The corridor leading to Seth's quarters was quiet in the way only noble estates ever were at night too clean, too orderly, too certain that nothing could go wrong.
Moonlight filtered through the high windows, laying pale lines across polished stone. The lamps along the walls burned low, their flames steady, untroubled by wind. Tapestries depicting old victories and ancient heraldry watched in silence as footsteps moved without sound.
The assassin had already mapped the route.
Two turns past the west stairwell.
One blind corner.
Three guards—one rotated out earlier than expected.
An acceptable deviation.
His breathing was slow. Controlled. The black cloth wrapped around his face masked everything but his eyes, which reflected nothing—not the moonlight, not the gold-threaded insignia on the walls, not the quiet arrogance of a noble house that believed itself untouchable.
He reached the final corridor.
Seth Andrea's quarters lay just ahead.
The door stood closed. Reinforced. Rune-etched—not enough to matter.
He took one step forward—
—and twisted aside on instinct.
Steel screamed past where his throat had been.
The throwing knife embedded itself into the opposite wall with a dull, violent thunk, the hilt still trembling from the force behind it.
The assassin's foot barely finished sliding across the marble before something moved.
Not a guard.
Too fast.
Too close.
A figure burst from the shadowed alcove to his right, dress flaring, fabric snapping as a straight kick tore through the air toward his ribs.
He raised his forearms just in time.
The impact slammed into him like a battering ram.
Bone rang against bone. The force shoved him backward half a step, boots skidding, heels biting into stone. The kick carried weight—trained weight—and intent that went far beyond a servant's desperation.
Before he could counter, the attacker twisted, using the recoil to flip herself over his guard. Her hands brushed his shoulders as she inverted, skirts whipping upward, and she landed behind him in a fluid roll that ended in a low crouch.
The assassin spun, blade already halfway drawn—
—and froze.
The figure straightened.
A maid's uniform.
Black-and-white. Properly pressed. Torn now at the hem.
Brown hair pulled back into a practical tie, strands loose from sudden motion. Her breathing was steady, controlled—not panicked. Not wild.
Her eyes were fixed on him with a fury so raw it burned through the dim corridor light.
"Nelly," she said nothing aloud—yet the name hung in the air all the same.
She shifted her stance.
Not a noble's posture.
Not a servant's.
A rogue's stance.
Her right hand dipped beneath the folds of her skirt. Then the left.
Steel flashed.
She drew two knives from concealed sheaths along her thighs, the blades narrow, balanced, and worn smooth by use. Mana shimmered faintly along their edges—not active yet, but present, coiled like breath held too long.
She didn't hesitate.
She lunged.
"Stay away from the young master!!!"
Her voice tore through the corridor, raw and sharp, echoing off stone as she closed the distance in a heartbeat.
The assassin barely had time to raise his arm.
Her first strike came low—aimed for the thigh. He twisted, the blade skimming his trousers instead of sinking into flesh. The second knife followed instantly, arcing toward his throat.
He leaned back, felt cold air kiss his skin where steel should have been, and answered with a short, brutal elbow meant to crush her collarbone.
She ducked under it.
Too clean.
She pivoted on her heel and slashed upward, forcing him to retreat a step as the knife scraped across his sleeve. Cloth tore. Skin burned.
She pressed.
Strike after strike came in a relentless flow—low, high, feint, reverse. Not wild swings. Not desperation. Each movement was economical, practiced, honed by repetition and blood.
The assassin retreated, calculating.
Not a normal maid.
She spun, skirt flaring as she drove a knee toward his midsection. He caught her leg, fingers locking around her calf, and wrenched sideways, using her momentum to flip her.
She let herself go.
Twisting in midair, she planted a palm against the wall, kicked off, and flipped back into a standing position before he could follow through.
Her boots hit stone.
She didn't pause.
Mana surged.
The faint shimmer around her knives intensified, threads of pale blue energy condensing along the blades, hardening them, sharpening them beyond steel. The air around her hands vibrated, pressure building with every breath she took.
