The memory was clear and

  sharp, as if she had just experienced the moment when the shadows of

  the palace surrounded her. The silence in the hidden corners of the

  massive structure was thick and oppressive, almost tangible. For many,

  this silence would have been suffocating, as though it filled the space

  with an ominous weight. But for the assassin, it was familiar, almost

  comforting. She moved silently through the dark corridors, every

  movement calm and precise. She knew this path well, had walked it

  countless times in her mind. But today, it was real.

  The

  blade in her hand felt heavy, ready for what was to come. It was not a

  symbol of threat but rather radiated a quiet majesty, as though it

  embodied both hope and strength. The hilt turned quietly, adorned with

  magical symbols that filled the weapon with a palpable energy. It felt

  as if it were alive, pulsing in her hand.

  The

  palace walls stood mute, cool, and still, their reliefs telling stories

  of past triumphs. But today, they were silent witnesses to what was

  about to happen. She knew the old legends of the Elders as though they

  were the maps of a battlefield. But today was different. Today was the

  day when everything would change.

  She

  reached the hidden entrance to the throne room, concealed behind heavy

  curtains. Her heartbeat remained calm and steady. As she opened the

  secret door, deep silence enveloped her. Aranthia sat on her throne,

  engrossed in her writings, which hovered before her. In that moment, she

  didn't seem like an invincible ruler, but small, lost in the mysteries

  of the prophecies she so cherished.

  Unnoticed,

  she slipped into the room, merging with the shadows, her movements

  silent and fluid like a cat. Each second stretched out as she raised the

  blade, which felt like a natural extension of her arm. She felt the

  weight of the weapon, a confirmation that the moment had come to sever

  the power before her.

  The

  strike came silently and precisely. The blade sliced through the air

  without resistance. Aranthia was unprepared and felt the cold metal as

  it pierced her body. No hesitation, no resistance—just the brief, final

  moment in which flesh, bone, and life were cut apart.

  Aranthia

  gasped, the sound filling the silent room. The magical flames on the

  walls flickered slightly as if they could sense their mistress's pain. A

  bitter, metallic taste rose in her mouth as blood surged up her throat.

  Her eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, pure terror reflected in

  them. She, who had believed herself untouchable, now lay on the brink of

  death.

  For the

  assassin, this was the moment she had waited for so long. Yet now that

  it was here, she felt nothing—only the cool metal in her hand. Decades

  of oppression lay behind her, but instead of triumph, she felt only

  emptiness. Aranthia's body was dead, but she sensed that something of

  her remained. Death alone didn't seem enough to completely destroy this

  being.

  In Aranthia's

  final moments, the heavy wooden door to the room creaked open slightly. A

  young servant girl entered quietly, her red hair glowing in the dim

  light of the flames, her green eyes scanning the room. She was unaware

  of the danger lurking in the shadows, and of the blade that had killed

  her mistress. The girl hesitated, unsure whether to flee or help, as she

  saw the dying spirit of her mistress.

  Then

  it happened: In a final, desperate attempt to survive, Aranthia's

  spirit detached from her body and rushed toward the young servant. Like

  an invisible mist, the ghostly essence wrapped around the girl and

  penetrated her. A soft gasp escaped the servant's lips, her eyes

  widening as Aranthia's essence already resided within her.

  Without

  hesitation, the assassin raised her blade again. The ethereal glow of

  the spirit was cut through as the weapon delivered its final blow. The

  cog on the hilt spun faster, emitting a faint screech as the blade

  absorbed the spirit's essence. But the brief moment left doubt. Aranthia

  had already touched the servant.

  Had

  Aranthia's spirit truly been completely destroyed, or had a part of her

  remained within the young woman? The assassin looked uncertainly at the

  girl, a bitter taste of uncertainty filling her thoughts. The air

  around her was cold, the flames on the walls nearly extinguished as if

  they had felt the death of the spirit itself. But there was no time to

  linger. The room filled with a threatening silence that heralded the

  beginning of the uprising.

