The capital city of Eldoria was less than a week’s march away.

  Achem and his warriors moved under the cover of night, keeping to hidden paths and abandoned roads to avoid patrols. Every step forward felt like walking into a noose—the closer they got to the capital, the greater the risk of discovery.

  They were no longer running.

  They were hunting.

  The Iron Wolves, once an army, had now become a small, lethal force—a blade in the dark, aimed straight at the heart of the Council of Lords.

  Tavian scouted ahead, slipping through the ruins of old outposts and forgotten waystations, returning with crucial intel.

  “The Council’s forces are stretched thin,” he reported one night around a dimly lit campfire. “They’re still hunting for us in the mountains, and they’ve fortified the roads leading to Qoarla. They don’t expect us to come straight at them.”

  Achem nodded, studying the crude map spread before him. “Good. That means we still have the advantage.”

  Garnac grunted. “Aye, but that won’t last forever. We need to get inside before they realize their mistake.”

  Lysara leaned back, arms folded behind her head. “So, what’s the plan, oh fearless leader? Just knock on the front gates and demand the throne?”

  Achem smirked. “Something like that.”

  They had one chance to strike before the full force of the Council's army returned.

  And failure meant death.

  After hard-earned, deliberate rests—no more than a few stolen hours beneath the skeletal branches of wind-worn pines—the Iron Wolves pressed forward, their march unbroken. Sleep, when it came, was shallow, filled with the restless stirring of those too wary to truly surrender to it. Each moment of stillness was stolen from the jaws of pursuit, a gamble against the Council’s relentless hunters.

  When they moved again, it was with the quiet efficiency of warriors who had learned to live on the edge of exhaustion. Their bodies ached, their breath curled in misted plumes against the frigid air, but the mountains did not wait, nor did the enemy.

  The ascent grew steeper, the paths narrower, winding through the bones of the world itself. The trees thinned, giving way to jagged stone and sheer cliffs where the wind howled like a starving beast. Below them, the valleys stretched dark and endless, treacherous chasms that promised only death for those who lost their footing.

  And still, they climbed.

  For beyond these peaks, past the ice and wind and the long shadow of pursuit, lay the one place the Council’s hand could not easily reach. A refuge carved from legend.

  If they could make it.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Eldoria, the city was already preparing for war.

  Thick stone walls loomed in the distance, torches burning along the ramparts, watchtowers manned by archers, and soldiers marching in formation along the streets.

  Eldoria was not a city waiting to be taken.

  It was a fortress bracing for a siege.

  But sieging it was not the plan.

  Achem and his warriors didn’t have the numbers for a direct attack.

  But they had something better.

  Stealth. Precision. Fear.

  And the secrets that lay beneath the city.

  Tavian led them through the slums of the Lower City, where shadow markets thrived, criminals moved without fear of the law, and loyalty was bought and sold like cheap steel.

  Here, the Council’s control was weakest.

  Here, whispers of a dead king returning would spread like wildfire.

  Achem pulled his cloak tighter as they passed through narrow alleyways, stepping over filth and discarded bones. The stench of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and stagnant water clung to the air, but the people barely glanced at them.

  In the eyes of the slum dwellers, they were just more ghosts in the night.

  Exactly what they needed to be.

  Tavian stopped outside a crumbling stone building, its wooden doors warped with age. “This is it.”

  Achem frowned. “And you’re sure they’ll help?”

  Tavian smirked. “Help? No. But they’ll take our coin.”

  The doors groaned on rusted hinges, parting like the maw of some slumbering beast to reveal the den within—a place steeped in smoke and shadow, where the air was thick with the scent of stale ale, damp stone, and unwashed bodies. Dim lanterns flickered along the walls, their feeble glow casting long, wavering specters across the uneven floor. The space pulsed with murmured conversations, the clinking of coin, and the low, guttural laughter of those who lived in the margins of law and morality.

