The mountain groaned beneath a low mist, a veil of cold that clung to the ridges like a second skin. Kalen and Raelith stood at the edge of the stone path winding down the cliffs, their black horses stamping the gravel with soft, rhythmic impatience. The twin assassins had donned their traveling leathers, dark and weather-hardened, each bearing the sigil of the Coiled Night Clan—a serpent devouring its own tail. Their serpents coiled silently around their shoulders: bone-white for Kalen, black-scaled and red-eyed for Raelith.
Their father stood beside them. Kran's face was carved from quiet stone, but something flickered in his storm-gray eyes. He looked older in the morning light, the fine lines deeper, his hair more silver than black.
"You've been forged in shadow," Kran said, his voice low and tight, "but the world beyond our valley knows little of that darkness. The Western Courts are not kind, not orderly. You are not gods yet, not Masters. Caution is not cowardice."
Kalen's jaw tightened. "Caution is slow death."
"And recklessness is no death at all," Raelith added, eyes narrowed. "It is a fading, a failure."
Kran's lips twitched in grim amusement. "Then keep your edge sharp. Watch each other. Kill without hesitation." He reached into his robe and pulled out a folded scrap of pale cloth, pressed with a blood-sigil. "This will grant you safe entry through the Black Hollow Pass. Show it only when necessary. Bandits infest the trails. Some bear Knight ranks. The weak will fear you. The clever will test you."
Raelith took the cloth, sliding it into the inner fold of his coat. "We'll reach the Western Courts within the month."
Kran stepped back. "You are shadows of our god now. Let none forget what follows when the serpent moves."
They mounted in silence. The hooves of their horses echoed across the narrow stone path as they descended from the Coiled Night's sanctuary into the vastness below. Wind howled across cliff faces, pulling at hair and cloak, but the twins rode on, unspeaking, their serpents slithering low around their arms, sensing, tasting the air.
By dusk, the path flattened into a dark pine forest. The world changed here. The trees rose high, silent and watching. The mist became breath. It was an old place, untouched by the light of cities, wild in the way only forgotten places could be.
It was near midnight when Kalen reined in. He raised one gloved hand, and Raelith halted without a word. Ahead, through the thick bramble, came a flicker—torchlight. Then voices.
"Merchant caravan," Kalen whispered. "Seven horses. Wagons."
Raelith sniffed the air. "Eight riders. But eleven heartbeats. Hidden passengers."
Their serpents uncoiled slightly, tongues flickering.
"A trap," Raelith said. "But not for us."
They dismounted and slinked forward, boots soundless against the wet earth. The clearing revealed the scene: two wagons stopped on the trail, surrounded by a dozen armed men. Bandits. Their leader sat atop a massive black horse, armor dented but engraved with the mark of a once-loyal knight order now long defunct.
"High Knight," Kalen noted, eyes fixed on the leader's aura—it was faint, but there. A core of shadow flickered in the man's gut. He was strong, not refined, but lethal enough.
The merchant, a plump man in silk now stained with mud, knelt with hands above his head. Behind him, a girl of perhaps seventeen huddled, her mouth gagged with a strip of cloth, eyes wide with terror.
"No witnesses," the leader growled. "Slit the girl's throat. Take the coin. Leave the rest for the crows."
"Now?" Raelith asked softly.
Kalen's serpent hissed once. That was enough.
They moved as one. Kalen swept in from the right, blade unsheathed in silence, his serpent lunging with fangs bared. Raelith struck from the left, the black coils of his bonded snake dragging a screaming bandit into the underbrush.
Steel met bone.
Kalen's blade pierced a man's neck, the blood spraying in hot arcs across the ferns. His serpent sank its fangs into another's face, melting flesh in a white hiss. Raelith tore a spear from a fallen hand and impaled a bandit through the chest, lifting him from the ground.
The bandits rallied quickly. Crossbows fired. Steel rang. But it didn't matter.
Kalen danced between bolts, his serpent slithering beneath him like a second shadow. He ducked low, hamstringed a swordsman, then twisted the man's head with a crunch. Raelith carved a line through three men, his black serpent leaping from shoulder to shoulder, mauling throats and hissing venom.
The High Knight came last. He dismounted with heavy steps, drawing a two-handed cleaver glowing faintly with corrupted essence.
"You're not local," he spat, wiping blood from his chin. "Assassins?"
Kalen didn't answer. Raelith simply raised his hand. The black serpent lunged.
The cleaver met serpent mid-air, sending it skidding back with a screech. But the momentary clash was all Kalen needed. He blurred forward, feinting high, then swept low, slashing at the man's knee.
Steel met flesh. Bone cracked.
The High Knight roared and swung downward, cleaving deep into the ground where Kalen had been—but Raelith was already behind him. His dagger plunged into the base of the man's skull.
The body twitched, then collapsed.
Silence returned to the forest, broken only by the groans of a dying man trying to crawl away. Kalen approached him, stepped on his spine, and ended it with a clean thrust.
The merchant sobbed loudly. The girl, still bound, stared in mute terror.
Raelith knelt beside her, slicing her gag loose.
"You're safe," he said, voice even. "For now."
Kalen searched the wagons. Crates of dried meat, wine, furs—and beneath them, a locked satchel of letters and sealed documents. Clan trades. Diplomatic correspondences. Smuggling routes. Interesting, but not what they needed.
Raelith turned to the girl.
"Who are you?"
She hesitated. Her hands trembled. "Serin. Serin Mavros. My father's a merchant of the Eastern Guild."
Kalen's eyes narrowed. "Why travel through Black Hollow unguarded?"
"Shorter route. We paid tolls—bribes, even. It didn't matter. They came anyway." She looked away. "They always come."
Raelith crouched. "Do you know the name Prince Thalen Veyron?"
Her gaze sharpened with fear. "The second prince of Veyr? Yes. Everyone knows him. He rules the Western Courts in all but name."
Kalen watched her carefully. "Tell us what you know. Everything."
Serin hesitated. Then the words poured out.
"The Western Courts are fractured. Old bloodlines, newer factions—all trying to survive under the Veyron crown. Thalen controls the Iron Envoys, the trade routes, the court executioners. They say his father fears him, that he has black-robed priests who drink the blood of nobles to see the future. But he's careful. Smart. He hosts feasts. Charms foreign diplomats. He's beloved by the outer cities, hated by the inner lords."
She swallowed hard. "He moves between keeps—Westmarch, Daggerhold, and Erelan Spire. Never sleeps in one place more than a week. His personal guard are Masters, and worse. He's… untouchable."
Raelith's lips curled. "No one is untouchable."
Kalen stood. "Which keep is he in now?"
"Three days ago," she said, eyes darting. "He passed through our caravan's checkpoint. Headed toward Daggerhold. That's where he'll be."
Kalen turned to his brother. "We ride at dawn."
Raelith gave Serin one last look. "You spoke well. Live quietly, Serin Mavros. If you speak of us, we'll know."
The girl nodded, pale and shaken.
They vanished into the trees before the merchant had even finished burying his dead.
---
By the time the sun bled into the sky, the twins were already far from the massacre. Blood still coated their weapons. The serpents, now calm, lay coiled around their necks like ornaments of death.
As the forest thinned into plains, Raelith finally spoke.
"She fears the prince. Her fear is true."
Kalen nodded. "Then he is worthy of death."
The road ahead curved into darkness. Beyond that—Daggerhold. A city of knives and spies. A place where failure meant more than death. It meant disgrace. Forgottenness.
But the twins rode forward, eyes hard.
The hunt had begun.