The battlefield still steamed with the heat of fresh blood. The scent of iron and charred flesh lingered in the air, mixing with the acrid smoke from torches and spellfire. Bodies—both enemy and ally—lay scattered across the shattered remains of the first wall of Qoarla.

  Achem stood amidst the ruins, his breath shallow, his hands still slick with the warmth of a man he had just killed.

  The enemy commander lay at his feet, his black and gold armor split open, crimson pooling beneath him. His face—once contorted in rage and determination—was now slack, eyes empty, mouth slightly open, as if trying to say one last word before death silenced him.

  Achem had seen death before. But this time, it was different.

  This one had weight.

  He clenched his fists, feeling the slow tremor creep into his bones. He had fought as Achem—but had he killed as Rogar?

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder.

  Garnac.

  "You did what had to be done," the warrior said, voice gruff, but not unkind.

  Achem didn’t answer.

  He turned, surveying his soldiers—his army.

  The Iron Wolves were battered, some still nursing wounds, others dragging bodies from the battlefield. Some, despite their exhaustion, stood grinning, victorious. But too many lay still, their lifeless gazes staring into the black sky.

  Lysara stepped forward, wiping a smear of blood from her cheek, her cloak singed from the spellfire of the enemy battlemages.

  She looked at Achem, studying him. "You’re thinking again."

  Achem exhaled, glancing back at the fallen warriors. "We lost too many."

  Lysara scoffed. "That’s war."

  Achem turned to her, his gaze sharp. "I’m not a warlord. I won’t throw lives away just to prove a point."

  Lysara smirked, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Then I hope you enjoy your throne of corpses, Your Majesty."

  Her words struck deeper than any blade.

  Achem turned away, but before he could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows.

  Tavian.

  The former spymaster moved quickly, his boots crunching over the rubble. His cloak was damp from the night’s cold, but his expression was anything but calm.

  "The Council knows," Tavian said. His voice was low, edged with urgency. "They know you’re alive."

  Achem’s stomach tightened.

  "How long before they move?"

  Tavian exhaled. "They already have."

  Silence.

  Then—the first stirrings of dread crept through the air.

  "They’re sending an assassin," Tavian continued. "Or worse—an army."

  Achem looked back at the city, the fortress he had bled to take.

  And he realized—this was just the beginning.

  Qoarla was not yet his.

  The first wall had fallen, but six more remained—and beyond them, the city’s people.

  The Iron Wolves had taken a foothold, but the real battle was yet to come.

  Achem led his soldiers through the shattered remains of the outer defenses, stepping over collapsed beams, broken siege weapons, and the dead. The walls were cracked but still standing, ancient stone towers looming above them like watchful sentinels, indifferent to the blood spilled below.

  Inside the city, the civilian district lay silent.

  They had been watching.

  Achem could feel their eyes behind shuttered windows, could hear the muffled sounds of fear—whispers, hurried footsteps, children crying behind locked doors.

  The people of Qoarla had seen who won this night.

  But had they truly seen their new ruler?

  Achem turned to Lysara. "They’re afraid of us."

  Lysara raised an eyebrow. "They should be."

  Achem narrowed his eyes. "No. If they fear us as they feared the Council, we gain nothing."

  Garnac grunted. "Then what do you propose? Flowers and sweet words? We took this city with blood. It will only obey us the same way."

  Achem said nothing.

  He moved forward, stepping into the heart of the district, where the people could see him.

  "Bring me the city’s elders," he ordered.

  Lysara smirked. "Making friends already?"

  He ignored her.

  If he was to rule, it would not be through terror alone.

  The messenger arrived just before dawn.

  A ragged man, barefoot, his clothes torn, covered in the grime of long travel and desperation. His hands shook as the Iron Wolves led him before Achem.

  His breathing was ragged, his face sickly pale.

  "A message," the man gasped, falling to his knees.

  Achem frowned. "Who sent you?"

  The man looked up. His lips quivered as he whispered:

  "The Elejae."

  The air grew colder.

  Lysara’s smirk vanished.

