Axeman.
That was the name whispered by few and feared by many. The man beneath the travel-worn hood sat hunched on the driver's bench of a battered carriage, its wheels creaking softly as it rolled through the tall, wind-swept grass plains a few miles shy of Nineveh. He looked like a simple carriage man, indistinguishable from the hundreds who traveled these roads—but that illusion was the first of many lies.
It had been a day since he'd left the shadowed streets of Nineveh. In just two more, the grand wedding at Intis would commence—a convergence of nobility, ambition, and power. His mission was clear: ensure that Duke Asher Ashbourne received the queen's invitation card before that time.
Which meant he had only today.
As if sensing fate draw near, Axeman lifted his head. The sun blazed down, its unforgiving light casting stark shadows across his face. The scar—a deep, jagged slash that tore through the right side of his lips—caught the light, giving his smirk a cruel glint.
