By dawn the following day, the banyan tree was nothing more than a silhouette receding in the mist, swallowed by the hills. Kasri rode in silence, his masked face turned toward the capital — Savadra — gleaming faintly in the morning light like a promise wrapped in poison.
They had approached from the west, where the rchant roads from Westalis rged with Savadra’s main road leading to the western gate, where sentries and guards patrolled. The Vengefuls had safehouses tucked into the underbelly of every city in the country, and in Savadra, their web ran deeper than the king would ever suspect.
They travelled as rchants and had prepared rchant clothes in advance. Their caravan consisted of several carriages.
As the sun finally broke free from the horizon, its radiant light bathed the landscape, revealing Savadra in all its resplendent glory.
The capital lood before them, a bold testant to ambition and power, its brilliance nearly overwhelming. Each stone and spire sparkled like a jewel in the morning glow, exuding an aura of pride that seed to challenge the very heavens.
The capital was a city of white marble and golden dos, girded by three concentric walls, each more fortified than the last. Spires pierced the sky like blades, and banners fluttered atop the palatial citadel — the emblem of the royal house: a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire.
Kasri stared at it, unblinking.
Molavi watched him, uncertain. "It’s been fifteen years," he said finally. "Are you sure you want to—?"
Kasri raised a hand.
"I never stopped wanting to."
His voice was like a blade drawn across old stone — rough, but sure. Behind the mask, his eyes smoldered like coals buried in ash. No tremble. No hesitation. Only the quiet roar of purpose.
...
They left the caravan, and the two of them separated from the group.
They rode their horses until they reached an estate north of the capital. They exchanged saddles for cloaks and plain tunics. When they arrived at the marketplace, they were just two dusty travelers on foot. The guard did not pay attention to them and let them enter the marketplace.
At the marketplace gate, the guards barely spared them a glance. Comrce flowed like a river here — spices, silks, timber, lies. Kasri walked with the quiet poise of a man used to watching shadows move. His every step was deliberate, every glance calculated.
Inside, the city was a fever dream of color and chaos.
Children darted between vendor stalls. Perfu smoke curled from the tents of jewelers. Coin clinked like rainfall, and languages mingled like incense — clipped northern trade-tongue, the musical vowels of the eastern ports, and the rougher dialects of the western provinces.
Kasri moved like a phantom through it all.
Molavi kept close. "Where to first?"
Kasri didn’t answer right away. His gaze swept the rooftops, the towers, the walls. mory twisted through his bones like thorns — the first ti he’d seen the palace dos from afar, holding his mother’s hand. She had whispered, That is where your father lives...
That was when he was seven years old. He begged his mother to take him along when she and his stepfather visited the capital for business.
He turned away from the sight. Gloom enveloped his aura.
"We et with Roldan first." He said in a cold voice.
Molavi’s brows rose. "The spy?"
Kasri nodded. "He has a list for ."
They wound through the cobbled alleys of the old quarter, a part of the capital untouched by the royals’ and nobles’ obsession with grandeur. Here, the walls were cracked and painted with fading murals. Laundry hung between two-story buildings. Children played with sticks and pretend swords—heirs to nothing but dust.
They reached a nondescript doorway beneath an old stone bridge. No sign, no markings. Kasri knocked once, then twice, then once again.
A slit opened.
"Vengeance knocks, thrice," Kasri said. It was a code.
The door creaked open.
The room inside was dark and cool, lit by a single oil lamp swaying gently from the ceiling. Scrolls lined the walls, and maps were pinned with iron nails to oak beams. A man leaned over one of them, quill in hand — thin as a reed, draped in layered robes stitched with ciphered script.
"Roldan," Kasri greeted.
Roldan smiled and greeted the newcors.
A face pale as parchnt, frad by wisps of gray hair. But the eyes — sharp, unblinking, tireless. He smiled faintly. "I felt the storm return to the city."
Kasri stepped forward. "Do you have what I asked?"
Roldan didn’t answer. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a folded parchnt sealed with a sliver of black wax and a chest.
Kasri opened the chest. Inside was a set of clothing and a human mask.
He unfolded the clothing: a robe, a doublet, a cloak, a hat, and even a pair of shoes.
Then he opened the folded letter. He read them silently, his jaw tightening at the final one: Duke Caspian.
How could he be on the list?
"These are the ones responsible," Roldan continued. "So lit the fire. So stood by and watched. But all of them let it happen."
Molavi’s fists clenched.
"Where are they?" Kasri asked.
Roldan traced his bony finger across the map. "Two still reside in the palace. One was elevated to High Treasurer. One is a lord now, married into the queen’s bloodline. One commands the city guard."
"And the others?"
"Living soft lives behind gold-plated lies. You’ll have to peel them from their silken coffins."
Kasri folded the parchnt carefully and tucked it into his cloak.
"This begins tonight."
Roldan raised an eyebrow. "You’re not waiting for your full strength?"
Kasri turned to the door. "They’ve had fifteen years."
He paused just before leaving, eyes shadowed.
"Now it’s my turn." He said smugly.
Outside, the sky had dimd. Savadra’s towers glead against the setting sun like blades dipped in blood. In the streets, lanterns flickered to life, casting trembling shadows.
Kasri and Molavi vanished into them — two figures swallowed by the twilight, carrying a storm in their hearts.
By the next sunrise, the capital would tremble.
And by the next full moon, the kingdom would bleed.
Reviews
All reviews (0)