  Even Garnac stiffened.

  The Elejae.

  A name that carried death in its wake.

  "Speak," Achem commanded.

  The man swallowed hard. Then, in a trembling voice, he recited the message.

  "She is coming."

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  The Elejae.

  Achem did not know her personally, but her legend was well known. The memories, Rogar’s own. Recalling the information he knew about her.

  She was not just an assassin.

  She was a force.

  A ghost in the night. A killer whose name had been whispered in royal courts, war camps, and the nightmares of rulers.

  She had toppled kings, shattered entire houses, ended bloodlines.

  And now—she was coming for him.

  Achem’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword.

  "How long?" he asked.

  The messenger swallowed. "A week. Maybe less."

  Achem turned to Tavian.

  "Find out everything you can."

  Tavian smirked and then nodded and disappeared into the shadows.

  Lysara exhaled sharply. "You just won a city, Achem. And already, someone wants to take your head."

  Achem let out a slow breath.

  "Then let them come."

  With the outer wall secured, Achem’s rule had begun in blood.

  The people of Qoarla remained untrusting, but fear had settled differently now—no longer the fear of the Council’s soldiers, but of something new.

  Something they did not yet understand.

  That night, as Achem stood atop the city walls, looking over the distant hills that marked the roads leading back to the capital, he knew one thing:

  The Council would not let him keep this city.

  The Elejae was coming.

  And behind her, an army.

  Qoarla would be his proving ground.

  Either he became a true ruler here…

  Or he would die, and his name would become nothing more than a whisper in the wind.

  He exhaled, gripping the stone beneath his fingers.

  He had started this war.

  Now—he had to finish it.

  The city of Qoarla had fallen, but it was far from secure.

  The outer walls lay in ruin, breached by the Iron Wolves’ assault. Scaffolding, broken battlements, and scorched defenses littered the landscape, the remnants of a battle that had left the city on the brink of collapse.

  Achem stood on the highest watchtower, gazing at the fortifications beyond the first wall.

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  Six more stood ahead.

  If the Council’s reinforcements arrived before he fully controlled the city, Qoarla would become his tomb instead of his first stronghold.

  "We need to strengthen our position," Achem said, turning to Garnac. "How long before the men can repair the breaches?"

  Garnac scratched his beard, surveying the wreckage below. "Two days at best. The stonework’s ancient, but the walls can hold—if we don’t get attacked first."

  Achem nodded, then looked at Lysara.

  "And the people?"

  Lysara scoffed. "Scared. Confused. Some are waiting for us to start executing them. Others are wondering when we’ll start looting. And a few are hoping we might be better than the bastards we just threw out." She shrugged. "Not exactly a loyal city, Your Majesty."

  Achem’s jaw tightened. "Then we make them loyal."

  He walked to the edge of the tower, looking over the streets below. Qoarla’s civilians huddled in doorways, whispered in dark alleys, watched with wary eyes from the rooftops.

  They were not rebels.

  They were survivors—just like the Iron Wolves.

  "Open the grain stores," Achem ordered. "Let them eat. No one starves while we rule this city."

  Lysara raised an eyebrow. "Generous. And when the food runs out?"

  "Then we find more," Achem said simply. "Qoarla survives under my rule, or it burns under the Council’s."

  Lysara studied him for a moment, then smiled. Not mockingly—something else. Something almost approving.

  "Well," she said, "this is new."

  The first sign of her arrival came at dusk.

  Achem had been walking through the streets, taking stock of the city’s defenses, when a scream split the air.

  He turned sharply—one of his men, a scout named Warren, lay dead against the wall, a thin red line carved across his throat.

  No sound. No struggle.

  Just a clean, effortless kill.

  And above the body, carved into the stone, was a symbol—a black widow spider etched in fresh blood.

  Lysara cursed. "She’s here."

  Achem stared at the mark. “A little bit theatrical.” He remarked.

  Lysara stared at him accussingly.

  The Elejae.

  She had come sooner than expected.

  "Call the men," Achem said. "Nobody walks alone tonight."

