The night pressed down on Greymire like a thick, oppressive fog, its silence only broken by the occasional murmur of wind threading through the narrow, winding streets. A thin crescent moon hung low in the sky, its light feeble, casting the cobbled roads in silvered shadows. The town lay in the deep, dreamless sleep of the unremarkable, a place easily forgotten by the world. But tonight, Greymire had drawn someone’s attention—something dark, deliberate, moving through its streets with the stealth of a predator.

The assassin was a phantom in the night, his presence slipping between alleyways like smoke. His boots barely whispered against the ground as he moved, his black cloak merging seamlessly with the shadowed corners of the town. The night seemed to favor him, concealing him beneath its cloak of silence. Ahead, the inn loomed—a small, unassuming building—but inside, behind a second-story window, was his target: Ellie Liddell, the so-called legendary mage.

He had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. The girl who could crush a Stonebeast with a flick of her wrist. The novice who had outdueled seasoned adventurers. But he knew better than to believe in legends. Power like hers was a beacon, drawing enemies from every dark corner of the world. And tonight, he would be the one to snuff that beacon out before it burned too brightly.

With the grace of long practice, the assassin scaled the side of the inn, his gloved hands finding silent purchase along the rough stone. He slipped through the window like a shadow, landing noiselessly on the wooden floor of her room. The pale fingers of moonlight crept through the thin curtains, casting long bars of silver across the floorboards. His eyes, sharp and accustomed to darkness, quickly adjusted to the dim room.

There she lay, small beneath her blanket, her breathing steady and soft. Ellie. The assassin moved forward with cold precision, drawing the dagger from its sheath, its blade a sliver of moonlit steel. His steps were weightless, the night holding its breath as he approached.

In the dim light, Ellie looked almost delicate—her pale skin framed by loose strands of golden hair that tumbled across her pillow. She had the refined features of the noble daughters he was so familiar with: soft, unmarked hands resting against the covers, a face untouched by the hardships of real battle. The kind of girl who spent her life shielded by wealth and power, far from the cruelty of the world.

He had killed girls like her before. Dozens, maybe more. They were easy. Their arrogance, their titles, their gilded lives meant nothing when faced with the cold steel of his blade. Some, he had even killed at the request of their own parents—desperate to rid themselves of troublesome heirs. This one would be no different. Mage or not, she was still just a child playing at power. One strike—swift, clean—and her legend would die before it could take root.

He almost pitied her for how easy it would be.

But as he neared, his foot brushed against something—small, solid. The wooden leg of a chair. The faintest scrape echoed in the stillness, barely a sound at all, but enough. Enough to stir her.

Ellie shifted beneath the covers, her body tensing. The assassin froze, his pulse quickening as he watched her, waiting for her to settle back into the depths of sleep. But she didn’t. Instead, she turned, her brow furrowing in faint confusion.

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Her eyes fluttered open.

In that instant, the assassin knew he had to act. His grip tightened on the dagger, raising it for a swift, fatal strike—but Ellie moved faster. Her body jerked, the blanket tangling around her legs as she tumbled from the bed in a chaotic motion. She hit the floor with a dull thud, her foot catching the edge of the chair. It toppled over with a sharp crash.

The assassin’s heart raced. The element of surprise was gone.

Ellie groaned, blinking sleepily as she fumbled in the darkness. Half-awake, her hand flailed toward the nightstand, fingers closing around the nearest object—a brass lamp.

Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, she swung the lamp in a wide, panicked arc. The heavy base connected with the assassin’s temple with a sickening crack.

His world spun.

The dagger slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor. His vision blurred as he staggered back, struggling to maintain his balance, but the force of the blow had already undone him. He crumpled to the floor in a heap of dark fabric, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Ellie sat up, her head pounding, still half-lost in the haze of sleep. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared, disbelieving, at the crumpled figure sprawled across her floor. The brass lamp, now bent from the impact, rolled lazily from her hand.

She blinked, her mind struggling to catch up with her body’s wild reflexes. “What...?”

The figure on the ground remained motionless. Slowly, the realization sank in. A man—dressed all in black. A dagger glinting faintly in the moonlight, lying just out of his reach.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Before she could fully process the scene, the door to her room burst open. Several guild members charged in, swords drawn, their expressions tense and alert. Their eyes swept the room, stopping on the unconscious assassin.

"Ellie!" one of them called, his voice thick with worry. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, still too stunned to speak, pointing mutely at the fallen man.

The guild members exchanged wide-eyed looks. One of them knelt beside the assassin, his hand brushing over the discarded dagger.

"You... you took him out?" Another man’s voice cracked through the shock, tinged with awe.

Ellie swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I—I didn’t...”

The guild members gathered around the unconscious assassin, their faces a mixture of astonishment and respect. One of them glanced from the assassin to Ellie, his eyes filled with admiration. “No wonder they call you the strongest mage. You must’ve sensed him. Took him down with some kind of spell, didn’t you?”

Ellie’s gaze flicked to the misshapen lamp on the floor. The truth sat on the tip of her tongue, but the words wouldn’t come. She could still feel the weight of the lamp in her hand, the wild, disoriented panic that had driven her to swing it.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t skill. It was sheer, blind luck.

But as she looked at the wide-eyed guild members, the awe in their eyes, the unspoken expectation hanging in the air, she hesitated. A small, weak smile crept onto her face as she rubbed the back of her neck.

“Yeah... it all happened so fast.”

The legend of Ellie Liddell—the mage who could vanquish an assassin in her sleep—had just been born. And somewhere out in the darkness, forces unseen stirred, plotting their next move.