The ballroom was bathed in golden light, the air thick with the scent of wine and perfumes. Nobles whispered in awe of the dragon sigil, and the king's formal blessing hung in the air.
Then—
Darkness swallowed the room.
Gasps turned into screams as the chandeliers shattered, plunging the castle into chaos.
A cold wind howled through the hall, carrying the scent of blood.
Then came the slaughter.
Figures cloaked in shadow descended from above, blades flashing.
The first victim barely had time to scream before a dagger carved across his throat. Blood splattered onto the marble floor, the warm liquid glistening in the fading candlelight.
Panic erupted. Nobles ran, stumbling over bodies. Guards rushed forward—only to be cut down with ruthless precision.
Yet even in the chaos, Ryle did not panic.
His instincts took over.
A dagger flew toward him—he tilted his head slightly, the blade missing by inches. A second assassin lunged.
Bad move.
Ryle's fist drove into the assassin's chest. A sickening crack followed as the man was sent crashing into a pillar, slumping lifelessly to the ground.
Nearby, Marquis Elden was a force of destruction. His sword danced like silver lightning, cutting through the attackers with terrifying efficiency.
They moved without speaking—two warriors in perfect sync.
One assassin lunged at Elden's back. Ryle intercepted him with a crushing elbow strike, sending the attacker skidding across the blood-slick floor.
A joint attack. A well-trained group. But why here? Why now?
And more importantly—
Who sent them?
When the battle finally ended, the marble floors were painted red.
Bodies littered the hall. The scent of blood was overwhelming, yet none of the nobles dared to speak. They had been moments away from death.
But not all the attackers were dead.
One remained.
Ryle stood over a bound figure—an elf.
Unlike the others, she was strikingly beautiful. Long silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her emerald-green eyes glowed with unyielding defiance.
Yet despite being captured, she did not beg. She did not flinch.
She simply stared at Ryle. Unbroken.
"You were with the attackers," Ryle stated coldly. "Who sent you?"
The elf remained silent, her gaze sharp as a blade.
"Elves don't take part in human conflicts," Elden muttered. "What is the meaning of this?"
Still, she refused to speak.
Until a new presence arrived.
The doors creaked open, revealing a woman dressed in flowing white robes. A priestess.
Whispers spread through the hall as she stepped forward, her staff glowing with an ancient power.
"By the will of the gods," she declared, her voice steady, "we shall hear only truth."
She raised her hand, and a pulse of ethereal light wrapped around the elf's throat.
Her lips trembled. She tried to resist.
But the spell was absolute.
Finally, she spoke.
"We were hired… by an anonymous figure. Even we do not know their true identity."
The room fell silent.
A chill ran down Ryle's spine.
Someone was pulling the strings. A hidden puppet master orchestrating all of this.
But who? And why now?
As Ryle locked eyes with the captive elf, he realized one thing.
This was only the beginning.