Alia’s footsteps quickened the mont she left the manor.
Like a whisper on the wind, she disappeared from the estate before anyone even realized she was gone.
The guards, trained and alert, failed to notice her slip through the maze of blind spots she had morized over the years.
She didn’t wear the colors of House Everhart tonight—no regal embroidery or identifying crests. Just a simple, weathered cloak that concealed her form from head to toe.
She blended seamlessly into the night, making her way toward the heart of the Everhart domain.
The capital of Region-1 was the oldest and most densely populated town under their jurisdiction—a place teeming with both prosperity and history.
Cobblestone streets wound through colorful rchant stalls and artisan shops, their wares illuminated by warm lanternlight.
The slls of fresh bread, spices, and roasted ats mingled in the air, and the laughter of children echoed faintly through the alleys.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Alia moved quietly through the crowds, her steps deliberate, her hood casting her face in shadow.
She was careful not to draw attention—never too fast, never too slow. She maneuvered between pedestrians like water flowing through rocks, unseen yet ever-present.
As she walked, her gaze drifted across the bustling scenery.
Vendors peddled their goods with cheer. Children ran past with wooden swords, playing knights and villains.
Couples strolled arm-in-arm beneath string lights, whispering sweet nothings with stars in their eyes.
They looked so content. So unaware.
They trusted her father. Trusted him to protect them. Trusted the Everhart na to weather whatever storm threatened their borders.
But none of them knew the truth. That even he, Lord Everhart—the man whose na inspired loyalty and calm—had begun to lose hope.
The war with Opalcrest had lood like a specter for as long as Alia could rember.
It had always been there, lingering in conversations, whispered behind closed doors, buried beneath diplomacy and political pretense.
So claid it began even before she was born—an inevitability shaped by history, pride, and ideology.
Which ant one thing: their enemies had been preparing for decades.
Their strategies would be flawless, their traps set years in advance. Every move asured, every piece on the board placed with patient cruelty.
And what had Everhart done?
Nothing.
Because her people believed in honor. In peace. In open negotiation, not deception.
They believed in a world where righteousness was enough to stand tall against tyranny.
But Alia knew the truth: righteousness could not stop a sword. And now, that very ideology—so noble, so fragile—was what would one day bleed them dry.
She clenched her jaw, pushing those thoughts aside. Now wasn’t the ti.
Winding through the district’s outer edge, she arrived at a narrow side street—a shadowed corner of the city rarely visited at this hour.
The lanterns here were dimr. The cheer had faded.
At the end of the alley stood an old, decrepit building—its windows boarded, its door crooked and half-rotten.
Ivy crawled up its stone walls like veins on pale skin. Few ever approached this place, let alone entered it.
She stepped up to the structure, checking once over her shoulder to ensure no one had followed.
Then she knelt beside the warped floorboards near the building’s base, brushing aside loose debris to reveal a trapdoor almost invisible to the untrained eye.
She crouched down and tapped on the wood.
Tap-tap.
A pause.
Then again.
Tap-tap-tap.
She waited.
For a long mont, there was only silence.
Then a voice ca from the other side.
"Why are you here?" It was raspy, low, and cold—like the whisper of an old man long forgotten by ti.
Alia didn’t flinch. She knew the protocol. She knew the price of hesitation.
She answered calmly. "Kill the Heart."
Another long pause followed. Then ca the sound of a chanism shifting. A dull thud rang out as the trapdoor slowly creaked open, revealing a narrow passage of stone and dust, with a set of stairs descending into darkness.
Alia exhaled, steeling herself.
No turning back now.
She reached for the edge of the opening and swung herself down, her cloak trailing behind her as she disappeared below the surface.
The air turned cold the mont she crossed the threshold—thick with the scent of earth, rust, and sothing faintly tallic.
Shadows stretched long along the stone walls, broken only by flickering torches embedded in rusted sconces.
Each step down was a descent deeper into a world untouched by sunlight. A world of secrets.
’Let’s do this, Alia,’ she thought to herself, the mantra echoing within her mind.
She didn’t know what she would find below.
Only that she had to.
...
Alia had expected sothing... grand.
A sprawling underground market pulsing with hushed chatter and shifting deals, filled with cloaked figures exchanging secrets and forbidden wares beneath the flickering glow of enchanted lanterns.
