[19th Veyra, 495 IC, Dawnsworn]
[The Traveler's Rest — Gretencer Slums]
The cacophony hit Alden before the door fully opened. Voices overlapped—demands, confirmations, and questions shouted across the crowded floor. Agents moved in organized chaos, clutching files like lifelines.
He kept his hood up, his breathing steady.
A dwarf's bellow cut through the noise. "Intercept from Duke Helbart's side! A new assassination order..."
Three agents redirected instantly. Good. The machine still functioned.
"Log this! Consort Rosa brought a new lover to her bedroom!"
His eyes sharpened. Bedroom gossip. 'It could be useful later.'
Two elves argued over transcripts ahead. Code 187—Gezel—walked through without acknowledging them.
"Cold trail! Consort Cordelia isn't seeing Prince Raymond anymore. She's playing the saint for the Empress competition now that Her Majesty is dead."
Alden's expression remained neutral, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak door at the corridor's end.
The door swung open.
Code 39—Sill sat behind a mountain of paperwork, hands moving with mechanical precision. The half-dwarf's youthful face belied fifty years of service. The previous Master had chosen him precisely for that deception—people underestimated children. And Alden liked his competence.
"This is garbage! Verify the source!"
Alden stepped forward, still cloaked, covered from head to toe.
Sill's head snapped up. For a heartbeat, his eyes narrowed.
Then Sill moved—papers cascading from the desk, his chair scraping back. He dropped to his knees before Alden could speak.
The room fractured. Files hit stone. Conversations severed mid-word. Bodies sank—human, elf, dwarf, and creatures stranger still. Even Gezel, who'd been bold enough to wink at him in the dark, pressed her forehead to the floor.
Alden pushed back his hood.
Gasps rippled outward like blood in water. Alden paused, momentarily confused by their reaction, until he remembered: this was his first time here in this life.
'My proxy had been doing the work until now.'
He walked past them, reaching the black stone throne. The seat was cold even through his clothes. Mother had ordered it carved from Ravencliff obsidian—stone that drank warmth. It was now his seat.
His gaze swept across the bowed heads.
"Rise."
Fabric rustled. Boots scraped. Faces lifted, pale and tense. He didn't linger on their expressions; he had a more pressing task.
"Report."
Sill launched into intelligence briefings, his earlier irritation smoothed into perfect professionalism. Assistants rushed, sliding documents across the desk. Duke Helbart's movements. Consort intrigues. Border skirmishes.
Static. All of it. Their heartbeats were frantic. 'Nervous... and confused,' Alden thought. 'They are unprepared.'
He glanced toward the empty hallway on the left. In the timeline he recalled, a woman stood there, shoving a list of names into his chest with a grin.
"Master, forget the Duke's brat and pick one of these fine ladies. I got the best intel in the district—even squeezed it out of a stinky old client."
She would rub her nose proudly. "And when you need advice, just call this big sis. I, Code 198 will come running."
Alden listened to the report for a while before asking, "Where is Code 198?"
Silence answered. Alden smirked. He could still hear the soft pulse of a heartbeat in the distance. 'Sleeping, perhaps.' But it didn't matter. His voice dropped lower.
"To be present in this headquarters and not come to greet me. Is this defiance?"
An agent bolted. Sharp calls echoed. Alden counted his heartbeats. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
Too long.
Code 198 burst through the entrance, stumbling to her knees. "Punish me, Master! I fell asleep... I missed your arrival. I didn't know—"
His blade sang free. Muscle memory guided it to her throat. There was not even the slightest tremor in the steel. It remained still. Ready.
Her pulse hammered against the edge of his blade. Alden stared at the vein jumping beneath the metal. One pressure. One flick. That's all it would take.
He kept his focus outward. Each agent, each heartbeat, he catalogued. None moved; none tried to stop him. A subtle curve lifted his lips.
Alden lowered the blade.
"Code 198. Go to the red-light district. Serve the boy who seeks you out tomorrow." The words came out bored. "Remind him of his true love—the woman who has cast him aside. Do this for the rest of his life."
He sheathed the sword. "It won't be long."
"Understood, Master." Her forehead pressed to stone, voice ragged with relief. A single trail of blood flowed from her throat, but that was irrelevant.
Alden turned away. "Who is responsible for the Silver Star?"
"Code 35 and Code 38, Master. Currently deployed."
"The Silver Star is becoming... interesting." His lips curved—not from pleasure, but from the satisfaction of pieces aligning. "It is time the Tower had a new master. Who is the heir apparent?"
"That would be Rhodri. Geralt's first disciple."
"Rhodri has his uses, but no..." Alden's fingers drummed the throne. "Let it be Feroz. Seven days."
Sill flinched, but his quill scratched without pause. "Understood, Master. Feroz, the second disciple, shall take the Tower in a week."
Commands flowed.
"Relay to Code 18. Her entry point is Consort Isabella, but the target is the son. Code 18 will enter as a maid. She is to become his sanctuary—first a friend, then a lover. Designation: 'Apate'."
"Noted, Master. It will be done."
Alden unclasped the pendant—Ichor—his personal seal. He flicked it across the gap.
Sill caught it cleanly.