The corridor lights flickered.
The assassin drew his weapon fully now.
A battle dagger—broader than her knives, heavier, its edge darkened with a viscous coating that drank the light rather than reflecting it.
Paralytic poison.
Refined. Fast-acting.
Lethal enough.
They faced each other across the narrow corridor, the door to Seth's quarters looming just behind him, close enough that he could almost feel the runes humming beneath the wood.
Nelly took a step forward.
"So that's how it is," she said, voice low now, stripped of the shout but not the fire. "You don't get to him."
The assassin said nothing.
He moved.
Steel clashed.
The sound rang sharp and loud as dagger met knife, sparks bursting where mana-hardened edges collided. He pressed forward with disciplined strikes, testing her guard, forcing her backward inch by inch.
She met him head-on.
Her knives danced, intercepting blows, sliding along his blade, redirecting rather than blocking outright. She cut for joints, tendons, weak points—his wrist, his elbow, the inside of his knee.
He parried, countered, stepped inside her range and drove the pommel of his dagger toward her face.
She took it on her forearm.
Pain exploded.
She hissed but didn't falter, twisting the impact into a spin that brought her left blade slicing across his side. The dagger's coating saved him—the blade bit shallow instead of deep—but blood still welled.
The assassin grunted.
Persistent.
He feinted high, then swept low.
She jumped, skirts snapping as the blade passed beneath her feet, but he was already moving, reversing direction, driving the dagger upward toward her abdomen.
Too fast.
The blade cut.
Not deep—but enough.
The poison flared instantly.
Nelly staggered as numbness crept up from the wound, her muscles seizing for a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity.
The assassin didn't waste it.
He struck again.
Her shoulder took the hit this time, steel biting through fabric, blood staining white cloth crimson. She gasped, knees buckling—
—but she stayed on her feet.
Mana surged wildly now, spilling from her in an uncontrolled burst as she forced her limbs to respond. The paralysis slowed, resisted by sheer will and raw magical output.
Her eyes burned.
She screamed—not in fear, but in defiance—and charged.
The assassin barely had time to raise his guard as she slammed into him, knives flashing, driving him backward step by step toward the door. Her movements were less precise now, but heavier, fueled by desperation and something deeper.
Something personal.
A blade slipped past his defense and cut across his cheek.
Another nicked his ribs.
He retaliated, carving a shallow line across her thigh, then another across her side, poison seeping into her system with every wound.
Her breathing grew ragged.
Blood soaked into the stone beneath her feet.
Still, she didn't fall.
They reached the door.
The runes etched into the wood glowed faintly, responding to proximity, to danger.
The assassin drove his dagger forward, aiming straight for her heart.
She caught his wrist.
Her fingers trembled, muscles screaming, but she held.
"For him," she whispered through clenched teeth.
She headbutted him.
The impact cracked through the corridor, snapping his head back. He stumbled, grip loosening just enough for her to tear free and slash upward.
The dagger fell.
It clattered against the stone.
For a moment—a single, impossible moment—it looked like she might win.
Then the poison caught up.
Her legs gave way.
She dropped to one knee, knives scraping against the floor as numbness spread like ice through her veins. Her vision blurred. The world tilted.
The assassin recovered, retrieving his weapon in one smooth motion.
He stood over her.
Nelly forced herself upright anyway.
Shaking. Bleeding. Barely standing.
She raised her knives again.
"No," she said, voice hoarse but unbroken. "You don't pass."
The assassin stepped forward, looming between her and the door to Seth Andrea's quarters.
Steel gleamed.
Blood dripped.
The corridor held its breath.
And behind the door, the young master remained unaware that his life was already being bought with someone else's blood.
The first scream did not come from the corridor near Seth Andrea's quarters.
It came from the east wing.
A maid—barely past her sixteenth year—rounded a corner carrying folded linens, only to find the hallway ahead of her moving. Shadows peeled themselves off the walls, blades catching lamplight as three figures emerged where nothing had been moments before.
