Prologue

  The moon hung low in the night sky, its pale light spilling across the castle’s cold stone corridors. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering in rhythm with the torches lining the grand halls.

  On a high balcony overlooking his vast kingdom, King Baron stood with a golden goblet in hand, sipping lazily from its brim. A trickle of wine ran into his unkempt mustache as he smirked to himself, exhaling a breath heavy with indulgence.

  His robe strained against his bulk, the silk belt losing its battle to contain his stomach. He leaned heavily on the railing, gaze sweeping over the dark sprawl below. The kingdom looked peaceful—too peaceful. And yet, something gnawed at him. An unease. A pressure beneath the skin he couldn’t place.

  Footsteps broke the stillness behind him—soft, deliberate.

  “Your Majesty, your guest has arrived,” a servant said, voice hushed and deferential as he bowed deeply. The words echoed gently across stone.

  Baron turned his head slightly, acknowledging him with a grunt. For a moment, he lingered, the night air brushing cool across his face. It felt like hesitation—like part of him didn’t want to face what waited inside.

  Finally, with a low groan, he pushed off the railing. His movements were slow, labored. Every step a grim reminder of the vigor he'd long since squandered.

  “Send him in,” Baron said, tone clipped, tinged with impatience.

  The servant bowed again and departed quickly.

  Baron shuffled into the throne room, the vast chamber aglow with flickering torchlight that cast long, reaching shadows across ornate stone and golden trim. The banners above hung still, heavy with dust and silence.

  The great doors creaked open behind him, and his guest stepped inside.

  “Brother,” Baron greeted, voice loud and forced, tinged with feigned warmth. “It’s been too long.”

  Lord Verian crossed the threshold in silence. His expression was calm, composed—but his sharp eyes swept the room like a blade, measuring everything. Unlike Baron, Verian’s frame was lean and disciplined, his tailored attire modest yet precise. A man carved by restraint.

  The contrast between them was stark—one draped in silk and self-indulgence, the other armored in austerity.

  “Baron,” Verian replied, inclining his head. “I came as soon as I received your summons.”

  Baron chuckled, though there was no mirth in the sound. “Ah, Verian. Always so dutiful. Come, sit.”

  He motioned toward a chair near the foot of the throne and eased himself into the grand seat—a massive structure of carved obsidian, veined with faint lines of gold. His weight settled with a low groan of strain against the stone, not creaking wood. Cold radiated through the seat, but Baron didn’t seem to notice.

  The gesture felt less like hospitality and more like formality—a script they both knew too well.

  Verian hesitated, then moved to the offered chair and sat with measured grace.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this late-night audience?” he asked, voice calm, though his words carried a faint edge of caution.

  Baron leaned forward, elbows resting on the throne’s wide arms. The flickering light caught in his eyes.

  “The kingdom has grown quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that hides daggers in the dark.”

  He held Verian’s gaze.

  “I suspect the South is plotting something. Whether it’s war or something more subtle, I can’t say. But I won’t sit idle while they draw breath.”

  Verian studied him. “And what evidence do you have?”

  Baron snorted. “You always need evidence. Always so careful. After the Riversong Revolt, I swore I’d never be caught sleeping again.”

  Verian’s gaze sharpened, though his tone remained even. “And yet it wasn’t the South that rose up then—it was your own people.”

  A flicker of irritation passed across Baron’s face. “Traitors, all of them. Stirred by lies and silver tongues.”

  “Or pushed by a crown too fat to feel the cracks beneath it,” Verian said quietly.

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  Baron’s expression tightened—but after a moment, it softened into something colder.

  “You’ve always been bold in private, brother. But you’ve never been willing to act.”

  “I act,” Verian replied. “I just don’t mistake indulgence for strength.”

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Baron leaned back into the throne, a long sigh deflating his chest.

  “I trust no one else, Verian. Not anymore. You’re the last blade I have that hasn’t dulled.”

  Verian arched an eyebrow. "You speak of war, yet I’ve heard no whispers of unrest,” he said, tone cool and deliberate.