  Her

  escape from the palace was as precisely planned as the attack. But the

  halls felt narrower, the darkness heavier. Each step echoed dully,

  accompanied by a deep rumble from the depths of the palace. She heard

  the clashing of weapons in the distance, voices echoing through the

  walls, but she remained a silent shadow, escaping unnoticed.

  The

  evening wind cooled her face as she left the palace. The garden lay

  still in the silvery light of the moon, as if it had sensed the death of

  its mistress. She disappeared into the darkness, her old ally. It was a

  memory that would stay with her, the first step on a path that would

  change the city under the dome. Yet as she moved through the night, the

  nagging doubt remained—had Aranthia truly been defeated?

  Her

  steps were quick and deliberate as she glided through the palace

  gardens, now cold and desolate. The flowers, usually glowing magically

  in the moonlight, seemed pale, as though they had lost their luster. The

  wind carried distant voices—the alarmed shouts of guards rushing

  through the halls, unsure of what had happened. But she had no room for

  these sounds in her thoughts. She could still feel the lingering echo of

  the fight, the trembling reverberation of the blade that had torn apart

  Aranthia's essence.

  As

  she reached the edge of the garden, she slipped through a gate that led

  to an old, long-forgotten path. It was barely visible, overgrown with

  plants and moss-covered stones. This path was her salvation—hidden, away

  from the guarded entrances.

  Her

  thoughts raced. The images of the attack mingled with the pressing

  question: Had Aranthia truly left a part of her essence in the servant?

  She had destroyed the spirit of the elder, but what if a trace had

  remained? What if Aranthia had found a way to continue living in the

  girl? This uncertainty gnawed at her, throbbing in her head like a

  persistent pain. Each step into the darkness felt heavier, as though the

  weight of unanswered questions was pulling her down.

  She

  remembered the servant's eyes—wide, full of fear and something unknown.

  Was that the essence of the elder manifesting in a new body? Or was it

  just the shock of a girl who had witnessed a murder? She couldn't say,

  and that uncertainty was worse than any wound she could have suffered.

  The

  path led her through a narrow ravine, where the high cliffs shielded

  her from prying eyes. She moved silently through the darkness as though

  she were part of it. Her sharp, angular face was barely visible beneath

  the hood of her cloak, her black hair falling in soft waves over her

  shoulders. Her eyes glowed vigilantly in the dark. Her skin, pale as

  marble, shimmered faintly in the moonlight. The long cloak she wore

  clung to her body, accentuating her fluid movements as though it were

  alive.

  The darkness

  wrapped around her like a cool, familiar mantle, protective yet offering

  no answers. In the distance, the city's lights shimmered, like an

  artificial starry sky that shielded the people from the harsh world

  outside. A prison of light and lies that lulled the people into a false

  sense of security, while the elders wielded their power.

  She

  paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and listened. The faint hum of

  the city, the buzz of the technomagic that kept everything running, was

  unchanged—and yet today the sound felt more menacing.

  With

  a final glance over her shoulder, she disappeared into the shadows she

  knew so well. The commotion in the palace was behind her, but the

  question remained: Was Aranthia truly defeated? What would happen now?

  The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear—the world as she knew

  it would change.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She

  hesitantly followed the path leading toward Alt-Elaris, the oldest and

  most densely populated part of the city. She had been in the city for a

  month now, and everything still felt foreign and oppressive. Old-Elaris,

  with its narrow streets, Victorian buildings, and the constant feeling

  of being watched. The stories people told about this district were

  grim—crime, poverty, and a dense, almost suffocating atmosphere hung

  over everything.

  As

  she delved deeper into the winding streets, she could feel the unease of

  the place. The city's sounds grew louder—the whispers of voices, the

  metallic clatter of carts on cobblestones, the occasional distant wail

  of a siren. The tall, dark buildings loomed over her as if they could

  swallow her at any moment. The sweet, acrid smell of smoke and damp

  stone filled her nose. The realization that no one knew her here was

  both unsettling and comforting.