She dropped the linens.
She opened her mouth.
One of the figures flicked his wrist.
The blunt end of a dagger struck her temple with surgical precision. She collapsed without another sound, body crumpling against the stone floor as the intruders stepped over her without pause.
The Nightfall Assassins had breached the Andrea estate.
And now, they unfolded.
The first guards to encounter them died without understanding why.
A pair stationed near the western stairwell heard footsteps—too many, too light—and raised their halberds just as the lamps behind them shattered. Darkness swallowed the corridor. Steel flashed.
One guard managed to shout.
That was all the warning the estate received.
The bell did not ring.
The horn was never blown.
Instead, the mansion erupted in motion.
A firebomb shattered against the far wall of the gallery, flames blooming outward in a violent roar. Oil splashed across tapestries older than the kingdom itself, fire racing along embroidered victories and consuming them in seconds.
Heat rolled through the halls.
Smoke followed.
"Fire!" someone screamed. "Fire in the west wing!"
The shout echoed, multiplying as it spread—voices overlapping, panic blooming faster than the flames themselves.
Servants burst from rooms clutching children, ledgers, heirlooms—whatever their hands found first. Maids abandoned duties, skirts gathered high as they ran barefoot across stone floors growing hot beneath them.
Buckets were seized.
Water sloshed.
Orders were shouted—then contradicted—then lost entirely as smoke thickened and visibility collapsed.
Somewhere, a guard captain tried to form ranks.
He never finished his sentence.
A blade slid between his ribs from behind, quiet and final, his body lowered gently to the ground so it wouldn't make a sound.
The assassins moved room to room with ruthless efficiency.
They did not linger.
They did not chase screams.
Their objective was never the servants.
They were here to fracture response.
Another firebomb detonated near the storage wing.
Another near the guest quarters.
Flames licked up doorframes, smoke pouring into hallways and stairwells, forcing defenders to choose between pursuit and survival.
And the estate chose to burn.
In the southern courtyard, a squad of guards finally made contact.
Steel rang as halberds met curved blades, sparks flashing in the firelight. One guard managed to impale an intruder through the shoulder—only for the assassin to wrench himself free and slit the guard's throat before collapsing.
They fought back.
They were not cowards.
But they were not prepared.
Nightfall operatives moved like ghosts between the guards, striking from blind angles, retreating the moment resistance stiffened. They fought not to win, but to delay.
And delay was death.
Smoke billowed through open arches, curling toward the night sky. The mansion's silhouette—once a symbol of Andrea stability—now flickered in orange and black, flames licking at its edges like hungry teeth.
From the town district beyond the outer walls, the glow was unmistakable.
Captain Grunt was already moving.
He had been in the lower district, overseeing a late patrol rotation when the converse orb at his waist pulsed violently, its surface rippling like disturbed water.
Intruders.
The word burned itself into his thoughts before the image resolved.
Fire.
Smoke.
The Andrea estate.
"Mount up!" he roared, voice cutting through the quiet street like a blade. "Now!"
He did not wait for questions.
An elite knight—broad-shouldered, scarred, clad in reinforced plate—was already moving beside him, helm snapping into place. Behind them, armored boots thundered as guards poured from side streets, weapons drawn, training overriding confusion.
Horses screamed as they were brought from stables, hooves striking stone in rapid succession.
Grunt vaulted into the saddle of his black charger in one fluid motion, reins snapping taut as the beast reared, sensing the urgency.
"Full gallop," Grunt ordered. "No formation. We ride through."
The gates of the town burst open moments later.
The ground shook as a stampede of armored horses tore through the streets, sparks flying where iron shoes struck stone. Citizens scattered, shutters slammed shut, prayers whispered as the thunder of hooves passed.
The estate loomed ahead.
Burning.
Grunt's jaw clenched.
Hold on, he thought, not knowing who he was addressing. Just hold on.
Back inside the mansion, the Nightfall Assassins felt the shift.
