The rain fell like soft daggers against the city's rooftops, silent and sharp. The capital of Elarion, shrouded in mist and flickering lanternlight, looked almost peaceful from above. But peace was an illusion.
Alira Thorne stood on the balcony of the Moonspire estate, her gloved fingers tapping against the cold stone rail. Her violet eyes scanned the distant skyline, every flicker of shadow catalogued and assessed. Even here, among nobility, trust was a fragile luxury.
She was dressed in ceremonial crimson, her armor-like gown hugging her form, its threads woven with enchanted silver runes. A dagger—hidden, sleek—rested against her thigh. No one had seen her slip it on.
Tonight was the engagement banquet. A performance. A trap.
And her target?
Sylas Drevin.
He was the son of a minor noble family. No known talents. No military rank. Barely any record in the Royal Archive. By all accounts, a forgettable man in a forgettable branch of House Drevin. Yet three months ago, a pulse of forbidden energy was detected in the Drevin ancestral lands—one strong enough to trigger alarms in the deepest chambers of the Veiled Eye.
That same week, House Drevin suddenly proposed an alliance with House Thorne.
Coincidence? Hardly.
Alira's lips tightened.
"You're wasting time staring at shadows," came a voice behind her—cool, feminine, amused.
Alira turned. It was Lady Myra Thorne, her aunt and the head of the Veiled Eye. Clad in silk black robes, her hair pinned by obsidian needles, she walked like someone who already knew the ending of every game.
"Observe him. Charm him. And when he slips, report it. If he truly holds the Flame, we take it."
Alira nodded. "And if he doesn't?"
Myra smiled thinly. "Then you marry a ghost and live a dull life. Either way, House Thorne wins."
Inside the banquet hall, the air was thick with incense and the hum of whispered gossip. Nobles and courtiers moved like chess pieces, draped in gold and envy.
Sylas stood near the edge of the hall, far from the central circle of attention. His posture was calm, composed—not slouched like a fool, nor straight like a soldier. Just… still. Observing. A glass of wine in hand, untouched.
He wore black and grey, simple but elegant. No sigils. No family colors. If she hadn't known his name, Alira might've missed him entirely.
Too careful, she thought.
She approached, steps slow and measured. Every move calculated to draw his eye—just enough to test his gaze.
He didn't look at her.
Not until she stood directly beside him.
Then his eyes turned. Deep, quiet. A storm behind still water.
"Lady Thorne," he said, voice low. "Or should I call you something else tonight?"
She blinked, hiding the flicker of surprise.
"You know me?"
"Everyone knows of you," he replied, offering the wine. "The Veiled Rose. The perfect weapon of House Thorne."
She didn't take the glass.
"Flattery from a man who didn't even glance at me."
"Observation, not flattery. There's a difference."
She studied him closely now. No tension in his body. No excess breath. But his pulse—was calm. Too calm.
"Tell me, Lord Drevin," she said, "what exactly do you do all day in that manor of yours?"
"I read. Tend the gardens. Feed the crows. Write a bit. Occasionally wonder how many hidden blades you're carrying."
Alira allowed a ghost of a smile.
"One."
"Liar."
He smiled too. Barely. But it was there.
Later that night, after the nobles had toasted and danced and whispered behind silk fans, Alira walked alone through the Moonspire's halls.
And paused.
The candlelight flickered.
A shadow passed—silent, fleeting—across the far corridor.
She reached for her dagger instinctively, steps turning.
But no one was there.
Except a letter.
Folded, sealed with no sigil. Left on a pedestal beside a statue of the Moon Goddess.
She opened it carefully.
Inside: a single sentence, scrawled in sharp, elegant handwriting.
"You're being watched too."
Alira froze.
The letter was not written by anyone in the Veiled Eye. She would've known. This ink—was foreign. The paper—older than it should be. And the aura clinging to it…
Echo Flame.
Beneath the manor, Sylas Drevin sat cross-legged in the silence of his hidden chamber. Candles floated midair. The walls were inscribed with burning glyphs.
The Path of the Echo Flame flowed through his veins—not wild like fire, but controlled, like a memory of fire reborn.
He had sensed them tonight—two agents, cloaked in illusion, lurking among the guests. Alira had brought backup.
Smart. Dangerous.
But she hadn't attacked. Hadn't probed.
Instead, she'd spoken like a hunter unsure of her prey.
And that meant she didn't know.
Not yet.
Sylas exhaled slowly, drawing the flame inward. It whispered of strength, of past lives, of chaos and prophecy. He didn't care for prophecy.
He cared for survival.
She is sharper than expected, he thought. But her eyes—aren't cruel.
And in the firelight, he wondered—for the first time in years—if the game would finally become interesting.