The Lost Heir: Trials of an Empire Reclaimed

Chapter 061

Dawn’s pale light seeped through the mist that clung to the outer walls of the mystic estate, a fortress hidden deep in a forest of gnarled oaks.

In the training fields beyond the ivy‐clad ramparts, dozens of figures sparred and drilled under the watchful eyes of masked instructors.

Wooden dummies bore the scars of relentless blade practice; archers let fly endless arrows at distant targets; hand‐to‐hand combatants thrashed each other in measured sequences that rang with authority.

Within the fortress walls, carved pathways of smooth black stone led to the Faceless Man’s private wing. At the end of one hallway, Amanda strode forward, her dark hair tied in a tight knot at the nape of her neck.

Her face was set in a stern expression—eyes hard as polished obsidian. As she passed, armored trainees paused mid‐strike, bowed their heads, and whispered, “Mistress Amanda.”

Their weapons lowered in respect, an unspoken pledge of loyalty.

At the heavy iron door to the Faceless Man’s inner sanctum, Amanda came to a halt. A figure awaited her: Scorpion, his code name earned by the curved poisons he engineered and the sting in his temper.

His suit of dark scale‐patterned armor absorbed the torches’ glow. He exhaled through his mask’s narrow visor slit.

“Took you so long,” he chided, voice low and rasped.

Amanda’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t start, Scorpion.” She brushed past him, and their shoulders nearly touched as they bowed their heads before entering.

Inside, the chamber was cloaked in darkness. Only the faintest shaft of moonlight leaked through a high window.

The walls were faceted stone—so black it swallowed light—and the floor was polished obsidian that reflected each careful step.

They crossed the room in silence, heads bowed, feet echoing softly on the stone.

At the chamber’s center, the Faceless Man sat on a throne of jagged bone and carved skulls, his hooded absence of a face piercing the gloom.

A single torch’s glow revealed only his gloved hands resting on skeletal armrests.

Time stretched. Then a voice—so deep it seemed to unravel the darkness—reverberated from the throne’s shadows: “Rise.”

Amanda and Scorpion straightened, lifting their chins. Their gazes met the throne’s shadowed repose.

No features betrayed their master, only the silence of absolute authority.

Another long heartbeat passed. Then the voice: “Speak, Amanda.”

She stepped forward, hands clasped at her waist. The chime of her boots was the only sound. “My lord, the training regimen for our field divisions is complete. The men—archers, bladesmen, grapplers—are each battle‐ready, disciplined beyond expectation.”

She paused, measuring each word. “However, to ensure our mission’s success, I recommend we neutralize those who surround Silas Lancaster. His chauffeur, butler, and close advisors will contest any direct move against him. Removing them quietly will clear our path.”

The Faceless Man remained motionless. His next words were measured: “And Scorpion?”

Scorpion stepped forward, folding his arms. “The divisions must be segmented—each team tasked with specific objectives: infiltration, intelligence gathering, or direct action. This prevents mutual interference and clarifies command. If Team Alpha focuses on surveillance, Team Beta can handle elimination protocols, while Team Gamma disrupts communications.”

Amanda nodded. “With clear segmentation, we can proceed simultaneously without alerting each other.”

Another hush fell. The torch crackled, sending dancing shadows across the throne’s skeletal frame.

At last, the Faceless Man’s voice cut through the silence: “Proceed as you suggest. I trust your judgment.”

A single moment of stillness, then Amanda inclined her head. “We will begin at first light.”

Scorpion unbuckled the scorpion‐tail knife from his belt and resheathed it with a single fluid motion. “Understood. I will finalize the segmentation plans immediately.”

They bowed in unison—Amanda’s motion formal, precise; Scorpion’s angled, coiled with purpose.

Then they turned, retraced their steps through the obsidian corridor, and exited the chamber, the heavy door sliding shut with a final echo that sealed their orders behind it.

Beyond the door, the fortress corridors awaited: battalions drilling in grand halls, wards patrolling in pairs, the distant clash of steel and the disciplined commands of instructors.

Amanda and Scorpion paused at a landing above the training fields.

Amanda took a deep breath of the dawn air, tinged with pine and iron.

Through the open archway, she watched the archers nock their arrows in perfect formation, the swordsmen practicing synchronized thrusts, the grapplers testing holds with relentless precision.

Each group was a cog in the larger machine now primed for action.

Scorpion glanced at her, nodding toward the rising sun. “Phase One will commence tonight—removal of the peripherals. Then Phase Two—Silas himself.”

Amanda’s eyes gleamed with resolve. “By then, nothing will stand between us and the fall of Lancaster.”

Together, they descended into the heart of the estate, shadows among shadows, ready to marshal their forces and set in motion the final strike against the heir.

The mystic fortress awoke with purpose, its skull‐lined walls bearing witness to the calculus of conquest.

And as the sun climbed higher, its rays could not penetrate the darkness of their resolve—or the dread of what would come when Silas’s world began to unravel.