It came not through sight, nor sound—but through timing.
Too many guards were surviving now.
Too many movements were converging instead of scattering.
A signal flared in the mind of the operation's field leader.
Time threshold breached.
He stepped onto a balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, flames reflecting in his mask as he lifted two fingers to his lips.
A sharp whistle cut through the chaos.
High.
Clear.
Unmistakable.
Another answered from the east wing.
Then another.
The Nightfall signal for full retreat.
Immediately, the assassins disengaged.
Smoke bombs shattered against stone, thick black clouds swallowing corridors and stairwells. Figures melted into shadows, leaping from balconies, vanishing through service passages, retreat routes opening where none had been moments before.
They did not take trophies.
They did not gloat.
Their work was done.
Fire continued to rage, but the blades were gone.
Captain Grunt breached the outer gates moments later, horse skidding to a halt as he took in the devastation.
"Dismount!" he barked.
His men fanned out instantly, elite knights and guards pushing into the smoke-filled halls, forming buckets, dragging the wounded, sealing off burning sections of the mansion.
"Find survivors!"
"Secure the inner corridors!"
"Where's the young master?!"
The question echoed unanswered.
Grunt's gaze snapped toward the inner wing.
Toward Seth Andrea's quarters.
Smoke rolled from that direction like a warning.
His hand tightened around his sword.
"Clear me a path," he said, voice low and deadly.
And somewhere deeper within the burning estate, behind a door stained with blood and mana, the true cost of the Nightfall Assassins' intrusion waited to be discovered.
Nelly could no longer feel her legs.
The stone floor beneath her cheek was cold, yet distant, as though separated from her by layers of water and glass. Her fingers twitched uselessly, slick with blood—hers, and not hers. The poison had climbed past her thighs now, numbness swallowing muscle, stealing strength, dragging her consciousness downward inch by inch.
Her vision blurred.
But she could still see the door.
She could still see him.
The assassin stepped past her without a word.
Boots crossed the threshold of Seth Andrea's quarters, and the door creaked open under his hand as if welcoming him. The runes etched into the wood glimmered weakly, then dimmed—overridden, exhausted, or simply too late.
Nelly tried to scream.
Only air escaped.
Inside the room, the lamps burned low. Shadows clung to the walls, long and warped, cast by the flickering light and the smoke already creeping in through the window cracks.
Seth Andrea stood from the edge of his bed.
Slowly.
Calmly.
As though this were no intrusion at all.
He faced the assassin without fear, blindfold resting neatly over his eyes, posture straight despite the chaos raging beyond the walls of the estate.
For a single heartbeat, they regarded one another.
Then the assassin smiled beneath his mask.
He rolled the dagger around his fingers—once, twice—the blade catching the firelight as he lunged forward.
Fast.
Precise.
The dagger drove straight toward Seth's left chest.
Nelly watched in horror as Seth moved.
Not away.
Into it.
His hands snapped up, catching the assassin's wrist mid-thrust. The impact echoed sharply through the room, muscles straining as Seth twisted his torso, redirecting the blade at the last instant.
Steel sank deep—
—but not where it was meant to.
The dagger buried itself into Seth's right side instead, piercing muscle, biting between ribs. Blood spilled instantly, dark and heavy, splattering onto the floor with wet, unmistakable finality.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
"Young master—!" Nelly croaked, tears spilling freely now, streaking down her dirt-stained face as her vision swam.
Seth's breath hitched.
A sharp sound escaped him as his knees buckled, and he dropped down hard—one knee striking the floor as blood continued to pour from the wound.
Nelly reached for him.
Her hand fell short.
Darkness surged.
Her world tilted violently, and then—
Nothing.
The paralysis claimed her.
Her eyes closed as her body slumped fully against the stone.
The assassin did not hesitate.
He twisted the dagger.
Seth gasped, blood spilling from his lips as pain tore through him. The assassin raised the blade again, angling for a second, finishing strike—
—and stopped.
