The gates of Avalon rose like the ribs of some ancient, slumbering titan—arched spines of polished amberstone infused with veins of shimmering aether. Even at night, the walls glowed faintly, as though lit from within by the lifeblood of the kingdom itself.
Captain Solen Drevik slowed his horse as he approached the final checkpoint, exhaustion dragging at his posture. Mud clung to his boots, dried blood stiffened the sleeve of his leather coat, and his saddlebag—heavy, ominous—thumped against the horse's flank with every step.
Avalon's capital was never silent.
Even at dusk, the air thrummed.
Seven million souls moved through those streets—merchants closing their stalls, aether lamps flickering awake along the boulevards, floating barges drifting above the canals, suspended by shimmering blue runes etched into their hulls. Voices overlapped—arguments, laughter, curses—woven with the hum of raw aether spilling from the grand conduits like mist.
Solen had grown up here. He had trained in these streets, bled for these towers, killed in these alleys. But tonight the capital felt heavier. More watchful.
Perhaps it was the saddlebag.
Or the knowledge of what lay inside it.
The guards recognized him and saluted with stiff precision. No one asked questions. No one looked at the bag too closely.
Smart men.
He rode past the towering spires of the Aether College, where crystalline runes spiraled around the towers like vines made of starlight. Past the bustling Grand Market, still alive with traders illuminated by the soft blue haze of powered lanterns. Past the river district, where watermills spun lazily, the churn of their wheels blending with the rumble of distant aether engines powering the city's defenses.
At last, he reached the palace.
Avalon's Grand Palace did not loom—it dominated. A citadel of marble and light, stretching high enough to pierce the drifting clouds, its floors stacked like layered petals of a colossal white blossom. Aether conduits wound through the walls in glowing ribbons, constantly feeding the palace with energy, bathing it in ethereal radiance.
He dismounted at the foot of the grand steps, muscles groaning. A servant rushed to collect his reins. Solen ignored him and strode forward, his boots echoing against the stone.
The palace doors opened without a word.
Two royal guards flanked him as he entered, their armor etched with swirling runes, each movement leaving wisps of blue vapor behind. They escorted him through wide corridors lined with statues of Avalon's kings and queens—each crowned in carved aetherstone that pulsed faintly like beating hearts.
Solen kept his chin up.
He had succeeded.
His mission was complete.
And soon Queen Rina would know it.
They found the queen where she always was at this hour—on the Sunspire Balcony, the highest open terrace of the palace, overlooking the throne chamber below.
The air here tasted of cold marble and burning incense.
Aether winds tugged at Solen's cloak as he stepped onto the wide platform. The balcony was circular, held aloft by twelve pillars carved with ancient runic wards. Beyond its edge stretched the entire capital, a glowing tapestry of golden lights and swirling blue mist.
But Solen's eyes were drawn to the lone figure seated upon a cushioned chaise near the railing.
Queen Rina.
Her gown spilled across the marble like liquid obsidian, reflecting streaks of gold from the palace lanterns. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, adorned with thin chains of aetherite that glimmered with every breath. A glass of crimson wine rested loosely in her hand.
She didn't look at Solen.
She looked down.
And below the balcony, the throne hall unfurled in all its opulence—columns thicker than ancient trees, banners bearing the sigil of Avalon fluttering gently as nobles argued on polished floors of pale stone.
Her sons were there—two princes, tall and imperious, each surrounded by their clusters of advisors.
Prince Kael, eldest, the Crown Prince. Jaw sharp, eyes colder than frozen steel.
Prince Seryon, second son, voice rising with fervor as he gestured passionately at the nobles.
Solen slowed, his boots whispering across the marble. He fell to one knee.
"You may stand," Rina said without turning. Her voice floated lightly on the air, smooth as silk stretched over a blade.
He stood.
"Your Majesty," he said. "I bring news regarding the… matter you entrusted to us."
At that, she glanced at him—just barely.
A single, bored flick of her gold-flecked eyes.
"You succeeded."
Not a question.
He nodded once and lifted the saddlebag.
The guard behind him flinched when he unfastened it. Rina did not.
He reached in.
And withdrew the head.
Lady Lira's face, once so graceful, was now pale and bloodless, dark hair matted and tangled. Her eyes were closed, her lips tinged blue. A thin cut streaked across her cheek where a blade had nicked her in the struggle.
Solen held it with both hands, arms steady.
"Third consort Lira," he said formally. "Executed. Her children fell into the river. We searched—"
"Yes, yes." Rina waved her hand lazily. "Dead children, tragic accident, river currents, et cetera. Spare me the details."
