Year 986, Third Age of Astron
Imperial City, Kingdom of Polaris
Marquis Calden's estate glittered like a second palace beneath the night sky. Lanterns burned along the outer walls. Carriages bearing noble crests crowded the road. Laughter and music spilled from the banquet hall, carrying the scent of roasted meats across the courtyard.
Tonight was no ordinary feast. The Baron of Velmar had come from the west. Two revenue ministers sat near the dais. A count from Triton arrived under the polite fiction of trade. Servants whispered that private matters would be settled before dawn.
Guards stood at every interval—armored, disciplined, their routes crossing at precise times. Watchmen circled the outer walls in pairs. Nothing about the estate suggested weakness.
The first sign was quiet.
A guard near the eastern wall frowned at a torch that flickered without wind. He stepped forward, squinting into the dark. A gloved hand pulled him backward. Steel slid across his throat with controlled precision. His body was lowered without a sound.
His partner turned at the faint scuff of leather. Too late. A dagger entered beneath his jaw before breath could form a warning.
Minutes later, a patrol found the blood. One man froze. The shadow moved behind him. Steel slipped between the plates of his armor; his breath left in a harsh exhale. The second managed half a shout before the word died in his throat.
Bootsteps quickened.
Two remaining guards ran for the bell.
A dark figure then dropped from the roof. One was cut down mid-stride. The other reached for the rope and never pulled it.
The courtyard returned to silence.
One by one, the perimeter routes emptied. Torches guttered beside fallen men. Someone extremely skilled had walked through a heavily guarded noble estate and left only quiet behind.
Inside the banquet hall, laughter still rolled from table to table. Servants refilled goblets. Velvet sleeves brushed gold-threaded coats as nobles leaned close to trade promises disguised as pleasantries.
Marquis Calden sat elevated on the dais, one arm resting lazily against the carved back of his chair. "The border tariffs will pass by winter," the revenue minister said, voice low. "The western petitions have already been dismissed."
The Baron of Velmar chuckled. "Peasants always cry louder when the harvest is thin. It means nothing."
Calden raised his goblet. "Then let them cry. The court hears only what we allow it to hear."
The side doors burst open. And a young soldier stumbled in, pale and breathless.
"My Lord—the courtyard—the guards—"
A blade pierced his throat from behind. His body collapsed. Blood spread slowly across white marble. A single drop struck the floor with a soft, final sound.
The hall froze.
A figure stepped into the light. Black garments fitted for movement rather than ornament. A pale demon mask concealed her face. No crest. No name.
Chairs scraped. Someone shouted for guards. Silence answered.
Calden rose. "Who are you? How dare you spill blood beneath my roof?"
She did not answer. She moved.
The Baron of Velmar reached for his sword. A red line opened across his throat before the blade cleared its scabbard. He dropped without finishing the motion. The revenue minister turned to flee; steel caught him between the ribs. Another man fell before he could scream.
She did not cut through the hall in a frenzy. She passed trembling guests who had come merely to feast, her steps measured, her gaze selective. She walked directly toward those who had buried petitions, dismissed the suffering of the poor, and grown fat on the profits. Seven men fell. The rest remained standing, untouched and shaking.
When the killing stopped, Calden's composure fractured. He spat and backed away from the dais. "Do you know who I am? I can reward you—gold, lands, protection—"
She stepped forward. He stepped back. Then he turned and ran. Three strides. Her foot struck his back, sending him crashing against a stone pillar. Before he could rise, her blade pressed against his throat.
Up close, her eyes were visible through the narrow slits of the mask—steady, unhurried.
"Elira," she said.
His breath hitched violently at the name.
"Seventeen years old. Taken from the west district seven nights ago. Found dead before dawn. Signs of defilement." Her voice remained quiet, almost clinical. "Her parents submitted a petition. It was buried under your seal. Yesterday their bodies were discovered beyond the northern wall."
The surviving nobles stared at their lord in dawning horror. Calden's face drained of blood. "You cannot prove—"
The blade cut him off cleanly. His body collapsed heavily against the marble.
From within her sleeve she withdrew a slender metal shard and drove it into his chest with deliberate precision. The mark gleamed beneath the chandeliers.
N.
A tremor passed through the hall.
"Nyx…"
She did not linger to hear the gasps. She turned and walked from the banquet hall, stepping onto the terrace overlooking the courtyard where the guards lay silent beneath the moon.
