Cassien’s gaze swept across the village like a blade. His eyes, pale and cutting, took in every detail: the trampled grass, the bent iron latch on a chicken coop door, the faint coppery stain smeared on a flat stone near the well—missed by most, but not him. He inhaled.Smoke. Ash. The sharp tang of blood.And something else—something fouler. A creature’s scent, burned into the dirt.His nostrils flared slightly.“Boar,” he said at last. One word. Flat. Knowing.Not an animal. A creature. The kind spawned from corrupted flesh and magic gone wrong.From behind a broken fence, a child whimpered.The elder stepped forward.He was tall for his age, wrapped in a ragged wool cloak that might’ve once been blue. His hair was silver, tied back with sinew, and his face was carved from stone—lined deep from years of loss, his gaze sharp as a hunter’s blade. In one hand he carried a staff not ornate, but worn, etched with crude symbols and burn marks that spoke of old rituals and darker memories.

Calen sat cross-legged beneath the outcropping of weathered stone, the light of the fading sun flickering through the canopy above like the last heartbeat of a dying flame. His chest rose and fell in a measured rhythm as he tried to calm the storm within—both the one in his blood, and the one in his thoughts.Spread before him on a flat slab of rock were the items he had taken from his father’s study: brittle-edged maps drawn with ink so fine it had to be alchemical, a few sealed vials of shifting, iridescent liquid, and a pair of gloves reinforced with runes that glowed faintly when touched. He had once dismissed them as obscure relics or tools meant for ritual—decorative, even. But now he understood. His father had used these to channel or conceal power.Storm magic was never subtle. Even when wielded with precision, it reverberated through the fabric of the realm like a drumbeat that couldn’t be silenced. It called things. Drew eyes. And sometimes… worse.He ran a hand along the ed

Calen’s breath caught as realization struck.“Cassien Vale,” he said slowly. “You’re the Cassien Vale. The legendary assassin.”Cassien chuckled, tugging the reins of his horse with idle ease. “I’ve never considered myself legendary, boy. Just efficient.”Calen’s eyes narrowed, his stance shifting subtly. “Then why are you here? Why chase me all the way to the edge of Drakhtarion?”Cassien’s expression sobered. “Because someone wants you alive, Calen. Someone who wants that more than King Ashford himself wants you dead.”That sent a cold ripple down Calen’s spine. “What’s happening? What the hell happened while I was on leave?”Cassien shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t ask me. I don’t care. I’m not a court dog. I just finish what I’m paid to do.” His eyes sharpened. “And you, Calen Storm, are coming with me.”Calen’s hand went to the hilt of his sword in a fluid motion. The steel sang softly as it left its sheath.Cassien didn’t flinch. He didn’t even move.“If I were you,” the assassin sa

Just when Calen felt the weight of the whispers crushing his resolve—the way they slithered into his ears and nested in his chest like parasites—something changed.A sudden stillness swept through the forest like a spell cast by some unseen hand.The voices stopped.The wind died.Even the rustling of leaves fell silent, as if the very forest was holding its breath.No sound… except a low, constant hum—distant, rhythmic, and almost imperceptible. Like chanting. Faint and far below.Calen froze, his breath misting in the cold air. He listened, heart pounding. The hum wasn’t natural. It pulsed in a steady cadence that stirred something ancient in his blood, something he couldn't name.He slowly crouched down. The ground beneath him no longer felt mossy and damp. It was smoother—harder.He brushed away the dead leaves and layers of damp soil with trembling fingers. A cold surface met his touch. Black stone, worn by time, revealed itself inch by inch. Faint lines etched across it. Symbols

Darkness. It swelled around Calen like water—cold, silent, absolute. There was no sky above him, no ground beneath. Only weightlessness and the distant memory of pain. He remembered the cave. The serpents. Blood oozing from torn flesh. His vision dimming.Then—nothing.But now…His boots met stone.Not the jagged floor of the cave where he had collapsed, but something unreal—smooth and polished like obsidian glass, stretching into the mist. A narrow bridge, suspended over an abyss so deep it seemed to pull at the edges of his soul. Cold wind swept in from nowhere and everywhere at once, carrying whispers he couldn’t understand.Calen blinked hard. The air here was too sharp, too clear. Every breath stabbed like ice. He turned in place.There was no cave.No walls.Just the bridge behind him… and ahead.Then—A scream. Raw. Human.“Help! Somebody—please!”The voice struck him like lightning to the chest.Evan Drake.Calen’s breath caught as his eyes snapped toward the far end of the br