  “Paranoia?” Baron barked a laugh, though it quickly devolved into a sour grimace. "The South has always schemed. You remember Caelwyn—they smiled at our treaties while poisoning our border wells. They bide their time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”

  He leaned forward slightly, shadows shifting across his face.“I want you to uncover their intentions—discreetly, of course.”

  Verian studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. "And if there’s nothing to uncover?”

  “Then you’ll put my mind at ease,” Baron said, though his eyes betrayed doubt.“But if there’s even the hint of a threat…”

  He let the words hang, their weight unmistakable.

  Verian hesitated—just for a breath. As if weighing whether his brother’s fear was delusion… or foresight.

  Then he nodded, gaze steady. "If danger lurks, I will find it.”

  “Good,” Baron muttered, leaning back into the cold stone throne. His thick fingers drummed against the gilded armrest.

  He watched Verian rise.

  “And Verian,” he added, voice low but firm. "Trust no one.”

  Verian offered a polite bow. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  His footsteps echoed faintly as he strode toward the exit, the heavy doors closing behind him with a resonant thud.

  Left alone, Baron exhaled heavily and reached for his goblet. The soft clink of gold against stone echoed through the chamber, briefly filling the silence he’d come to despise.

  He returned to the balcony. The night air had shifted—colder now, still. The breeze no longer stirred the banners. Even the torches seemed hesitant to flicker.

  For a heartbeat, the kingdom below looked frozen. Still. Breathless.

  “Something is coming,” he muttered, staring into the dark. “I can feel it.”

  A sharp gasp cut through the silence behind him—abrupt, wet, and strangled.

  Then came the dull thud of flesh hitting stone.

  Baron spun, heart pounding.

  One of his guards lay crumpled on the floor, blood blooming beneath him. The second turned, sword half-raised——but the shadow moved faster.

  A figure slipped from the dark like smoke, blade flashing in the torchlight. There was no grunt. No scream. Just a silent plunge of steel into flesh. The second guard collapsed beside the first, his eyes wide and lifeless.

  Baron stumbled back, the goblet falling from his hand and skittering across the floor with a hollow ring. Panic surged. He turned and bolted for the throne room’s massive doors.

  He didn’t make it.

  The assassin appeared before him in a swirl of darkness—silent and sudden.

  Baron froze. Breath caught in his throat. Every instinct screamed to run, but his legs locked beneath him.

  Moonlight sliced through the high windows, catching the assassin’s face.

  A hood shadowed most of his features, but not the eyes—piercing, glacial blue, fixed on him with cold precision. Snow-white hair spilled from beneath the cowl, ghostly against the black.

  He looked unreal. Unnatural. A specter carved from moonlight and murder.

  Baron’s lips parted. “A... Shadow Blade,”

  The assassin tilted his head—almost amused—as his blade caught the light.

  In a single motion, steel carved through skin and sinew.

  Baron gasped, hands flying to his neck as hot blood surged between his fingers. He staggered back, choking on the taste of iron. The strength fled from his limbs.

  The assassin caught him—lowering him gently, almost reverently. As if this wasn’t just murder.

  “Shhh,” the Shadow Blade whispered. “Rest.”

  Through the haze of pain and panic, Baron’s lips trembled. His voice came in broken fragments—barely more than breath.

  “Verian…” he choked. “Pro...tect... the kingdom…”

  The assassin’s smirk faded. And for a single breath—just one—something flickered behind his eyes. Regret? Recognition? It passed too quickly to name.

  He stepped back, letting Baron’s body slump to the cold stone.

  Blood steamed where it pooled. The goblet lay on its side, firelight glinting across the gold. Baron stared into its curve—and for one final heartbeat, saw his reflection. Then his eyes went still.

  Without a word, the shadow blade turned and vanished into the dark—swallowed by the shadows that had birthed him.

  The room fell silent, save for the soft rustle of the night breeze slipping through the balcony arches.

  The kingdom’s fate now balanced on a blade. And a storm gathered on the horizon.

  Enjoyed the prologue? Shadows are just beginning to stir. If you’re intrigued, consider following the story, rating it, or leaving a comment—it helps a ton. New chapters will drop every Friday

  Thank you. ;)