As the night air brushed her face, she removed the mask. For a moment, the cold in her gaze softened. Distant lanterns of the city flickered beyond the estate walls.
"I promised I would meet him before sunset," she murmured, looking at the moon. "But I guess I'm a little late."
Then she stepped onto the terrace rail and vanished into the night.
*
The commercial district of the Imperial City never truly slept. Even at dusk, merchants still argued over ledgers and porters hauled crates while adventurers crowded the notice boards. At its heart stood the largest commercial building in Polaris—thirty-six floors of stone, glass, and ambition.
A hooded young woman moved through the crowd with her head lowered, steps unhurried. Few spared her a glance until she reached the entrance.
Two towering guards crossed their spears. She lifted her chin slightly. Both men stiffened, then immediately stepped back and dropped to one knee.
"Greetings, Guildmaster."
A few nearby adventurers froze mid-conversation. Whispers followed her inside.
"Was that…?"
"It's Lady Valmont."
"The Princess Consort? The one with five husbands?"
"Shhh. Lower your voice."
"I heard even a divine envoy once proposed to her."
"I heard the Crown Prince nearly started a war over a love letter."
"Ridiculous."
"Is it? They say she's the true mind behind his rise."
Nyssa did not slow her steps. She climbed the staircase without using the Ascend formation and entered her office without knocking.
A silver-haired man sat near the window, sunlight falling across the pages of the book in his hand. He closed it the moment she stepped inside.
"You're quite late, Dear," Cedric said mildly. "I finished three chapters."
Cedric Veyron. Fourth Prince of Polaris. Vice Guildmaster of the Crowned Blade Guild. Five-Star Spirit Warrior. And her third husband.
Nyssa lowered her hood, dark hair cascading down her shoulders. "Sorry. The meeting with Aunt ran longer than expected."
His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary before the softness vanished from his voice. Work mode took over.
"Sit."
She took her seat without protest. He slid parchment toward her.
"The mining division's deposits don't match the treasury records. Herbalist commissions are worse. Someone is siphoning funds. And your deposit initiative—adventurers take the advance, vanish, then resell the contracts to rival guilds. We're losing coin and authority."
Nyssa scanned the numbers quickly.
"We are actually baiting them, Honey."
Cedric's brow furrowed. "Baiting?"
She rose, stepped behind his chair, and rested her hands lightly on his shoulders. Her voice dropped near his ear.
"Because His Majesty is about to pass a law that will change everything. All private guilds will dissolve. A single Guild will remain under the direct control of the throne. And ours will become its headquarters."
Silence stretched.
"You knew?" he asked.
"I suggested it."
Astonishment shifted into admiration. "And you plan to put me in charge."
"Of course."
He let out a quiet breath. "The other guildmasters will revolt."
"They won't. Not against a king who earned his throne in blood."
Cedric studied her. "And why not you? Why should I lead?"
Nyssa's arms slid around him. She raised her chin to meet his gaze. "Because you once told me you wanted to build something that would outlive you. It is your dream to lead an organization."
His hand tightened at her waist. "You… remember that?"
"That's the first promise I made to you, honey," she said, rising on her toes to brush a kiss against his lips. "I always remember."
"Oh, Dear…" His smile widened. "If you had said these words at home, I would have taken you straight to the bedroom."
Nyssa's cheeks turned red. She looked away. "Shameless…"
Cedric only grinned and held her closer.
*
By sunset, their carriage rolled through the gates of Valmont House. The ancient mansion stood proud beneath lantern light, its golden dragon crest gleaming against polished stone.
The moment Nyssa stepped down, a massive wolf nearly her own size emerged from the shadows. Its eyes, bright as molten gold, locked onto them.
"Back already?" the beast's deep voice rumbled. "How was the day?"
"Hectic as always, Riven," Nyssa sighed. "New recruits, more quests than we can handle, underhanded staff, and paperwork enough to drown an army. You're lucky you were born a magical beast—nothing to worry about but eating and sleeping."
The 9-star beast huffed, somewhere between sympathy and annoyance. "Anyway. Since you're back, I'm leaving for my hunt. I'll return by midnight." He turned and vanished into the dark.
Inside, a stewardess bowed. "Welcome home, Lady Nyssa, Lord Cedric."
