The dungeon beneath Faeloria's palace was cold, damp, and steeped in silence.
Chains clinked softly as the would-be assassin hung limply from iron cuffs bolted to the stone wall. His face was pale, his lips dry. Despite his condition, his eyes burned with fanatic determination.
King Sylas stood before him, arms crossed, with Kael Durnhart by his side. Serenil, unnoticed by most, lingered just outside the torchlight—eyes narrowed, listening.
The interrogator, a veteran spymaster named Relan, stepped forward. His voice was calm but sharp.
"Speak. Who sent you?"
The assassin spat blood. "You think you've won, king? I am but a shadow. Cut one down, and ten more will rise."
Sylas said nothing. His presence alone weighed heavy in the room.
Relan tightened the iron cuffs with a flick of his fingers. The man groaned, but still, he laughed—hollow and broken.
"Do you even know what you birthed?" he sneered. "That thing... that halfblood. You should've drowned it in the river."
Kael took a step forward, hand on his blade, but Sylas raised one hand. "Let him speak."
The assassin's eyes burned now with fanatical hatred.
"She wants him dead."
"Who?" Relan asked.
The man bared his teeth. "The Mirror Witch. Lady Isilvara of Elaris."
The name dropped like a blade.
Kael froze. Relan paled.
Sylas's gaze turned sharp as steel.
"Impossible," Kael muttered. "She was executed during the War of Wyrms."
The assassin laughed again, the sound echoing in the dark.
"No... You killed a puppet. She walks in reflections now. And she knows your son bears the Mark of Twilight."
From the shadows, Serenil's hand brushed over his birthmark—the scar beneath his left eye throbbed slightly.
A curse. A sign. A link to something long buried.
He turned and walked away silently. The words echoed in his head:
Mark of Twilight. Mirror Witch. Elaris.
Pieces of a puzzle he hadn't yet grasped were beginning to stir.