"The Gravekeeper's Pact: So deaths are not ant to be eternal."
The words settled into like a blade slipping between ribs, slow and deliberate.
I had read about the Gravekeepers once, long ago. A secretive order. A faction that had existed before Regaria's founding, before the Magic Tower had been built, before the Council had ever held power. Their purpose had never been fully understood, only whispered about in old texts. So believed they were assassins, others that they were custodians of lost knowledge.
But one thing had always remained consistent.
They did not believe in permanent death.
My fingers hovered over the inscription, thoughts racing through every implication. If the Gravekeepers had been involved in Belisarius's execution—if they had tampered with his death—then it ant two things.
One, his survival had not been accidental.
Two, soone had deliberately ensured that I would not rember the truth.
A cold, calculating part of settled into place. The weight of uncertainty had gnawed at for too long, but now I had sothing tangible. A direction. A lead.
I closed the book, the worn leather cool against my fingertips.
The world had changed. Or maybe, it had always been this way, and I had simply refused to see it.
Either way, it didn't matter.
Because now, I was going to find out the truth.
A quiet hum of realization settled in my chest, the kind that made every sense feel suddenly heightened. The ledger I held—its worn leather binding etched with the Drakhan sigil—contained just enough evidence to confirm I wasn't chasing illusions. Soone had interfered with Belisarius's execution record, and not just any random scribe. The craftsmanship of those redactions was far too deliberate, ticulously wiping away everything but the barest ntion of his na. Whoever did this wanted to find a trail, but not the entire truth.
I should have been more concerned about the significance of that phrase—"The Gravekeeper's Pact: So deaths are not ant to be eternal"—but my imdiate attention snapped elsewhere. The air itself shifted, going still as though it were holding its breath. To most, that subtle quiver might have gone unnoticed. But I had spent far too many nights honing my awareness of unseen threats to miss it.
Soone was here.
I didn't turn around imdiately. Instead, I let my free hand rest on the book, keeping my posture relaxed—disinterested, even. Indifference had always been my shield, a deliberate calm that masked the coil of tension ready to unspool in an instant. My heart rate didn't spike, nor did I feel the rush of panic. There was only calculation, a distant curiosity about who would be foolish enough to confront in this place.
My fingers tightened imperceptibly on the ledger. Magic gently pricked at the edges of my consciousness, a small surge of energy coiled within my core, ready for release if I needed it. So might call it overkill to prepare a spell before knowing the threat, but I had learned the hard way that waiting for clarity could be a lethal mistake.
I closed the ledger softly, as if concluding my research, feigning that I was oblivious to the presence behind . In my peripheral vision, I caught a hint of movent—a shift in shadow, perhaps a stirring of cloth against stone. The subtlest reflection of candlelight against tal flickered in the corner of my eye.
A weapon, angled at my neck.
My opponent moved with impressive speed, crossing the short distance before an ordinary man could even gasp. But I was no ordinary man. The instant they lunged, I pivoted on the ball of my foot, letting the blade whistle past my throat. The assassin's montum carried them forward, a silent blur of black robes woven with enchantnts that dampened sound. Even so, I heard the faintest rasp of steel slicing empty air.
I dropped the ledger, freeing both hands. My coat fanned out behind , the motion a deliberate flourish to obscure the lower half of my body. While that swirl of fabric briefly filled their field of vision, I read their stance—balanced on the balls of their feet, left hand extended, a short dagger in their right. The blade glowed with a sickly, pale light, the telltale sign of a soul-binding enchantnt designed to lock a target in place, paralyze them with a single cut.
I recognized the aura instantly. If that dagger so much as grazed my skin, my limbs would seize. That alone told this wasn't a simple killer or a mindless hired blade. This was precision work. They wanted subdued, not necessarily dead—at least not yet.
My own blade found its way into my hand, a fluid motion born of countless repetitions. The steel glimred under the faint torchlight, and I stepped back, forcing the assassin to readjust their angle of attack. They responded instantly, sweeping forward with a low strike aid at my ribs. I deflected it with a downward parry, the clash of tal reverberating through the silent archive. Sparks flew, montarily illuminating the assassin's mask—smooth, featureless save for two narrow eye slits.
No words, no demands. They were here for one purpose.
I gauged their height and build in the fleeting flashes of steel. Slender, perhaps slightly shorter than . Shoulders tense, but posture well-trained. The mask revealed nothing of their face, only a glint of unwavering focus in their eyes. The way they moved told they weren't new to this dance. Every attack was swift, precise—no wasted motion, no second-guessing. They were every inch the professional.
They lunged again, this ti aiming for my shoulder. I pivoted, letting the blade pass harmlessly, and attempted a quick slash at their exposed back. They twisted away with unnerving agility, using a half-turn that spoke of years of practice.
My mind raced, analyzing the fight as it unfolded. They seed more inclined toward swift, continuous strikes than a single finishing blow. That ant they likely relied on the soul-binding enchantnt. One nick, one shallow cut, would end . But there was a cost to that tactic: it forced them to stay close, to keep up the pressure, hoping I'd slip eventually.
I had no intention of slipping.
I feinted left, letting the tip of my blade faintly glimr with illusion magic. The assassin reacted, raising their dagger to block a strike that didn't exist. With that split-second opening, I aid a kick at their midsection, intending to knock them off balance. They saw it coming, turning their body at an angle that minimized impact. It still connected, pushing them back a few steps, but not enough to create a decisive advantage.
They recovered with a deft roll, and I used the mont to gather a thread of mana between my fingers. I toyed with the idea of unleashing a direct offensive spell—a small blast of concussive force to send them sprawling. But the archive was lined with fragile tos, centuries-old histories and knowledge that could be destroyed by careless magic. I couldn't risk that.
So I asured my energy use, spinning the thread of mana into sothing more subtle. An illusion. A wisp of deceptive light flickered at the corner of the assassin's vision, drawing their gaze for just an instant. They hesitated—enough for to close the distance, blade at the ready.
They noticed too late, raising the dagger in a desperate defense. tal sang against tal as I forced their arm to the side. It was then I caught a clearer glimpse of their eyes behind the mask: a steady, unwavering calm, tinged with sothing like grim determination. They weren't panicking. They were calculating, the sa way I was.
My eyes flicked to their mouth—though mostly hidden by the mask, I noticed a slight parting of the lips. Shallow breathing, either from exertion or a hint of nerves. The posture of their shoulders told they were planning another offensive surge. Their weight shifted subtly, preparing for a forward lunge.
They ca at again. This ti, the dagger's glow intensified, that enchantnt's hum sending a tingle across the nape of my neck. I recognized the strategy: aim a near miss at my arm, force to evade, then clip in the movent. It was a skilled approach, but I'd seen similar tactics in other soul-binding assassinations.
I turned sideways, letting the blade graze the air inches from my sleeve, then swept my own blade toward their elbow. They pulled back, allowing to see a small overextension in the rotation of their wrist. A fraction of a second too slow.
That was all I needed.
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