  Men and women hunched over battered tables, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods and tangled hair, eyes sharp and mistrustful. Dice tumbled across scarred wood, fortunes made and lost in a heartbeat, while cups of sour wine passed between calloused hands. Some drank in brooding silence, others whispered secrets meant to die in the dark, their voices no louder than the shifting of the shadows themselves.

  A fight had broken out in one corner—two brutes grappling over an accusation of cheating, their movements sluggish with drink but no less violent for it. A dagger gleamed in the firelight, drawn with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before. No one intervened. Blood on the floor was simply part of the decor.

  At the far end of the room, a figure lounged in the half-light, draped in fine but worn silks, watching the newcomers with the idle curiosity of a cat considering a mouse. Around them, other eyes turned—calculating, appraising.

  Achem could feel the weight of those stares.

  This was a place where trust was a currency rarer than gold. And they had come to bargain.

  Achem stepped inside.

  Time to make some new allies.

  The leader of the Lower City’s underworld was not what Achem expected.

  She was a woman, draped in black silks, reclining on a throne of old bones, her dark eyes gleaming with mock amusement.

  “So,” she murmured, swirling wine in a chipped goblet, “the dead king walks among us once more.”

  Achem studied her. “And you are?”

  “Lady Maris,” she said lazily, though the title was clearly self-given. “Queen of the Forgotten.”

  Garnac snorted. “Never heard of you.”

  Maris smirked. “And yet you stand in my domain, asking for my favor.”

  Achem cut straight to the point. “We need a way inside the palace.”

  The room fell silent.

  Then Maris laughed.

  A low, throaty sound.

  “Ambitious.”

  Lysara leaned against a column. “We prefer ‘bold.’”

  Maris rested her chin on her hand, considering them. “You have nothing to bargain with, false king.”

  Achem held her gaze. “I have something better than gold.”

  Maris arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Power.” Achem stepped closer. “The Council of Lords rules because people like you let them. Because you scrape for their coins, thrive in the shadows while they sit in their golden halls.”

  Maris’s smirk faded slightly.

  Achem leaned in. “Help me, and you won’t need to live in the dark anymore.”

  Silence.

  Maris, ever calculating, thinking all how the outcome will benefit her.

  Then—Maris laughed again.

  This time, it was different.

  Less amused. More intrigued.

  She reached a decision.

  Just like that.

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  She stood. “Very well, dead king.”

  She snapped her fingers.

  The doors opened, and a dozen figures emerged from the shadows—assassins, thieves, spies.

  “You want into the palace?” she said. “Then welcome to the King’s Shadows.”

  Achem exhaled.

  They had their way in.

  Now—they just had to survive it.

  The next two days were spent preparing.

  Maris’s people gathered information, tracking the Council’s movements, mapping guard rotations, and identifying weak points in the palace defenses.

  Whispers spread through the city.

  Rumors of a lost king returned.

  Of a reckoning coming for the Council.

  The nobles scoffed.

  The common folk listened.

  The Council tightened its grip.

  More patrols. More executions. More fear.

  They knew something was coming.

  They just didn’t know when.

  Achem stood in the heart of the ruined temple, where time had long since laid its claim. Moonlight filtered through the shattered dome above, casting pale silver over broken columns and faded murals of forgotten gods. The air was thick with dust and the scent of damp stone, the whispers of a place once sacred now lost to ruin.

  His fingers traced the worn hilt of his sword, the leather grip rough beneath his touch, a familiar anchor in the midst of uncertainty. Around him, the remnants of his warriors moved in silence, setting up their meager camp among the rubble. Tavian sharpened his dagger on a fallen altar, its once-pristine marble now marred by time and blood. Lysara sat cross-legged in the shadows, her fingers trailing absent-mindedly through the air, conjuring flickers of arcane light that danced like ghostly embers.

  The temple had been abandoned for decades, its gods forsaken, its walls stripped of their gold and purpose. But it was stone, and stone endured. In its broken halls, they found shelter. Here, beneath the weight of history and ruin, they would plan.

  Beyond the crumbling archways, Eldoria loomed—a city bracing for war, its towers etched against the night sky like the jagged teeth of a beast waiting to devour them.