Halfway up the grand staircase, they met a man descending. He shared Cedric's features but carried dark hair and a more mature elegance.
"Cedric." He nodded politely to his younger brother, then his gaze shifted to Nyssa. His lips curved into a smile as he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her into a slow, deliberate kiss.
Nyssa closed her eyes. Some of the day's fatigue seemed to fade.
Lucien released her with a satisfied smile and turned to Cedric. "Always lovely to see you." Then, to Nyssa, "Darling, we have something important to talk about."
Without waiting for a reply, he took her arm and guided her away. She managed an apologetic glance back at Cedric. Cedric's jaw tightened for a moment before he continued upstairs alone.
In Lucien's chambers, the conversation turned quickly.
"The ball at Aquareld House is set for next week," he said. "I accepted the invitation without asking you. You don't mind?"
"Of course we're going."
"And the Duchy of Siglrid." His eyes sharpened. "The ministers seem to favor me as a replacement for those traitors. What do you think?"
Nyssa considered. "It's not a bad offer. Siglrid has potential, though it will take at least a decade to rebuild to its former glory."
His fingers tightened slightly on her arm. "Which is why I need your support. After all, we're partners in so many ways, aren't we?" For an instant, his pupils narrowed into vertical slits.
Nyssa pouted. "You always try to use those eyes… unfair."
Lucien grinned. "I always get into a certain mood after court politics."
The doors closed soon after.
*
Nyssa returned to her rooms wanting only a warm bath. She stepped into the tub, runes glowing softly, and let the heat settle into her bones.
The door creaked.
"Adrian."
He leaned against the doorway, gray eyes bright with mischief. "Blame yourself, my Schatz. Your moans were loud enough to wake the spirits. It's a miracle the entire mansion doesn't know by now."
Nyssa sighed. "You and Lucien need to stop competing. It's exhausting."
"Exhausting? Six months ago, over that ridiculous bet, you drained me so thoroughly I was useless for three weeks. Do you know what that did to my pride?"
"It's already been half a year. How many times are you going to use that as an excuse?"
Adrian smirked. "As long as my lady still feels guilty."
He stepped closer, but the scene did not linger. The playful rivalry was clear enough.
*
Later that night, the four of them gathered in the western sitting chamber. The fire crackled softly. Tea steamed between them.
Adrian checked the clock again. "It's nearly half past nine. If His Highness intended to attend, he would have arrived by now."
Cedric remained composed. "Felix carries the burden of the throne. Delays are inevitable."
Adrian gave a dry laugh. "Burden? Eldest brother manages half the court, yet he always comes on time."
Lucien's gaze sharpened slightly over the rim of his cup. "My duties end at five because His Highness ordered them to, not because I want to."
"Exactly my point," Adrian replied. "First he restricted your work hours. Then he surrounded you with special advisors. Now he pushes you out of the capital under the name of promoting you to a duke. He is isolating you."
Cedric placed his cup down with deliberate calm. "Enough."
Lucien did not immediately respond. His expression remained unreadable. "Felix does what he believes strengthens the throne. It is not isolation."
Adrian leaned forward. "And what of the third prince? Still missing because of him. We don't even know whether Emil is alive. Look at Nyssa. She sacrificed so much for him—and the moment Felix became Crown Prince, he abandoned all of us. Even her."
A short silence settled over the room.
Nyssa's fingers tightened around her teacup. The porcelain trembled for a breath. Her gaze drifted, almost without meaning to, toward the empty chair at the far side of the table—the one that had once belonged to Emil. The faint smile she had worn all evening faded. She did not speak.
Cedric looked down at his own cup. Lucien's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Adrian's eyes remained hard.
The fire continued to crackle. No one filled the quiet for several long seconds.
*
Later still, in the warmth of their shared bed, Cedric slept deeply. Nyssa lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind turning over the events of the day.
After a while, she took a quiet breath and slipped carefully from the sheets. From the wardrobe she took the black clothes folded at the back. Within moments she was dressed again in the assassin's garb.
She vanished into the shadows of the room and reappeared on the mansion rooftop. Staring at the moon, she settled the demon mask over her face, then lunged into the air and became a blur of darkness against the night.
*
Once, she had been nothing but an assassin.
Two years ago, she became a wife. And everything changed.
To understand how a killer became a woman of influence, the story must return to the beginning—two years earlier.