  The city became a hunting ground.

  The Iron Wolves patrolled the streets, torches in hand, watching the darkness, searching for a killer they would never see coming.

  Achem refused to hide.

  He walked the city openly, a sword at his side, daring The Elejae to strike.

  For two days, nothing.

  Then—the killings began.

  A sentry found hanging from a lamppost, throat slit from ear to ear.

  A guard discovered in the barracks, his own dagger buried in his chest.

  A councilman’s wife—strangled in her bed, her body draped in silk, her lips painted black. Her nightgown artfully torn, exposing skin as if the killer had staged a morbid display for anyone who found her.

  Not that it would entice anyone—she was already old enough to be a grandmother.

  Lysara’s face twisted with disgust when she saw it.

  "She’s playing with us."

  Achem clenched his jaw.

  Each death left no traces, no witnesses, only The Elejae’s silent signature—a single red spider painted in blood.

  She wasn’t just killing.

  She was playing with him. She was having fun.

  By the third night, Achem had enough.

  "This ends now," he growled, slamming his fist onto the table in the war room.

  Tavian leaned forward, watching him carefully. "You can’t fight a ghost, Achem."

  Achem locked eyes with him. "I can if I make her come to me."

  Lysara folded her arms. "And how do you plan to do that?"

  Achem exhaled slowly. "We give her what she wants."

  Silence.

  Then Garnac grunted. "You mean, you."

  Achem nodded.

  "We stage an opportunity. A place she won’t be able to resist. We lure her in—then we end it."

  Lysara frowned. "You’re gambling your life on this."

  Achem met her gaze. "Wouldn’t be the first time."

  The trap was set.

  Achem positioned himself alone in the city’s old temple—an abandoned ruin, its statues broken, its altar shattered.

  The perfect place for a meeting with death.

  He sat in the center of the chamber, a candle flickering beside him, his sword resting on the stone.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  Then—the shadows shifted.

  A whisper of movement, so light, so impossibly silent that even Achem, now attuned to danger, almost didn’t react in time.

  The blade came first, slicing toward his throat.

  Achem rolled, grabbing his sword, spinning into a low stance.

  And there—she stood.

  The Elejae.

  Dressed in black silks, a veil covering her mouth, her silver eyes gleaming in the darkness. Her alluring dark figure seemed blending in the darkness. She was young. She was so alluringly sexy and inviting.

  She was small, delicate, almost ethereal—but Achem felt the weight of death in her presence, as if the very air around her was waiting to bleed.

  "You’re quicker than most," she murmured.

  Achem gripped his sword tighter. "I hear you kill kings."

  The Elejae tilted her head, her voice a whisper of silk and steel.

  "I don’t kill kings," she said.

  "I kill men who think they are."

  Then—she struck again.

  The blade came so fast Achem barely had time to react.

  He threw himself backward, her dagger slicing through the air where his throat had been just a breath before.

  Silent. Effortless. Deadly.

  His heart pounded. The Elejae was not a warrior in the way Garnac was, nor a battle-hardened mage like Lysara. She did not rely on brute force or overwhelming power.

  She was death made flesh.

  Her body moved like liquid shadow, each step a whisper, each strike a promise of the inevitable.

  Achem swung his sword, aiming for where she stood—but by the time his blade passed through the space, she was already gone.

  She was behind him.

  He felt it—the cold press of steel against his spine.

  "You’re slow," she murmured, her voice like silk unraveling in the night.

  Achem barely spun in time, shoving his elbow backward, knocking her blade away. She let him—like it was all a game.

  A smirk touched her lips.

  "This is disappointing," she mused.

  Achem exhaled through clenched teeth. She was testing him.

  If he didn’t fight back soon, she would grow bored.

  And when she grew bored, he would die.

  Achem forced himself to calm.

  His opponent was too fast to track by sight. He needed to rely on something else—timing, prediction, instinct.

  He had fought assassins before.

  Rogar’s memories surged in his mind.

  Flashes of dark corridors, cloaked blades, the feeling of a dagger slipping between ribs.

