The Southeastern Plains stretched beneath a cold, watchful moon vast, whispering grasslands rolling like a sleeping beast. The night wind was sharp, carrying the scent of rain and steel. General Alberto rode at the head of his small detachment, a hundred soldiers cloaked in darkened armor, their banners hidden. Behind them trailed silence, broken only by the soft clatter of armor and the distant cry of wolves.
They moved like ghosts no torches, no noise, no sign of allegiance. Only the faint blue gleam of mana lamps at their belts cut through the dark. Silas had ordered secrecy above all else.
But the night held more than shadows.
Without warning, a crossbow bolt hissed past Alberto's ear, embedding itself into the chest of a soldier behind him. The man dropped without a sound.
"AMBUSH!"
The cry ripped through the air — and the plains exploded. From the ridges ahead, masked figures poured down like ink spilling across the land, blades flashing, mana flaring. They moved with unnatural precision, their attacks coordinated and silent.
Alberto swung his blade up, deflecting a strike that could have slit his throat. Sparks flew, the metallic ring of combat echoing in the night.
"Formation! Hold the line!" he barked, his voice carrying through the chaos.
But whoever these attackers were, they weren't mere bandits. Their movements were disciplined — too clean, too measured. Mercenaries… no, assassins. Paid killers trained for this exact strike.
Bolts rained from the shadows. Two more men fell, their bodies collapsing into the wet grass. Alberto ducked behind his horse, raising his gauntlet as mana flared — a golden pulse radiating outward, deflecting a volley aimed at his command line.
The air shimmered and then, from the darkness, another presence arrived. A lance of lightning tore through the enemy flank, scattering them like leaves.
From the east, figures in black and silver armor emerged the Draken Vanguard, the Emperor's hidden reinforcements. Their leader, a tall warrior named Cassian, rode forward with his halberd gleaming.
"By order of His Majesty Silas, we join your hunt, General!"
Alberto smirked grimly, sweat and blood streaking his cheek. "Then you came just in time."
The battlefield turned. Flames roared, steel clashed, mana screamed through the night as both sides collided. When the dust settled, the grass was soaked crimson. Dozens of bodies littered the plain, and one of the masked assassins lay alive — wounded, pinned beneath Cassian's boot.
"Bind him," Alberto ordered, wiping blood from his blade. "We'll find out who sent these dogs."
The prisoner's eyes burned with defiance but said nothing. Still, Alberto knew — this wasn't random. Someone had known his route too well.
He turned to his messenger. "Ride to Vel Dragan. Tell the Emperor we were ambushed, but the mission continues."
The soldier bowed and rode off into the night.
Alberto looked toward the horizon, jaw tight. "We'll finish what we started… whoever they are."
---
Vel Dragan – The Emperor's Fury
In the grand capital, night draped itself over the marble spires like a velvet cloak. The palace stood still until the sound of boots echoed through its corridors.
A messenger, weary and dirt-streaked, fell to one knee before the throne. "Your Majesty," he panted. "General Alberto's unit was attacked. Assassins skilled ones. Casualties are heavy, but he presses on."
Silas's expression didn't change. But the air did.
The chandeliers trembled. The air shimmered faintly with the raw pressure of his mana.
"How," Silas said quietly, too quiet, "did they know Alberto departed that night?"
The court fell silent. Even Damian, standing beside the throne, dared not move.
Silas's golden eyes darkened, their glow dimming to a molten, dangerous hue.
"Enough," he said finally. "Leave me."
The messenger scrambled away.
"Yiro," Silas called, his voice low, precise.
From the shadows at the corner of the hall, a figure emerged Yiro, the ghost of the Shadow Intelligence Division. His eyes, silver under the torchlight, gleamed from beneath his hood.
"You summoned me, Majesty?"
Silas's gaze was cold steel. "Someone in my court is feeding Arizon information. Find them. I want a name before dawn."
Yiro bowed. "As the shadow commands, so it shall be done."
He vanished like smoke, the scent of mana and ozone lingering in the air.
---
Threads of Treachery
Hours passed. The night grew deeper, the palace quieter — until a whisper of footsteps returned.
Yiro knelt before Silas once more, his gloved hand holding a sealed document. "I have your serpent."
Silas broke the seal, scanning the notes. His jaw clenched.
"Marquis Ramla," Yiro said softly. "The greedy one. He's been selling troop movements and reports to Arizon envoys in exchange for gold and titles promised once Eldarion falls."
Silas was silent for a moment, his gaze lost in the flicker of candlelight.
Then his lips curved — not a smile, but something darker.
"Then let us play his game," he said quietly. "Spread false news. Tell the court General Alberto has fallen. Let our traitor celebrate — and when he does, I'll carve truth into his lies."
Damian, standing nearby, nodded grimly. "I'll see it done, my Emperor."
---
The Court of Masks
By noon, the palace buzzed with rumors. Courtiers whispered in corridors, servants scurried with pale faces, and nobles gathered in small clusters, exchanging fearful glances.
When Silas entered the throne room, all fell silent. The golden sigil of Eldarion gleamed above his seat, the air heavy with incense and tension.
He stood before the assembled ministers and generals, voice calm but heavy.
"General Alberto has fallen," he declared. "Ambushed in the Southeastern Plains. His valor will be honored, but the enemy will pay tenfold."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Murmurs rose like rustling leaves.
And then Silas saw it Marquis Ramla's expression. Just a flicker of it: a glint of satisfaction, quickly masked by feigned sorrow. That single moment sealed his fate.
Silas descended the dais slowly, gaze fixed on the crowd.
Betrayal," he said, voice echoing, "is not new to the history of empires. But let this court remember — I am not my father."
He stopped mid-hall, looking straight at Ramla.
Those who sell my soldiers' blood for coin… will drown in their own greed."
The court bowed deeply. None dared breathe.
Ramla's hand trembled slightly at his side. He realized too late that the Emperor's eyes were on him and would not look away again.
---
The Silent Hand
That evening, in the quiet of the Emperor's study, Silas stood over a map of the empire, the light of dusk casting his silhouette long across the marble floor. Damian entered, followed by Yiro.
"The news has spread," Damian said. "Ramla believes the lie."
Silas nodded. "Good. Tomorrow, he will choke on it."
Yiro's tone was flat. "What of General Alberto?"
Silas's gaze hardened. "He continues his mission. For now, the fewer who know he still lives, the safer he remains. But this… this will not end quietly. If Arizon wants to play with shadows — I will show them the darkness itself."
Lightning cracked outside the windows, the storm rolling in from the mountains.
Silas turned toward the thunder, his reflection in the glass lit by each flash gold eyes burning, expression unreadable.
Let the world learn," he whispered, "that Eldarion bleeds for no man's profit."