Ashveil looked different the morning after Kaelen's challenge.
It wasn't the streets or the buildings — it was the people. Even the vendors at the market had their voices lowered, glancing over shoulders while making chai or weighing sacks of wheat. Gossip travelled faster than the smell of frying jalebis, and Veilborn was the word on every tongue.
Arin could feel it in his bones — the fight with Kaelen had drawn eyes. Now everyone wanted to see the youngest, most "talked‑about" Veilborn… especially those who thought they could use him like a pawn. The Red Fang compound too felt tense. Guards, usually laughing and sharing idli in the morning, stood in tight groups murmuring. Kaelis had been gone since dawn, Lyara was sharpening her blade for the third time in an hour, and Selene looked more distracted than usual while staring at her parchments.
When Kaelis finally came in, she threw a folded letter onto the table. The seal was wax, stamped with the City Council's sigil — twin serpents around a sun. "They've called all of us," she said, her voice flat. "Behind closed doors. No press. No public."
Lyara's eyes narrowed. "Closed session means politics. And politics in Ashveil means poison — in words or in wine."
Selene broke the seal and read quickly, her face betraying nothing. "It reads like an invitation, but the tone… this isn't an honour. It's a summons."
Arin looked between them. "Do we even have a choice?"
Kaelis shook her head. "Not really. If we don't go, we're guilty without trial. If we do go, we might be walking into a trap."
He forced a smile. "Sounds like fun."
Kaelis didn't smile back.
The City Council sat in a huge domed hall adorned with silver chandeliers and mosaics of Ashveil's "glorious" history — conveniently omitting all the betrayals, assassinations, and gang wars. When Arin entered with Kaelis, Lyara, and Selene, his first thought was that the place smelled of perfume and expensive ink… but the air still felt like a slaughterhouse, because here, knives were made of words.
Council members lounged in their carved chairs, flanked by guards in polished armour. Guild envoys stood to the side like vultures waiting for carcasses. And in the corner, wearing a smug grin, was the Black Fang envoy, Lord Dren, in his snake‑embroidered coat.
One by one, they questioned the Red Fang delegation. It started civil: "How was Kaelen defeated?" and "How many Veilborn now operate within your halls?" But before long, the tone shifted: "Do you control this Veilborn, or does he act without your leave?" and "Are the Red Fang planning to challenge the Council's authority?"
Kaelis answered with tight smiles and careful dodges. Lyara's glare alone sent one junior councillor pale. Selene spoke little, but when she did, her words were cutting. Then Dren stepped forward, holding up a packet of parchments. "Before this council, I present evidence — official witness testimony, signed confessions, and payment ledgers. Proof that the Red Fang have hidden crimes against Ashveil for years. Including sabotage of trade routes and the harbour fire last season."
Gasps filled the chamber. Arin's jaw clenched — he knew it was false. The Red Fang never harmed the harbour. But the documents looked real enough to fool eyes already hungry for blame.
Kaelis stepped forward. "Forged." Her voice echoed like steel on stone.
"Outrageous accusation," Dren said smoothly. "These witnesses are citizens of good standing."
"Bought standing," Lyara muttered.
It didn't matter. The damage was done. The "session" ended abruptly. Guards stepped forward, moving to "escort" the Red Fang for "questioning." But Arin caught the subtle hand signal Dren made to the side balcony.
A heartbeat later — twang! — crossbows fired. Bolts thudded into wood, stone, and flesh. Smoke bombs burst, filling the chamber with choking grey. Shouts and screams erupted as the scene devolved into chaos. "Move!" Lyara barked, drawing her sword. She cut two guards down before they could reload. Kaelis's daggers flashed in the smoke, both hands a blur. Selene's voice rose above the din, chanting, weaving a shield of shimmering light around them.
Arin's instincts screamed. He pushed Veilborn power into his limbs, borrowing Kaelis's low, lethal movements and Lyara's perfect strikes. His sword found targets in the blur — a lunging guard, a dagger‑man aiming for Selene's flank. But there were too many. Dozens poured in from side doors — not all in uniform. Some wore the Council insignia, others dressed like common thugs, but they moved with the same purpose: kill or capture every Red Fang member inside.
"Get Arin out!" Lyara's voice tore through the chaos. She spun, catching a spear mid‑thrust and snapping it aside. Kaelis grabbed his arm, dragging him toward a narrow doorway behind the Council's raised dais. A shadowy figure blocked it — two blocks of muscle and a sword wider than Arin's chest.
Selene lifted both hands, channelling light until arcs of silver lashed out, staggering the guard long enough for Kaelis to ram a dagger under his arm. She didn't stop, pulling Arin through the door. The last thing he saw before the doorway swallowed him was Lyara standing back‑to‑back with Selene, both ringed by shadowy attackers, both refusing to move an inch.
The side passage was narrow, lit only by guttering wall lamps. Kaelis shoved Arin ahead, her breath coming in sharp bursts. "Move! Don't stop!" They emerged into a storage tunnel leading to the outer courtyard — and straight into an ambush. Four crossbowmen. Too close to dodge.
Kaelis spun in front of Arin, arms wide — and the world became the thunk of bolts finding their mark. He saw her stagger, her hand flinch toward her belt, and then she shoved him hard into a dark alcove. "Run, Arin!"
"I'm not leaving you—"
"You can't save me if you die now!" she hissed, eyes blazing. Then she was gone, dragging two attackers with her into the gloom. Arin's legs moved without thought as more soldiers flooded the tunnel. The sound of boots and shouts chased him until something hard and heavy smashed the back of his skull, and darkness slammed down.
Cold wind woke him. The smell hit him next — damp smoke and burnt timber. He was lying in the ruins of what used to be the Red Fang compound. The banners were gone. The great oak doors charred to black stumps. Piles of ash smouldered in the corners. His heart thudded. Where were the others?
He stumbled through the wreckage, calling out — "Kaelis! Lyara! Selene!" — but only the wind answered. A few bodies lay in the rubble… none of them his team. Relief warred with dread. From the shadows of the gate, a cloaked contact stepped forward — a younger Red Fang scout who'd once carried messages for Kaelis. His voice was strained. "They took the survivors. I don't know where. Black Fang men… and some Council guards. Alive? Maybe. For now."
He pressed a scrap of parchment into Arin's hand before hurrying away. The message was just eight words, scrawled in haste: You were never the target. You were the bait.
Arin stared at the paper, then at the ruins of the only home he'd found in Ashveil. The training yard where Kaelis taught him to move in silence. The hall where Lyara drilled him until his arms ached. The study where Selene's calm voice anchored him away from chaos. All gone — stolen by politics sharper than any blade.
The anger rose slowly, cold and steady. "This is my fault," he whispered, gripping a broken practice sword lying half‑buried in soot. "I wasn't strong enough. Not to protect them… not to stop this."
He pressed his blackened hand against the ground. "I swear," he said, voice low but full of steel, "I will become stronger. Stronger than the Guilds. Stronger than the Council. Strong enough to tear down anyone who stands in my way."
The wind offered no reply. The ruins gave no comfort. But something deep within him, long dormant, stirred. For the first time since his execution—that-never-was… Arin was not running. He was hunting.