She had imagined rchants yelling over each other, peddling black scrolls, cursed items, stolen goods, maybe even whispers of assassination contracts. A place alive with dangerous opportunity.
That was what she had prepared for.
She had gold tucked beneath her belt—Everhart-minted coins, each stamped with her house’s insignia.
Enough to loosen tongues or purchase crucial intel if need be. Her plan had been simple: blend into the crowd, keep her hood low, and listen. Maybe bribe a few key players for whispered truths.
Then vanish before anyone noticed who she truly was.
But what greeted her was...
Silence.
Cold. Still. Eerie silence.
The underground space resembled a forgotten cellar more than a black market.
Crumbling stone walls wrapped around a vast, empty chamber. The air was thick with dust and the faint sll of mildew.
A few crates were stacked near the corners, broken or half-rotted. No rchants. No murmurs. No activity.
Just her.
Her footsteps echoed far too loudly.
Sothing was wrong.
Alia’s hand hovered near the blade hidden beneath her cloak. Her senses sharpened. Then—suddenly—footsteps.
One set. Then another. Then dozens.
The sounds swelled in volu like a rising tide, and before she could react, the chamber’s side entrances burst open.
A flood of people poured in—fifty, maybe more—all ard, all with manic, almost feral looks scrawled across their faces. Their eyes glead in the torchlight, and their movents were predatory.
She didn’t need to be told.
They were here for her.
Her information had been a trap.
She had been lured.
Alia drew a sharp breath, flinging back her cloak and letting it fall to the ground. Her crimson eyes narrowed into deadly slits, gleaming beneath the low light.
"What do you want?" Her voice was cold. Calm. Controlled.
From among the group, a large man stepped forward. His face was mangled with deep scars—likely from countless battles. One eye was blind and milky. Yet his presence exuded arrogance.
He smirked, teeth yellowed. "We want you, Miss Alia."
Her lip curled in disgust. "What?"
The man chuckled—a gravelly sound that grated against her ears. "Let put it simply. We’re not here to kill you. We just want you to stay... here. For a while. Preferably until the war is over."
Alia’s eyes widened in realization. "So... the negotiations are dood to fail."
"Thanks for the confirmation," she added icily.
The man shrugged. "Didn’t give it for free, though."
Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he gave the signal.
"Attack!!"
The mob surged forward.
Alia’s arms snapped out in front of her, and with a shimr of blue light, jagged spikes of ice erupted into the air, sharp and vicious. She hurled them forward in a single motion.
But her enemies moved with unnerving precision. Despite the cramped space, they twisted and darted between the shards like wolves avoiding spears. The ice struck only stone.
In a blur, they were upon her.
They slashed her robe as she leapt back, cutting it from shoulder to hem. It fell away, revealing the form-fitting white outfit beneath—her rcenary training gear. Simple, durable, made for movent.
She sighed softly. And with that sigh ca sothing else.
Mist.
It drifted from her lips, soft at first, then spreading like a living thing—rolling across the chamber, thickening until sight beca difficult, then impossible. It clung to every surface, obscuring shapes and edges, chilling the air.
Then ca the water.
It began as a trickle along the floor. Then a stream. Then more.
The entire room began to flood, the rising water slowing her opponents’ movents, weighing down their limbs, dulling their steps. In the dense fog, they couldn’t rely on vision anymore.
But Alia could.
She knew every angle of her abilities, had trained in confined spaces before. Her magic bent around her like a second skin.
From the mist, spears of ice shot out—silent and swift.
One after another, they pierced through the fog, slicing through limbs, grazing shoulders, scraping armor. Screams rang out, brief and sharp. Several fell to the ground, injured but alive.
Alia wasn’t aiming to kill.
Her attacks avoided vital points—striking muscles, joints, non-lethal areas. She wasn’t like them. She hadn’t been trained to spill blood. And more importantly... she had never killed another human being before.
But rcy wasn’t returned.
Not even close.
As she focused on disabling her foes, ten of them broke through her defense.
Bloodied, crawling, dragging themselves forward even after their legs gave out.
They ca at her with wild eyes and blades in hand, unfazed by pain, uncaring of loss.
She launched another barrage of frost, this ti targeting their limbs to paralyze them.
Still, they ca.
She started to raise her hands for a final spell when they blasted.
An explosion ripped through the mist.
Boom!
Reviews
All reviews (0)