A petite woman moved purposefully through the lively marketplace of a small town on Drakhelm’s outskirts. The air buzzed with the calls of merchants and the laughter of children darting between stalls. Yet, as the woman passed, the atmosphere shifted. Her presence brought an unnatural stillness, a quiet that seemed to mute the surrounding noise. Her infamous mask, etched with a crimson smile and devoid of eyeholes, was enough to send a shiver down the spine of anyone who saw her. Her silent, deliberate steps only added to her eerie aura, creating an invisible boundary that no one dared to cross.

Her destination was an unassuming shop tucked between the larger, more colorful stalls. The shop was known for its fruit confit skewers—a simple yet cherished treat in the region. The woman paused before the counter, tilting her masked face slightly as she handed a coin to the attendant and received a skewer. Without a word, she walked to a nearby bench and sat down. The mundane act contrasted sharply with her unsettling presence, prompting passersby to avert their gazes.

Slowly her voice broke the silence with a soft, haunting cadence. The words of a chilling poem about a blood moon slipped from her lips:

Beneath the crimson sky we tread,

Shadows whisper where mortals dread.

Blood’s song, eternal, never fades,

A crimson veil the world invades.

The shop’s female attendant, busy arranging items behind the counter, froze. Her movements stilled as she turned toward the masked woman, her eyes wide with recognition. After a moment, her lips parted, and she recited a response in perfect rhythm:

The moon may weep, its tears unseen,

But seekers walk where blood has been.

A matron’s call, a sister’s thread,

The crimson moon is never dead.

The attendant stepped closer, her cheerful facade replaced by an air of solemnity. Her voice dropped to a near whisper as she addressed the masked woman with a mix of reverence and familiarity.

“The branch in Drakhelm thrives under Kestrel’s wing,” she said, her tone measured. “Her movements are swift, her presence like a shadow’s whisper. None can trace her steps, and her intelligence network is unmatched. She has kept the branch hidden while collecting whispers from the highest towers to the deepest alleys.”

The woman inclined her head slightly, the crimson smile of her mask remaining fixed. “And the post?” she asked, her voice as soft as a blade sliding from its sheath.

The attendant reached beneath the counter and retrieved a bundle of skewers wrapped in wax paper. Handing them to Shrike, she murmured, “The instructions are here.”

The masked woman accepted the skewers without a word and rose, disappearing into the crowd as if she had never been there. The attendant watched her go, her hands trembling. When she turned back to the bench where Shrike had been sitting, the skewers were gone, absorbed into the shadows as though they had never existed. In their place lay a small, folded note.

With trembling fingers, the attendant picked it up and unfolded it. The message was brief but carried profound weight: Your daughter is excelling in the magic school. She will become a mage, just as you dreamed. Rest easy; she is safe.

Tears filled the woman’s eyes as she clutched the note to her chest. Relief and joy washed over her, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. A soft smile broke through her tears as she hugged herself tightly. After a moment, she wiped her eyes, composed herself, and returned to her work, cleaning the bench as though nothing had happened. Yet, deep within, she felt the reassurance of the sisterhood’s watchful eyes, always guarding her family.

The masked woman arrived at Flavors and Fragrance, a restaurant nestled in the heart of Drakhelm. Renowned for its refined ambiance and exquisite cuisine, the establishment was the epitome of sophistication, its facade a seamless blend of elegance and subtlety. Yet beneath its polished veneer lay a hidden truth. The entrance was marked by ornate carvings and a cascade of flowering vines. Inside, soft candlelight illuminated the polished marble floors, while the air carried a subtle blend of spices and floral notes. A beautiful female host stood at the podium, her practiced smile greeting each guest with an air of effortless charm.

Then the masked woman stepped through the doors, her presence sent an almost imperceptible ripple through the room. Her infamous mask, with its crimson smile and eyeless design, was a stark contrast to the restaurant’s cultivated refinement. The host’s professional demeanor faltered for the briefest moment before she recovered, her gaze cautiously following the woman’s silent approach.

The masked woman paused before the host, her soft, melodic voice breaking the delicate hum of the restaurant’s ambiance as she recited:

“The blood moon, a hunter’s silent guide,

Its crimson gaze on wings that glide.

Shadows call, and secrets nest,

The kestrel joins the moon’s request.”

The host’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing over her otherwise composed features. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, her voice steady yet laced with reverence. “Please, wait here. I will inform the manager.” Moments later, a figure emerged from the shadows of the dining room: Kestrel, the enigmatic head of the Drakhelm branch. Petite and poised, she exuded an air of quiet authority. Her dark hair was tied back in a sleek braid, and her sharp, hawk-like eyes scanned the room with a predator’s precision.

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Kestrel greeted, her voice low and smooth, betraying neither surprise nor fear. “Come with me.”

Kestrel led the masked woman through the restaurant, past gilded doors that opened into a private room tucked away from prying eyes. The room was dimly lit, its minimalist decor chosen to prioritize secrecy over comfort. A single table sat in the center, its surface bare save for a rolled parchment and a vial of ink. Once inside, Kestrel motioned for the masked woman to sit, taking her place across the table. She leaned forward and put on a mask with eyelines of black, white and blue shades, then her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not often that you visit this kingdom. What brings you to Drakhelm?”

The masked woman tilted her head slightly, the crimson smile of her mask frozen in its eerie permanence. Her voice, soft and deliberate, carried an edge of formality. “A hunt. The Ravencroft matriarch carries something of great interest to the sisterhood. I am here to retrieve it.” As they took their seats, Kestrel leaned forward, her sharp gaze fixed on the masked woman. “Seraphina Ravencroft,” she repeated, her tone heavy with intrigue.