  Her

  steps slowed as she reached the hideout—a dilapidated ruin hidden

  behind thick brush, unnoticed by anyone. She carefully laid the blade

  down, wiped the blood from it, and rested her hand on the cold metal.

  The blade shimmered faintly in the moonlight, as though it could sense

  the triumph but also the doubts of its wielder.

  As

  she sat in the darkness, she listened to the relentless ticking of the

  cog, slowly turning as though it were measuring time itself. The sounds

  of Old-Elaris—the muffled laughter from taverns, the murmurs of the

  desperate who disappeared into the shadows—made her feel as if she were

  at the heart of a vast, living organism.

  The

  city was new to her, a labyrinth of secrets and dangers. She barely

  knew its corners and alleys, but she knew she was safe here—at least for

  now.

  She awoke in

  the early morning as the first rays of the artificial sun bathed the

  dome in soft light. Everything was, as always, far too perfect. Too

  orderly. A soft growl rose within her, a familiar pang of envy and

  bitterness that had taken root deep inside her. How often had she looked

  at this perfect life from the outside when she still lived beyond the

  dome?

  At the

  fountain, she paused briefly and washed her face. The water was icy

  cold, sharp against her tense skin, but the pressure in her temples

  didn't ease. As she looked into the mirrored surface of the water, she

  hardly recognized herself. Her face seemed foreign to her, and the

  yellow eyes staring back at her from the water—glowing, full of

  confidence—seemed to want to tell her something she didn't feel.

  After

  freshening up, she turned to the provisions she had stolen from the

  Aurora district in the past few days. She knew it was a place that lay

  worlds apart from her: wide boulevards, magnificent villas where the

  wealthy of Elaris resided. The scent of expensive perfumes and exquisite

  food always hung in the air there—a constant reminder that these people

  had nothing to do with the harshness of life beyond the dome. The

  provisions she had taken were nothing special by comparison: some dried

  bread, fruit the servants had discarded because it didn't meet their

  high standards, and a bottle of fresh water. In the world outside, these

  would have been treasures, but here they were mere scraps.

  Her

  thoughts raced. She had to find out what the girl had seen and whether

  Aranthia—the Elder—had indeed taken over the girl's body. The thought

  gave her no peace. What if the blade had failed? What if Aranthia's

  spirit still lived? Every step she would take back to the palace felt

  heavier, as if the unanswered questions were pulling her deeper into the

  ground. She could no longer ignore the doubts—she had to know if the

  blade had done its job.

  With

  silent determination, she packed some of the provisions and left the

  dilapidated building she temporarily called home. The stone ground was

  cold under her feet, and the fresh morning air tingled on her skin. A

  thin mist hung in the narrow streets of Old-Elaris, swallowing all

  sounds, making everything eerily quiet. In a hidden corner, she left the

  remaining provisions for the street children—hidden so well that she

  could be sure the children would find them before anyone else did. It

  was her way of caring for them without anyone noticing.

  Her

  thoughts drifted to the children. They were innocent, like the children

  she had once known beyond the dome. Her pity for them was a weakness,

  she knew, but sometimes it was hard to suppress that part of herself.

  Still, she pushed the feelings aside. She couldn't allow herself to be

  guided by such emotions.

  She

  knew what she had to do. The palace was her goal. She had to return

  there, to the place where it had all begun. Had Aranthia's spirit truly

  found death, or had it transferred into the girl's body? The thought

  that the Elder might still exist in some form wouldn't leave her. She

  had to find out whether the girl could still be saved or whether she was

  already possessed by Aranthia and needed to be freed.

  In

  the east, in the city's heart, the old palace of the Lord Elder loomed.

  She used it as a landmark to make her way from Old-Elaris to the Aurora

  district. Her appearance kept her from using the carriage network. The

  carriages glided almost silently through the streets, but she preferred

  to trust the shadows. Her form would have been too conspicuous. So, she

  took the long way on foot, her steps silent and precise.

