Daggerhold was a city smothered in tension. After the death of Lady Sylen of Ashen March, the streets no longer whispered—they screamed. The alliance had shattered. The Gehs people, clad in their lion-engraved armor, stormed the inner city. They blamed Prince Thalen Veyron for her death, and their rage came with steel and fire. The Ige, sworn to uphold the balance, tried to hold the walls, but the damage had already been done.
No one truly knew who struck the final blow on the daughter of Ashen March. But to the Gehs people, it didn't matter. She had been promised a crown, her union meant peace and strength. Now she lay cold, and her blood called for justice.
The prince was pulled from the royal palace before dusk. Flames licked the sky in the distance as rioters surged toward the upper districts. The city guard was overwhelmed. Screams rang through the temple bell towers, and merchants barred their stalls with chains and curses.
In the midst of it all, Prince Thalen Veyron sought refuge where he believed steel could not follow—at the Temple of the Seraph Flame.
Kalen and Raelith watched it all unfold from the rooftops. Smoke curled like hungry fingers through the alleys, and blood ran in quiet streams along the gutters. The chaos had done their work for them. Now the target was exposed, vulnerable.
"Gehs soldiers are breaking formation," Raelith muttered, eyes locked on the distant temple steps. "They're hunting him."
"He prays while his city burns," Kalen said, voice low. "Foolish. But it makes it easier."
Their serpents hissed in tandem—bone-white and black-red, coiled beneath their cloaks. They'd waited for this moment for weeks, every movement precise, every decision cold. There would be no errors.
The twins moved as wraiths across the stone—silent, swift, unseen.
Below, at the temple, the prince knelt in the central hall, golden threads of his royal cloak dim under the torchlight. Statues of forgotten gods surrounded him, their features weathered by centuries. Only the roar of battle outside dared disturb the silence.
Then it broke.
The temple doors exploded inward as a dozen Gehs warriors stormed the prayer chamber. Their blades flashed, demanding blood. But they were not the only ones with steel.
Three High Masters of the royal guard met them head-on. The clash was deafening. Light met shadow, lions met dragons. Blades sparked, bones cracked. One Gehs soldier fell screaming as a royal guard's halberd tore through his ribs. Another dropped from a black spear that emerged from his neck.
The prince was dragged away by one remaining protector—a Low-Rank Master in crimson leather and scorched steel. No name, no emblem. Just a shield for the dying.
They fled through the back halls, deeper into the temple's forgotten paths, seeking safety.
But there was none.
Kalen dropped first into the Devil's Courtyard—so named because of the ancient, serpent-carved altar that sat in its heart, long abandoned by the faithful. A cursed place, the priests once said. Now it would host sacrifice once more.
Raelith followed a breath later. No words passed between them.
They took positions.
The Low-Rank Master came first, blade drawn, senses sharp. He knew this place reeked of death.
Too late.
Kalen struck from above, his blade a whisper of blackened steel. The man parried just in time, but Raelith emerged from the shadow behind, twin daggers flashing.
The guard fought well. His dark technique—Mirror Fang—cast ghostly afterimages of himself with each motion, forcing the twins to second-guess every attack. His blade danced, clipping Kalen across the ribs, carving a shallow groove through leather.
Kalen didn't flinch. His serpent lunged forward—bone-white fangs finding flesh. The Master screamed as the venom burned into his spine.
Raelith's serpent coiled and struck again, injecting a second dose.
The man staggered.
Raelith closed the distance and whispered, "Fall."
His daggers sank into the guard's kidneys. The man gasped, dropped to his knees, and crumpled without a word.
The prince stood at the courtyard's edge, lips trembling.
"You," he said.
Kalen tilted his head. "We."
"Why?"
Raelith answered, "Because your life weighs five hundred blood coins, voidroot tier-three, and access to the Pale Fang relic."
Thalen ran.
But the courtyard was a cage.
Shadow bloomed beneath his feet—Umbra Maw, Kalen's signature technique. Tendrils of living darkness wrapped around the prince's ankles and yanked him to the ground.
Raelith stepped over him, boot pressing on the prince's throat.
"You were meant to rule," the prince gasped.
"No," Raelith replied. "We were meant to end you."
His blade slid in slowly, carving through silk, muscle, and heart.
Thalen Veyron died beneath serpent-carved stone.
The city screamed on.
---
They left Daggerhold behind before sunrise. No one saw their departure. No one remembered their faces.
But the legend of the Serpent Twins began that night—two shadows that moved through blood and flame, leaving only corpses and silence in their wake.
And far away, in the Coiled Night Clan's great hall, the High Priest smiled before the serpent god's altar. One offering complete.
Many more to come.