Kestrel reached into her cloak, producing a folded parchment. She laid it on the table and unfolded it to reveal a detailed map marked with notes. Her gloved finger tapped on a specific location near Drakhelm’s western border.

The masked woman studied the map. “To retrieve the token and neutralize the threat. Seraphina is protected by formidable wards, likely powered by the forbidden techniques of the Noctis Sect. I’ll need precise intelligence on her defenses and any allies she may have within the city.” Kestrel leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled in thought “She’s been seen frequenting abandoned ruins near the border, accompanied by a small but elite retinue. If you’re venturing into her territory, you’ll need more than just intelligence—you’ll need a contingency.”

The masked woman inclined her head slightly. “Your insights are appreciated, Kestrel. Do you have additional resources to spare?”

Kestrel nods faintly. “You know the sisterhood’s policy—we aid our own. I’ll arrange for a courier to deliver a dossier on her known associates, tactics and spells by dawn.

The masked woman rose from her seat, tucking the map back into her cloak. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Kestrel nodded. As the masked woman disappeared into the shadows, Kestrel remained seated, her thoughts lingering on the dangers ahead.

An abandoned hut on the outskirts of Drakhelm stood cloaked in decay. Its sagging roof and rotting wooden walls betrayed years of neglect, blending seamlessly with the overgrown forest surrounding it. Moonlight pierced through cracks in the structure, casting jagged beams that danced like restless spirits. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and lingering whispers of old magic.

From the darkest corner of the hut, Shrike emerged as if the shadows themselves had given her form. Her masked visage—marked by its crimson smile—was a haunting contrast to the bleak surroundings. Silent and still, she waited, her posture a perfect balance of readiness and patience.

Moments later, the air shimmered near the center of the hut, and with a sudden flash, Nightingale materialized. Her red robes rippled with an otherworldly elegance, and her piercing eyes scanned the room before settling on Shrike.

"You're punctual," Shrike murmured, her voice soft yet carrying an edge of authority.

Before Nightingale could respond, another figure stepped forward from the shadows, her movements fluid and deliberate. Raven, clad in dark robe and a cloak that seemed to drink the light, inclined her head toward the other two. Her presence was less abrupt but no less commanding.

“All here,” Shrike said, her voice low and melodic.

Shrike produced a map from within her cloak, spreading it across the rickety table at the hut's center. The parchment was marked with notes and symbols, some familiar, others written in a cipher known only to the sisterhood.

“Seraphina Ravencroft,” Shrike began, her gloved finger tracing a path along the map, “has positioned herself as a powerful figure within Drakhelm’s noble houses. But her influence isn’t confined to politics. She’s allied herself with the Noctis sect, a dark organization originating from Noctara. Their involvement changes everything.”

Nightingale’s brow furrowed as she leaned closer to the map. “The Noctis sect? They’re infamous for their use of forbidden magic. If she’s tied to them, this mission just became more dangerous.”

Shrike nodded. “Precisely. She’s been gathering support, both overtly and in secret, and her agenda remains unknown. What we do know is that she’s a threat to the balance of power in Drakhelm—and beyond.”

Raven crossed her arms, her sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. “Is there any chance we could turn her? A woman with her connections and abilities could be a valuable asset.”

Shrike’s voice was firm as she replied, “No. Her ties to Drakhelm’s nobility and her allegiance to Noctara’s sect make her irredeemable. Whatever her endgame is, it’s one we cannot afford there’s many unpredictable factors. We could end like our predecessors the red lotus fragrance, she must be eliminated.”

Shrike pointed to several locations marked on the map. “In three days, we’ll move. These are her likely positions and the locations of her wards. Each ward is powered by forbidden magic. Raven, your task is to disable the ward here,” she said, indicating a point near an abandoned watchtower in the ruins. “You’ll receive a detailed brief about their formation, abilities and weakness from the courier at dawn. The information will be precise—use it well.” Raven nodded.

Shrike turned to Nightingale. “Your targets are her guards and inner circle. They’ll likely be stationed at this manor,” she said, tapping another point on the map. “They’re well-trained, but your skills will ensure they don’t interfere. Precision is key—eliminate them quietly.”

Nightingale smirked. “Subtlety is my specialty.”

Finally, Shrike addressed both women. “Seraphina herself will be at this location—a secluded estate deep within the ruins. Her defenses will be strongest there, and I will handle her directly. Your tasks are crucial to ensuring her wards and allies are neutralized before I strike.” The two women exchanged glances, their resolve evident. “Any further questions?” Shrike asked.

Nightingale spoke first. “What about contingencies? If Seraphina’s forces are larger than expected?”

“We adapt,” Shrike said simply.

Raven tilted her head. “And if she tries to flee?”

Shrike’s masked face turned toward her. “She won’t. The sisterhood’s reach is absolute.”

Shrike folded the map and handed it to Raven. “Remember, the courier will deliver everything you need by dawn. Prepare yourselves. In three days, this ends.”

Without another word, Shrike stepped back into the shadows and vanished as seamlessly as she had arrived. Nightingale and Raven exchanged a brief nod before disappearing themselves—one dissolving into shadow, the other vanishing in a ripple of magic.

The abandoned hut fell silent once more, but its walls seemed to hum with the weight of what had just transpired. The hunt was set in motion, and in three days, the fate of Seraphina Ravencroft would be sealed.