  It

  took her several hours to reach the Aurora district. It was around nine

  in the morning when she neared Aranthia's palace. Two magical golems

  guarded the gate with their mighty stone bodies, motionless like

  mountains, but their eyes were vigilant, scanning every movement. She

  knew how to make herself invisible in the shadows and slipped by

  unnoticed.

  She knew

  the palace from her observations over the past weeks, every corner,

  every hiding place. Silently, she glided along the walls.

  In

  the dim light, she saw a woman bent over the guards, her words sharp

  like blades. Tall and exuding an untouchable elegance, she radiated a

  coldness that seemed to dominate the room. Her gray eyes, cold and

  calculating, studied the guards as though they were tools following her

  orders. Her long black hair fell smoothly over her shoulders, and her

  armor appeared both elegant and deadly. Who she was, the assassin didn't

  know, but the power radiating from her was unmistakable.

  After

  observing the woman, she continued through the palace's corridors and

  discovered the girl, sitting quietly and withdrawn by the wall in a

  room. Her gaze narrowed suspiciously. Was she truly no longer possessed

  by Aranthia? Or was she just playing a role? The doubt gnawed at her

  relentlessly, like a cold stone turning in her stomach. She remained in

  the shadows, her fingers tightly gripping the hilt of her blade as the

  questions in her mind grew.

  After

  a while, a man, a detective whose demeanor and posture suggested he

  belonged to the Shadow Guard, approached. He spoke calmly to the girl,

  but she didn't respond. Her eyes were fixed, as though they were looking

  through him into a world only she could see. An unsettling silence

  followed, and she wondered: Was the silence an escape or did it conceal a

  dark secret? "Is she really not possessed or simply traumatized?" The

  doubt continued to gnaw at her.

  The

  detective waited patiently, but when no response came, he turned and

  left. She remained hidden, her uncertainty growing. The shadow in her

  heart was now omnipresent—the question of whether Aranthia still

  inhabited the girl haunted her relentlessly.

  An

  hour later, the detective returned, this time with a more determined

  demeanor. With cautious movements, he took the girl by the hand and led

  her away. Her gaze followed them down the stairs. The girl seemed limp

  and lifeless, like a puppet controlled by invisible strings. Something

  wasn't right—every fiber of her being screamed to find out what was

  going on. Was the girl truly a victim, or was Aranthia still inhabiting

  her body?

  Without a

  moment's hesitation, she stepped silently into the shadows. Every muscle

  in her body tense, she followed them—a silent hunter, driven by the

  only certainty she had left: She had to uncover the truth, no matter the

  cost.

  She remained

  hidden, invisible to all eyes. Her heart raced as she followed the man

  and the girl. In the garden, she saw one of the guards being hastily

  buried. What had happened? Did the woman who had scrutinized the guards

  earlier have something to do with this?

  Without

  wasting time, she continued her pursuit. She watched as they climbed

  into a carriage. Damn it! She had to hurry, or the carriage would leave

  and she would lose the trail. Her catlike form gave her an advantage,

  allowing her to quickly climb onto the rooftops. From there, she could

  easily keep the carriage in sight as it moved through the streets.

  During

  the chase, she heard the city's alarm. An attack. A sharp pang of pain

  hit her as she thought of her friends. How many of them had died in

  these attacks? But she couldn't afford to weaken now. She kept her eyes

  on the carriage.

  Eventually,

  the detective and the girl stopped in front of a bar, located between

  Old-Elaris and Industria. She spent the entire night observing, watching

  the girl inside—playing with a cat that snuggled against her small

  body. Later, when the girl fell asleep with the cat in her arms, she

  felt a wave of relief wash over her. This couldn't be an act. Aranthia

  must truly be dead.

  She

  let out a quiet breath of relief. The next morning, she stood on one of

  the rooftops, looking down at the detective's apartment above the bar.

  Suddenly, she saw the girl glance up—her eyes met hers for a fleeting

  moment, and in that gaze, there was a silent understanding.