Her lips curled faintly, tugged by amusement.
"My dear Lira always was too sentimental for her own good."
Solen lowered the head slowly into the bag. "I thought you would wish to confirm the kill personally."
"I can see she is dead," Rina said, raising her wine. "You have done well."
His chest swelled with pride despite the coldness of her tone. Praise from Queen Rina was rare.
"My guild stands ready for further orders," he said. "If you need anything else handled quietly—"
"Oh," she murmured, "I will."
She finally turned her body toward him.
Smiling.
Not the warm smile of a grateful queen.
The smile of someone admiring a tool that would soon be discarded.
Solen's breath caught—
—but too late.
A whisper of silk behind him.
A footstep he didn't hear.
A voice he didn't sense.
Then—
A flash of silver.
A sound like paper tearing.
Warmth spilled down his chest before his mind could give it shape.
Solen staggered forward, hand reaching instinctively for his throat as hot blood sprayed between his fingers.
The world lurched.
He gasped—wet, choking—falling to one knee.
Behind him stood the queen's chief maid, Serane, a slender woman in plain gray robes, her hand steady around the dagger now dripping with crimson. Her expression was calm, almost gentle, as though she had merely spilled wine.
"You—" Solen croaked. "Why—"
Rina raised one brow, swirling her wine.
"Loose ends, Captain," she said lightly. "You said yourself your guild knows too much. About Lira. About the children. About me."
He collapsed fully now, palms slipping in his own blood. His vision blurred, the glowing aether veins in the marble floor smearing into streaks of blue.
"But… I served you…" he rasped. "I killed… for you…"
"And you did wonderfully." Rina smiled warmly, as though praising a child's drawing. "But I cannot afford men who know their queen ordered the death of her own family."
Solen tried to crawl.
He managed a single twitch.
Two shadows drifted into existence behind Serane.
Not walking.
Not stepping.
Appearing—silently, like smoke curling into shape.
Two more maids. Faces blank. Eyes empty.
Serane wiped the blade on her sleeve.
"Dispose of him," she said, voice soft as breath. "You know the place."
The two silent maids nodded once. One grabbed Solen by the shoulders. The other lifted his legs. They moved fluidly, unnaturally graceful, their feet not quite touching the ground.
Solen tried to speak. Gurgled instead.
His last sight before they vanished into the shadows was Queen Rina sipping her wine, gaze drifting lazily back toward the throne chamber below.
As though nothing had happened.
As though she hadn't just erased a man like a note from a ledger.
Serane bowed deeply, pressing one palm over her heart.
"What of the guild, Your Majesty?" she asked. "Their captain's absence will be… noticed."
"Handle them," Rina said without looking. "There will be no loose ends. No whispers. No stones left unturned."
Serane lowered her head. "As you command."
Then—she disappeared.
Not walked away.
Not retreated.
Vanished. Dissolved into mist that scattered with a faint shimmer of aether.
Silence settled.
Only the murmur of the nobles below filled the air, their arguments rising like a low tide of discontent.
Rina set her glass aside and leaned on the railing, crossing one leg over the other.
From here, she had the perfect vantage.
She saw everything.
Prince Kael, standing rigid, jaw clenched as he tried to pacify the bickering lords.
Prince Seryon, fists slamming against the debating table, fire in his eyes as he demanded reforms.
Dozens of nobles, all speaking at once, like crows fighting over the same scrap of flesh.
But Rina's gaze drifted past them.
To a man seated among the advisors.
An old man—easily past eighty—with hair white as snowfall and robes threaded with gold leaf. He held himself with stiff dignity, his back impossibly straight despite his years. When he spoke, even the nobles paused to listen.
Prime Minister Odran Vael.
The last of Avalon's old guard.
The only man alive who still remembered Avalon's founding king personally. The only man the nobles trusted more than her.
The last obstacle.
Rina's lips curved.
"So," she murmured to herself, voice soft and sweet as honey spoiled with poison, "the assassins are dealt with."
She traced one finger along the railing, watching the old prime minister gesture sharply at a young noble.
"And now," she whispered, "to deal with the remaining concubines…"
Her eyes drifted to the younger women seated at the edges of the hall—nervous, unsure, too aware of Lira's sudden disappearance.
"…and their children."
She smiled wider, teeth catching the aetherlight.
"And that old prime minister and his faction."
Her gaze hardened as it locked onto Odran, the man who had served five kings and outlived three queens.
"The board must be cleared," she whispered. "If Avalon is to be mine."
The wind shifted.
The balcony lantern flickered.
And below, unaware of the queen's gaze carving their fates, the nobles argued on.