Seth's grip tightened.
The assassin frowned beneath his mask as he tried to pull free.
Failed.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
His eyes flicked downward.
Seth Andrea was holding him.
Firmly.
Impossibly.
Muscles corded beneath torn fabric, fingers locked like iron clamps around the assassin's wrist and forearm. Blood soaked Seth's shirt now, dripping freely, pooling beneath him—yet his grip did not loosen.
Shock crept into the assassin's gaze.
"You—" he began.
Seth spat blood onto the floor.
Then the window exploded.
A fire arrow smashed through the glass, shattering the frame and embedding itself into the wooden dresser beyond. Flames erupted instantly, racing across lacquered surfaces, devouring fabric, climbing the walls with hungry speed.
Heat flooded the room.
Smoke followed.
The assassin cursed, struggling harder now, yanking backward, trying to tear his arm free as the fire spread.
He heard it.
A whistle.
High. Sharp.
The signal for retreat.
His body reacted instantly.
He twisted, attempting to break Seth's grip with legwork, shifting his weight, preparing to disengage—
Seth moved.
His foot slid forward, precise despite the blood loss, pinning the assassin's stance perfectly. Balance stolen. Leverage gone.
The assassin froze.
Seth lifted his head.
A smile touched his lips.
"Where do you think you're going?" Seth said softly, voice hoarse but steady. "I thought you came for my life."
He surged upward.
The headbutt landed with brutal force.
Bone cracked.
The assassin reeled backward, grip loosening just long enough for Seth to rip the dagger free and send it skittering across the floor.
Before the assassin could react—
Seth moved.
Not wildly.
Not blindly.
Accurate.
Calculated.
The blade flashed.
Seth slashed across the assassin's face.
Once.
Twice.
Deep.
Steel carved through eyes, through bone, sin
king into the skull with a wet, final sound.
The assassin screamed.
He stumbled backward, hands flying to his face as blood poured between his fingers, thick and endless. He collapsed, writhing, agony reducing him to nothing more than sound and motion.
Seth stepped forward.
He did not rush.
He cut.
One vital point.
Within the room engulfed in roaring flames, the assassin collapsed.
Every vital point had been precisely slashed by Seth—clean, fatal, merciless. The body struck the floor with a dull thud as the fire surged higher, swallowing the chamber whole. There was no path of escape. No mercy left within the inferno.
From the hallway lobby, Sir Grunt came running.
He reached Seth's quarters only to be met by a wall of fire sealing the doorway shut. Heat blasted outward, forcing him to halt. Lying just before the flames was Nelly.
"Damn it—!"
He dropped to one knee and checked her pulse.
Still alive.
Relief struck him hard and fast. Guards arrived moments later, armor clattering as panic spread. Sir Grunt lifted Nelly carefully and handed her to them.
"Get her to safety. Now," he ordered.
Then, his voice hardened.
"Suppress the fire. Search everywhere—inside the chamber, outside it, every corridor, every corner of the estate. Find him."
He refused—utterly refused—to accept the possibility of Seth's death.
Moments later, the flames were finally subdued.
Smoke lingered thick in the air as Sir Grunt stepped into the ruined chamber. The room was reduced to blackened stone and drifting ash. Each step forward felt heavier than the last.
Then he saw it.
A charred skeleton lay near the center of the room.
His heart stuttered.
He moved closer, crouched down, and stared—eyes wide, breath shallow—as he examined the structure.
No.
The proportions.
The remnants.
The unmistakable outline.
Sir Grunt's chest tightened as realization crushed down on him.
He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Far beyond the walls of the Andrea estate—heading toward the borders of the territory—a lone figure walked calmly beneath the open sky.
He wore a clean white shirt, black trousers, a dark jacket, and sturdy boots. A luggage bag rested over his right shoulder. A black blindfold covered his eyes.
Seth walked away—
unhurried, untouched—
leaving the burning truth behind him.
Toward the borders.
Toward silence.
Toward freedom.