  Achem exhaled slowly, the cold pressing in around him.

  The battle had not yet begun.

  But the storm was coming.

  Garnac leaned against the doorway. “They’re scared.”

  Achem nodded. “Good.”

  Lysara rolled her eyes. “But not stupid. They’re preparing.”

  Tavian entered, his expression grim. “Then we’d better move first.”

  Achem exhaled. “Tomorrow night.”

  Lysara arched an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

  Achem’s jaw tightened.

  “Just like that.”

  The plan was simple.

  Slip into the palace under cover of darkness.

  Find the Council.

  Kill them before they could call for their armies.

  It was madness.

  But it was their only chance.

  Achem stood with his warriors in the tunnels beneath Eldoria, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old secrets.

  Beside them, the city slept.

  Blissfully unaware that, before the sun rose…

  Its rulers would be dead.

  Or they would be.

  The tunnels beneath Eldoria’s palace were ancient—older than the kingdom itself. Achem could feel it in the air, the weight of history pressing down on them, the scent of damp stone and old secrets curling around every breath.

  Maris’s spies had led them this far, slipping past hidden entrances and forgotten passages, avoiding the patrols above.

  Achem moved at the head of the group, his mind sharp, his body coiled for battle.

  Lysara followed close behind, her hands already glowing faintly with restrained magic. Garnac walked like a caged beast, his axe strapped to his back, his knuckles white.

  Tavian, ever the shadow, vanished into the darkness, scouting ahead.

  The Council believed themselves untouchable.

  But tonight, the throne of Eldoria would tremble.

  “The Council chambers should be directly above us,” Tavian whispered, emerging from the gloom. “There’s a passage leading into the lower palace halls. From there, we move quickly.”

  Achem nodded. “No delays. We find the Council. We end this.”

  Maris’s spies pushed ahead, silently removing a rusted iron grate, revealing a hidden passage leading up into the heart of the palace.

  But just as they were about to move—

  A voice, smooth as silk, slid through the shadows.

  “Going somewhere, King?”

  Achem’s breath caught.

  He knew that voice.

  The Elejae.

  She stepped from the darkness like she had always belonged to it.

  A vision of deadly beauty.

  Draped in black silks that clung to her every curve, the faint light caught on the subtle shimmer of her tight-fitted armor, accentuating the dangerous elegance of her form. The veil covering her lower face only made her silver eyes burn brighter, their predatory glint locking onto Achem like a wolf stalking prey.

  His throat went dry.

  For a moment, his mind betrayed him—imagining what lay beneath that veil, beneath that armor. The way her hips swayed with every step, the curve of her waist, the smoothness of her bare arms...

  Damn it.

  He forced himself to focus.

  She’s an assassin, not a temptation.

  Lysara groaned, crossing her arms. “Oh, wonderful. The murderous seductress is back.”

  The Elejae ignored her, stepping closer to Achem—too close.

  Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath through her veil.

  Close enough to make him wonder—

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” he said flatly.

  She tilted her head, amusement flickering in those silver eyes. “So are you.”

  Garnac gripped his axe. “What do you want?”

  The Elejae didn’t look at him. She only looked at Achem.

  “To help.”

  Silence.

  Then Lysara laughed.

  A short, sharp sound. “Oh, that’s rich. And why, pray tell, would you help us?”

  The Elejae’s gaze never left Achem. “Because the game has changed.”

  Tavian narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  She smiled beneath her veil, but there was no humor in it.

  “You think the Council rules Eldoria? You’re wrong. They never did.”

  Achem felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.

  “…Then who does?”

  The Elejae’s words hit like a blade to the chest.

  Achem had spent weeks fighting to reclaim his throne, believing the Council of Lords was his greatest enemy.

  But now—the game was deeper than he had imagined.

  “The Council is nothing more than a mask,” the Elejae continued, voice low. “The true power behind the throne is the Order of the Arcaemaguls.”

