The great hall of Eryndral Keep lay shrouded in a tense silence, broken only by the faint crackle of torches mounted along its towering stone walls. The throne room was sparsely lit, and the few attendants who remained at this late hour shuffled nervously, casting wary glances at the distant silhouette of their king. King Eltharion II, clad in regal robes of deep crimson and gold, sat upon his obsidian throne with a furrowed brow, his hand resting heavily on the armrest. Rumors of unrest among the nobles had reached his ears, but no solid evidence had yet surfaced.

Tonight, those whispers would solidify into brutal reality.

The assassin moved like a shadow within a shadow, invisible to even the most vigilant watchman. He was no ordinary killer; he was Lucius Verus, son of Cassius and secret of Ashea. Lucius was a tall, imposing figure with a smooth, bald head that gleamed faintly in the dim light. His striking orange and purple robes, intricately embroidered with symbols of an unknown origin, billowed softly as he moved, lending him an almost otherworldly aura. The bold hues of his attire contrasted sharply with the darkness around him, yet the shadows seemed to embrace him, bending to his will.

Known across nations as one of the rare masters of weaponry imbued with the soulfire power of Shade, a Forger,Lucius carried twin daggers that gleamed faintly with their ominous glow. The veins of shadow running along the blades seemed alive, as though the weapons themselves hungered for violence. His presence was suffocating—a weight that pressed on the senses, chilling the blood of anyone who dared to cross him.

The guards stationed at the king’s chamber entrance had no time to react. One moment, they were standing at attention; the next, their throats were opened by Lucius’s daggers. He moved with an unnerving grace, his bare scalp reflecting a brief flicker of torchlight as he slipped into the throne room.

King Eltharion’s eyes darted to the sudden motion. He shot to his feet, his voice commanding despite the danger. “Guards!” he shouted, though the urgency in his tone betrayed his fear. But his cry went unanswered.

“No one is coming,” Lucius said, his voice deep and resonant, laced with an almost mocking calm. He stepped into the light, revealing sharp, angular features and an air of cold detachment. His orange and purple robes shimmered faintly as he moved closer, his twin daggers glinting in his hands.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Who sent you?” Eltharion demanded, reaching for the ceremonial sword mounted beside his throne.

“A question from a dead man,” Lucius replied. His words were dismissive, as though the king’s life were already forfeit. “But I will indulge you.”

Before the king could react, Lucius flicked one of his daggers, severing the strap that held the sword. The blade clattered to the floor as Lucius pressed closer.

“It wasn’t Arkan,” he said, his tone laced with disdain. “No foreign power seeks your throne. This comes from within.”

Eltharion’s eyes widened. “The nobles?” he rasped.

Lucius nodded, his hood casting deep shadows over his face. “Your lords grow tired of your decrees, your centralization of power. They find it… inconvenient.”

The king’s face twisted with rage and sorrow. “Cowards! Traitors! They dare—”

“They dared,” Lucius interrupted, his voice as cold as the steel in his hands. “And they didn’t stop at killing you. My ‘clients’,” he said with a sneer, “insisted that I leave a mark. A reminder.” He gestured to the lifeless guards outside.

Lucius turned his gaze back to the king. “They ordered me to carve the name ‘Vlad’ into your chest and hang your body on the main poles of this castle—a place where all your subjects will see your fall. A message from your precious lords, and a cruel joke at your expense.”

The king’s expression turned from defiance to horror.

Lucius leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You were a good king, Eltharion. But goodness rarely survives ambition.”

With a single, fluid motion, Lucius drove his right dagger deep into the king’s chest. The blade pulsed faintly, its glow consuming the light in Eltharion’s eyes as he staggered. Blood stained his royal robes as he slumped lifelessly against the obsidian throne.

Lucius pulled his dagger free and stared at the body with cold detachment. He knelt beside the fallen king, the edge of his blade tracing shallow lines on the lifeless chest. “Be glad,” he murmured, his tone chillingly soft, “you had the pleasure of dying to Umbran.”

The dagger danced effortlessly in his hands as he etched the word ‘Vlad’ across the king’s chest, the letters sharp and jagged, cruelly carved for all to see. When he finished, he wiped the blade clean with the hem of his robes, his expression devoid of emotion.

Lucius rose and turned, his steps slow and deliberate as he dragged the king’s body toward the main poles of the castle. The lifeless form of King Eltharion II would soon hang in the first light of dawn, a grim spectacle to ignite a kingdom.

“War will come of this,” Lucius murmured, his voice carrying a trace of something that could almost be regret. “And I will be watching.”

With that, Lucius Verus melted into the shadows, leaving behind a scene that would plunge Simbar into a war of succession that none could escape.