.
Seraphina screamed behind her gag as the staff-bearer summoned a blast of dark energy. Kael barely ducked in time. The spell tore through the iron behind him like paper.
He rolled, breathing hard, blood soaking his side.
He was bleeding too fast.
The last two circled him like wolves. The one with the staff muttered an incantation. The air thickened, and Kael's limbs slowed, as if drowning in mud.
Magic.
They were cheating.
Kael drew a throwing knife with his off-hand and flung it—not at the caster, but at the support beam above Seraphina. The rope snapped.
She dropped like a stone. The spellcaster flinched.
Kael surged forward.
With a roar, he sliced clean through the caster's arm, then ducked under a wide swing from the remaining cultist and buried his blade through the man's chest.
Silence.
Broken only by Kael's rasping breath and Seraphina's quiet sobs.
He stumbled to her, barely staying upright, and cut her loose. She clung to him the moment the ropes fell.
"You came," she whispered.
"I always will," he murmured. "Even if the world burns."
But even as she held him, his vision blurred. The wound in his side was bad—too deep, too much blood. The poison laced on the sickle was starting to paralyze him.
Kael's legs buckled.
He collapsed beside her.
Seraphina screamed his name.
And from the edge of the fog, a cloaked figure stepped forward. Taller than the others. Eyes glowing beneath the hood.
"You've only seen the beginning, Leon Drayven," the voice said softly. "The real hunt begins now."
Kael lies dying in Seraphina's arms, paralyzed by poison, as a mysterious new enemy reveals himself—stronger, deadlier, and already three steps ahead.
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