  The air felt heavier at the mention of them.

  Even Lysara, usually quick with a sarcastic remark, fell silent.

  Achem exhaled slowly. “The Arcaemaguls.”

  He knew the name.

  Rogar’s memories surged through Achem’s mind like echoes from a half-remembered nightmare—fragmented whispers of a shadowed cabal, unseen yet ever-present, their influence woven into the very fabric of the world. The Arhaemaguls were not mere men and women; they were architects of fate, their hands shaping empires, their will bending the course of history like a blacksmith molds iron.

  They had existed since the first stones of Eldoria were laid, a secret order bound not by banners or blood, but by knowledge—terrible, boundless knowledge. Their magic was older than the throne itself, its roots buried deep in the bones of the earth, older than kings, older than war. It was said they spoke in tongues no mortal should utter, that they had bargained with things that slumbered beyond the veil of reality.

  Even the greatest warriors feared them, not for their steel, but for the way they fought wars without ever raising a blade. A king’s mind unraveled in the night, a rival’s heart seized mid-sentence, entire bloodlines wiped from history with a whisper.

  Rogar had told him once, in hushed tones, that the Arhaemaguls were not seen unless they wished to be, that by the time a man realized he was in their grasp, his fate had already been sealed.

  And now, Achem had spoken their name aloud.

  The weight of it hung in the air like a curse.

  Lysara’s lips pressed into a thin line. “They’re myths. Boogeymen. Stories told to scare children.”

  The Elejae’s silver eyes darkened. “No. They are real.”

  Achem’s mind raced.

  The Council was just a shield.

  The true enemy sat behind them, watching, waiting.

  And now, he was walking into their den.

  He exhaled sharply. “Why tell me this?”

  The Elejae’s smirk returned. “Because you’re not dead yet. And I want to see what happens next.”

  There was one more revelation before the night was through.

  As they moved through the secret corridors, drawing ever closer to the Council’s chambers, the Elejae drifted beside Achem with the effortless grace of a specter. The flickering torchlight played across their features, accentuating sharp cheekbones, luminous eyes that held depths unfathomable, and lips that curved in an enigmatic smile, as if they knew secrets the world itself had forgotten.

  Their presence was a thing of contradiction—silent yet commanding, delicate yet dangerous. The soft rustle of their robes was barely a whisper against the cold stone walls, yet Achem felt them as keenly as the blade at his side. There was an allure to them, something just beyond reach, a beauty not merely of form but of essence—like moonlight caught in a prism, shifting, elusive, never fully grasped.

  Even in the dim corridor, amid the scent of damp stone and ancient dust, they carried the scent of something foreign, something wild—like jasmine laced with storm-churned air, a fragrance that did not belong to this world. They did not merely walk; they moved like poetry given form, like the hush before an arrow finds its mark.

  Achem had fought alongside warriors, had stood in the presence of kings, but beside the Elejae, he felt the weight of something else entirely—something older, something fey, something beyond the grasp of mortal understanding.

  And as they neared the threshold of battle, he wondered whether the Elejae’s presence was a boon or a warning.

  “They replaced you, you know.”

  Achem’s step faltered. “…What?”

  She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “The Arcaemaguls didn’t just remove you. They gave the people someone new to follow.”

  Achem’s blood ran cold.

  A name surfaced.

  A name that had been whispered in the dark corners of Eldoria since his fall.

  “…Alistair Valen.”

  The Elejae smiled beneath her veil. “Your replacement.”

  Achem clenched his jaw.

  His throne had been stolen. He knew his throne had been stolen. He knew Alistair Valen was the one who replaced him.

  His kingdom had been twisted into something he no longer recognized.

  They finally reached the hidden passage leading into the Council’s chambers.

  Beyond it—

  The men who had betrayed him.

  The puppet king who sat on his throne.

  The Arcaemaguls who had orchestrated it all.

  Achem turned to his warriors.

  His voice was calm, steady, absolute.

  “No mercy.”

  He pushed open the door.

  And stepped into destiny.

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