The alley was a tomb of silence.
Kalen moved first. No warning. No breath wasted. Just the quiet unsheathing of twin blacksteel daggers, curved like serpent fangs. Raelith mirrored him, eyes cold, serpent coiled tightly up his arm.
Opposite them, the Prince's elite guard stood tall—bare arms, crimson-wrapped armor, and an obsidian longsword drawn. No words. No hesitation. His gaze was flat, unreadable. The aura around him was crushing.
High Master.
He stepped forward once.
Not fast—precise. His sword came low, slicing for Kalen's hip like a guillotine.
Kalen spun left, blade parrying just enough. Sparks danced. Raelith came in from the side—dagger arcing up for the neck—
Steel met steel.
Clang.
The man turned with mechanical ease, parrying both attacks in a single motion. His blade flowed like water. He kicked back—hard—driving Raelith into the alley wall.
Their serpents struck—white and black fangs flashing from the shadows.
The man twisted mid-air, his coat flaring. One serpent missed. The other scraped scale against steel.
He landed, feet steady. Not even panting.
Kalen dragged his own blood across his blade.
"Shadow Veil."
The world darkened.
Fog spilled into the alley, thick and cold. Sight warped. Shadows bled together.
Raelith's serpent hissed—then became two. Then four.
The guard slashed through the illusions—one, two, three—missing all.
Kalen struck from behind—dagger slicing clean into the man's shoulder. Not deep. But enough.
A cut was all it took.
The venom began its work.
The guard pivoted, swinging with his full weight—his blade glowing.
"Piercing Crimson."
The ground cracked as he stepped forward. Kalen blocked—his dagger shattered. He flew back, spine crashing into crates.
Blood poured from his mouth.
Raelith's serpent darted again—striking the back of the man's leg.
This time it landed. Fangs dug in. Venom flowed.
The guard snarled, and his blade flared like molten light.
"Bloodlash Dance."
His movements blurred. A cyclone of strikes.
Raelith caught a slash to the ribs—flesh opened wide. His serpent was hurled back, stunned.
Kalen rose, pain ignored.
"Phantom Slaughter."
Three of him stepped forward—mirage blades in all directions.
The first phantom slashed from above. The second from the side. The third—Kalen himself—came low.
The guard blocked two. One blade slipped under his defense—deep into the ribs.
He roared and countered, backhanding Kalen with force that made the air pop. Kalen hit the stone wall, spat blood, but remained standing.
Raelith's breathing had grown ragged, one arm torn open. His serpent limped back into position, blood dripping from its jaw.
The guard's veins were graying.
The poison was spreading.
But he didn't stop.
He stepped forward again, each movement burning red.
Raelith raised both hands.
"Mind's Echo."
The air shimmered. Shadows behind him twisted into dozens of versions of himself—each walking forward with mirrored steps.
The guard blinked. Struck left—illusion. Right—illusion. Behind—illusion.
The real Raelith ducked beneath and stabbed into the man's thigh, twisting.
The guard didn't scream. He just turned.
And struck.
Raelith flew backward, smashing through a market stall.
Kalen's serpent lunged again. Fangs sunk into the same wound.
Another dose. More venom.
The man swayed now. Breathing shallow. But he still advanced.
He dragged his blade in a half-circle, carving shallow trenches in the stone.
He raised it. For one final technique.
But his fingers trembled.
The venom had reached his spine.
He took one more step. Then froze.
Staring.
At nothing.
His body shivered—then relaxed.
He fell forward slowly, blade still raised. Face calm.
And died without a word.
Kalen stood over him, chest rising, blood trickling from his nose. Raelith limped beside him, wounded, but breathing.
The silence was absolute.
No one watching.
Just the twins. The corpse. And the coiled serpents resting on their shoulders like silent gods.
Kalen knelt and searched the body. Beneath the silk armor, inside a sealed pouch, was a scroll bound in wax. He broke it.
Raelith read over his shoulder.
> "By decree of House Veyron, the blood union between Prince Thalen Veyron and Lady Sylen of the Ashen March shall be consummated during the Nightfall Ball. In this union, a permanent military alliance shall be declared—solidifying armies, iron, and blood under one banner."
So this was no trade pact.
This was war.
Kalen's voice was low. "They unite their factions with her blood. We spill it."
Raelith nodded once. His serpent curled tighter.
New target. Same mission.
The death of Prince Thalen Veyron was not enough.
The daughter had to die too.
Before the Nightfall Ball. Before the armies marched.
Raelith looked at the corpse.
There was no honor in killing. Only purpose. Only survival.
The guard had been strong—clean. He died like a warrior. But he guarded the wrong future.
Kalen sheathed his blade, wiped the blood from his mouth.
They had no time to rest.
Raelith glanced toward the glowing towers of Daggerhold in the distance.
The alliance must be broken.
Before the moon turned red again.