  Achem steadied his breathing.

  Listened.

  The faintest shuffle of movement. A shift in the air.

  He turned, sword swinging low—and felt the impact of steel meeting steel.

  The Elejae’s eyes widened slightly, surprised that he had blocked her next strike.

  Achem pressed forward, slamming his weight into her, forcing her to disengage.

  Her feet skimmed the ground like a dancer, gracefully twisting away, but now, Achem had found his rhythm.

  She was fast. But she wasn't invincible.

  The dance of steel and shadow continued.

  Achem struck—she evaded.

  She countered—he barely dodged.

  But then—her blade found flesh.

  Achem hissed as a second cut opened across his ribs, hot blood seeping into his shirt.

  The Elejae let out a small hum of approval.

  "You're learning," she whispered.

  Achem wiped blood from his side, his grip tightening on his sword.

  "You enjoy this too much."

  She laughed softly, twirling her dagger between her fingers. "Of course I do. Most men scream and beg before the end. But you? You fight. That makes this..."

  She tilted her head, her silver eyes gleaming.

  "Interesting."

  Achem forced himself not to falter under her gaze. She was beautiful. Dangerous. Hypnotic.

  She was meant to be a myth.

  But she was real, and she was standing before him.

  And she was going to kill him if he didn’t act soon.

  Achem shifted his stance, letting his sword hang loosely in his grip.

  He needed her to believe he was faltering.

  That the wounds were slowing him down.

  The Elejae narrowed her eyes.

  "Giving up?" she mused, stepping closer.

  Achem exhaled, feigning exhaustion.

  Then—he moved.

  It wasn’t a warrior’s strike. It wasn’t precise. It wasn’t graceful.

  It was desperation.

  He lunged, letting himself fall into the attack, swinging his sword wildly, recklessly.

  It was a bad move.

  And she took the bait.

  She sidestepped, dodging easily—but this time, Achem was ready.

  At the last second, he pivoted sharply, throwing his entire weight into a brutal shoulder slam.

  The impact sent her skidding back, her feet barely finding purchase on the dusty stone floor.

  She let out a small gasp—the first sound of genuine surprise she'd made all night.

  Achem didn’t hesitate.

  He closed the distance, sword raised for a final strike.

  But she was faster.

  She dropped to a crouch, twisting her body like liquid, and before Achem could react—her blade was at his throat.

  Silence.

  His chest heaved.

  Her breath was slow, steady.

  She had won.

  Achem gritted his teeth, staring into her silver eyes.

  If she wanted to kill him, now was the moment.

  She had every advantage.

  She had outmaneuvered him, outmatched him, outlasted him.

  He was at her mercy.

  But she didn’t strike.

  Instead, she... studied him.

  Her dagger pressed just enough against his throat for him to feel the edge, but not enough to end it.

  A slow smirk touched her lips.

  "You're not Rogar," she murmured, almost to herself.

  Achem swallowed. "No. I’m not."

  She tilted her head slightly, considering something.

  Then—to his shock—she stepped back.

  Lowered her dagger.

  Turned away.

  Achem blinked. "What are you doing?"

  She glanced over her shoulder. "I don’t kill ghosts."

  And just like that—she disappeared into the darkness.

  Leaving him alive.

  Achem collapsed to his knees, his body screaming in pain.

  He had expected to die tonight.

  Instead—The Elejae had let him live.

  But why?

  Lysara and Tavian burst into the temple moments later, their weapons drawn.

  "Where is she?" Lysara demanded, eyes scanning the darkness.

  Achem forced himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his chin.

  "Gone," he said simply.

  Tavian narrowed his eyes. "You let her escape?"

  Achem shook his head. "No. She let me live."

  Silence settled between them.

  Lysara folded her arms. "So what now? You wait for her to change her mind?"

  Achem looked down at his bloodstained hands.

  No.

  This wasn’t over.

  Not yet.

  The Elejae had made a choice tonight.

  But choices could always change.

  He had survived the first battle.

  Now, he needed to prepare for the next.

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