The air inside the walls of the Meridian Royal Citadel was thick with a tension only a man like Thomson could truly feel.
Thomson, the Lord Steward of the Royal Guard, was known simply as The King's Shadow. His body was lean and his movements were economical, reflecting a lifetime dedicated to the art of the One-Hit Kill delivered with impossible silence and speed. He carried an Estoc, a piercing sword, reflecting his cold philosophy: eliminate the threat with the minimal necessary action. His most notable feature was his cold, analytical gray eyes, which rarely betrayed emotion.
He stood in his modest quarters, his gaze fixed on the fading light. "The King has tasked me with a new assessment, Lyra," Thomson stated, his voice a low monotone. "A whisper of an internal threat near the Verena border. I am to leave before dawn."
Lyra, his wife, the quiet, intuitive scholar's daughter, moved away from the cradle where their five-year-old son, Kevin, slept. She represented the peaceful life Thomson fought so ruthlessly to protect. "Leave the whispers to the wind, my love. Retire to the northern farms. Let Kevin grow up where there are real smells, not just the dust of the throne room. Be cautious of Vorlag. He calls your work cowardly."
Thomson merely nodded, strapping the sheath of his Estoc beneath his dark cloak. His duty was to peace, even if his means were violent.
Just as he prepared to depart, a pale-faced attendant burst in. "Lord Steward! General Vorlag requires you immediately at the western postern gate. It's urgent—a surprise party from Verena has breached the outer defense!"
Thomson's gray eyes narrowed at the report. Verena? A breach? Why am I, the Shadow, being called, and not the Supreme Commander himself? The inherent danger of his life finally settled in his gut. He gave Lyra one last, distant look—the look of a man accepting his fate—and followed the attendant.
At the western postern, the air was silent and cold. The fighting was nowhere to be found. Instead, General Vorlag, massive and arrogant, stood with six dark-armored mercenaries.
"The breach is here, Thomson," Vorlag announced, a condescending smile splitting his face. "And you are the breach."
Vorlag confessed his plan: to eliminate Thomson and then force the weak King to abdicate, thereby initiating an "honorable" war against Verena. The six mercenaries moved in.
Thomson didn't waste a second on rhetoric. He was a machine of precision. The first mercenary lunged; Thomson dodged with a fluid movement, his Estoc driving deep into the unprotected armpit, severing the artery. The second, aiming a dagger, suddenly found his leg useless as the Estoc pierced his quadricep tendon.
Thomson was fast, but the mercenaries were trained. He killed the third by stepping daringly into a sword arc, using the enemy's momentum to expose his own torso for a precise, killing strike to the diaphragm.
But the remaining three were masters of flanking. They pressed him hard, forcing him to turn his back to Vorlag, who finally drew his greatsword. Thomson was tiring. His mind raced, not for survival, but for Lyra and Kevin. He had to break the line.
With a final, desperate burst of energy, Thomson lunged, not at a mercenary, but at the wall. He drove the tip of his Estoc into the cracked mortar near a hidden lever, dislodging a small mechanism that operated the heavy portcullis. A deafening grinding sound erupted as the massive gate began to slowly descend. This created the perfect chaos he needed.
He spun, using the mercenaries' distraction to slip past them, dodging a clumsy swing that tore through his cloak. He was running toward a small, dark alley when Vorlag, realizing the danger, bellowed a command and plunged his greatsword into Thomson's back. The blow missed his spine but pierced his lung.
Thomson collapsed, gasping for breath, the metallic taste of his own blood filling his mouth. Vorlag stood over him, victorious.
In the final, fleeting moments, as the mercenaries closed in, Thomson desperately dragged himself into the shadow of a stone column. He used his last strength to press a small, silver locket—a gift from Lyra—into a crevice in the stone, knowing his wife would recognize the silent signal.
His gray eyes, now reflecting a terrifying certainty, finally found a semblance of warmth. He lifted his head toward the sleeping quarters, a final, ragged breath escaping his lips. His last words, a father's plea that would forever define his son's purpose, were a raw whisper:
"Run, son... and live for the silence."
Then, the Shadow was extinguished. Lord Steward Thomson, the King's Shadow, was dead.
[End of Chapter I]