The restaurant was one of the most popular establishments in the Gold Land's capital—a sprawling, two-story building with ornate wooden carvings decorating its exterior and warm golden light spilling from its many windows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and the low murmur of conversation.
Nobles, merchants, and wealthy travelers filled the tables, their laughter and chatter creating a comfortable hum of noise that provided perfect cover for private discussions.
In a secluded corner on the second floor, away from prying eyes and ears, sat two men.
Camara was a middle-aged man, well-dressed in fine robes of deep blue embroidered with silver thread. His face was unremarkable—neither handsome nor ugly, the kind of face that blended into crowds and was easily forgotten. But his eyes were sharp, calculating, always watching, always weighing.
He was one of Cynthia Sichom's most trusted operatives, the man who handled her delicate tasks, the arrangements that could not be spoken of in daylight.
Across from him sat a figure that drew the eye and repelled it in equal measure.
Tsaral.
He appeared to be in his thirties, though something about him suggested he might be far older. His hair was stark white, flowing past his shoulders like freshly fallen snow. His eyes were white as well—pale, almost luminous, with no visible iris or pupil, giving him an unsettling, inhuman quality.
His skin was a purplish-dark hue that seemed to absorb and reflect light in strange ways, catching the glow of the lamps and throwing it back in faint, eerie ripples.
A jagged scar ran down the left side of his face, from temple to jaw, a testament to violence survived.
But it was his aura that truly set him apart.
Even here, in this crowded restaurant, surrounded by warmth and life, Tsaral seemed to carry a pocket of darkness with him. The air around him felt colder.
Heavier. As though unseen hands pressed down on the space he occupied. Faint whispers seemed to curl at the edges of perception—wailing, keening sounds that were not quite there but could not be ignored.
It was as though he was surrounded by ghosts.
Camara leaned forward, his voice low. "Have you seen her? Princess Reloua? Since her return?"
Tsaral's pale eyes remained fixed on the table, his expression unreadable. "I have."
"And the young man? The one guarding her and her brother?"
Tsaral's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. "Teleu. Yes. I've seen him."
Camara's eyes narrowed. "What do you think? Can you handle him?"
Tsaral tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question. "He is a mystic. That much is certain. He tries to hide it, but he lacks the skill. His presence is... controlled, yes. Disciplined. But not enough to escape the notice of someone like me."
He paused, his white eyes gleaming faintly. "I can see the aura radiating from him. Golden, but tinged with red. Blood. Violence. He walks the Warrior Route, and he walks it on the Dark Path."
Camara's breath quickened. "What tier?"
"Lower than mine," Tsaral said simply. "Third Grade Adept, perhaps. Maybe approaching Elite. But not yet."
Camara exhaled slowly, relief flickering across his face. "Good. Then the assassination—can you do it? And when?"
Tsaral leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "I can do it. Likely within the next three days."
Camara's eyes lit up. "Excellent. Then—"
"But," Tsaral interrupted, his voice soft but cutting, "I will need time to prepare."
Camara frowned. "Why? You just said he's of a lower tier."
Tsaral's smile grew slightly, though it did not reach his eyes. "Tier is not the only factor that determines victory, Camara. You would do well to remember that."
He leaned forward, his white eyes locking onto Camara's. "Yes, Teleu is of a lower tier. But tier alone does not guarantee success. A practitioner can be of a lower grade, a lower tier, and still emerge victorious if they are favored by entities more powerful than their opponent."
Camara's frown deepened. "Favored?"
"Pacts," Tsaral said simply. "Entities. Spirits. Djinn. Ancestors. If Teleu has made pacts with beings of sufficient strength, the gap between our tiers becomes meaningless. The fight becomes evenly matched. And when that happens, anything can occur."
He paused, his expression darkening. "Of course, if the distance between tiers is too great—if I were a Master and he an Apprentice, for example—then nothing could make up for that gulf. But as it stands, I must be cautious."
Camara absorbed this, his jaw tightening. "So you'll prepare. And then you'll kill him."
Tsaral inclined his head. "Precisely."
The conversation continued for a few more minutes—logistics, payment, contingencies—but soon, Tsaral rose smoothly from his seat, his movements fluid and deliberate.
"I will contact you when it is done," he said.
Camara nodded. "See that you do."
Tsaral turned and left the private room, descending the stairs and slipping through the crowded restaurant like a shadow passing through light.
No one looked at him directly. No one seemed to notice him at all.
He stepped out into the cool night air, the streets of the capital dimly lit by lanterns hanging from posts and storefronts.
The city was quieter now, the bustle of the day giving way to the stillness of evening.
Tsaral walked with purpose, his white hair catching the faint glow of the lamps, his dark purple skin shimmering strangely in the light.
He moved through the winding streets, past markets and homes, until he reached the edge of the merchant district.
There, nestled against the base of a rocky hillside, stood a massive inn.
It was unlike any other building in the city.
The structure was built directly into the hill, its walls formed from the most precious clay—smooth, dark, and polished to a faint sheen.
The entrance was shaped like the mouth of a cave, wide and imposing, with intricate carvings decorating the archway. Lanterns hung from hooks embedded in the clay, casting warm, flickering light across the surface.
Inside, the inn was vast, its corridors winding deeper into the hillside like the tunnels of an ancient warren.
The air was cool, faintly damp, carrying the scent of earth and stone.
Tsaral moved through the corridors without hesitation, his footsteps echoing softly against the clay walls.
He climbed a narrow staircase, passed several closed doors, and finally reached his room.
He entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click.