"Use the seal. Verify everything immediately. I won't wait on useless bureaucracy."
Sill pressed the pendant into hot wax. The seal stamped down with finality. A clerk snatched the order and fled.
Wrapping the pendant's chain around his fingers, Alden continued. "Dissolution protocols. Update them. If any branch is compromised, the others continue without interruption."
Sill's shoulders tensed—barely visible, yet Alden smirked, reading the microexpressions. He didn't hold the look, already tracing the pile of reports on the desk.
"Deploy the new protocols immediately."
"Understood, Master."
Sill polished the pendant until it gleamed, offering it on open palms. Alden clasped the platinum chain around his neck, his thumb grazing the stone. It pulsed with heat—a living warmth. His eyes softened for a heartbeat.
Then the moment passed. The warmth vanished, replaced by ice.
The agents were bowing before him, some rushing to prepare poisons and acids as a precaution. Alden halted their frantic preparations with a sharp gesture. "Gather in the hall. All of you."
Once they were assembled, Alden drew his sword again. Wiping the old blood from the blade, he sliced his palm wide open in one smooth motion and slammed his hand onto the main ledger.
The magic shrieked.
Crimson veins shot out from that single point of contact, hunting down every blank sheet of paper in the hall. Agents scrambled back as the blood invaded their stations, leaving Alden sitting in the center of the web, his life draining onto hundreds of pages.
"That..." A woman stumbled back, her hand shaking as she pointed. "That should have been purged... how?"
Alden ignored her, watching as the crimson liquid took shape. It sizzled into the parchment, searing the fiber to carve out three final commandments.
'Kill whom I Name. Die when I Choose. My Will is Absolute.'
When the web halted, the papers flew back to Alden's side. He scanned the text written in his own vitals without a twitch, then lifted his eyes.
He raised a finger. The contracts levitated, turning outward so the text faced the assembly. "There are no exceptions. I may order you to kill your friends. I may order you to slaughter your families. I may even order you to kill the gods you pray to."
He surveyed his agents calmly.
A man raised a trembling hand. "Master, surely... surely there is no need for this. We have always served our Masters faithfully."
Two others stepped backward to join him, seeking safety in numbers.
For a split second, a shadow crossed Alden's face. He narrowed his eyes.
The present faded, overlaid by the bitter ashes of his past life.
"They betrayed us! The entire headquarters has been massacred!"The deafening memory echoed in his mind. Alden remained seated, but his grip tightened on the hilt obscured by his sleeve.
"They said their families were taken hostage... had you purged them, we wouldn't have... Master... look at us..."
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and the image burned behind his eyelids: Gezel, Code 187—her face bloodied, weeping from empty sockets, cursing his hesitation. The dead were loud today.
Alden's lips curved upward—a flash of dark, twisted amusement.
He didn't seem to stand. A single arc of light flashed through the room.
The speaking man's head separated cleanly from his shoulders. Beside him, the woman's shriek died mid-breath as the blade found her throat.
Two more cuts. Three bodies.
Alden snapped his wrist, flicking the blood from the steel. He stepped over the corpses, his boots squelching in the spreading pools.
He leveled the blade at the remaining agents.
"You can always choose," he said, his voice terrifyingly level. "You can be dissenters, potential traitors, or my hands and feet."
Blood dripped from his sword. 'Drop. Drop.'
"But that won't change who your Master is."
An older man stepped forward, head lowered. "Master, I have served Phantom for thirty years. I have given everything I had." His voice cracked with the weight of broken loyalty. "But I cannot sign this. I have a daughter. She is all I have left. I... cannot promise to kill her, even for you."
Alden did not anger. He did not reprimand. He simply stared the man straight in the eye.
Another man emerged from the crowd—brown-haired, younger. "Master, forgive me. I have regretted joining this life since the day I started. Now this... I can't."
Alden studied them. Honest refusal. No games, no hedging. They had chosen principle over survival. They were breaking their oaths, becoming loose strands in a web that required absolute tension. Alden couldn't let loose strands live.
But he could respect their honesty.
"Alright."
Two agents escorted them to an inner room. The sound of steel on flesh echoed from the corridor. The escorts returned carrying heads, laying them at Alden's feet.
"Give them a proper burial later."
He looked at the remaining agents. There was no sorrow at the betrayal, none at the abandonment.
He lifted the contracts in his hand.
"Now." His voice sliced through the silence. "Prove your loyalty."
Sill moved first, drawing a line across his thumb and slamming it onto parchment. "Your wish is my command, Master." He kneeled before Alden. "Master, we have all made this promise long before we met you. This oath of blood changes nothing."
Alden nodded softly in approval, resting his chin on a gloved fist, eyes half-lidded. A woman stepped forward, sliced her finger, and signed. Her unspoken scream churned his gut like the twisting of a thorned blade. Next was a boy who had joined a year ago; he barely understood the cost of the ink, yet the fear shaking his frame chilled Alden from the inside out.
Then came Gezel. She pressed the blade to her finger without hesitation, blood soaking into the grain. When she looked up, she was smiling.
Alden let the wet heat of her desire wash over him. Then came the sharp sting of denial from the next agent. The contract warmed in his hand with every drop, the emotional onslaught crushing his insides. Yet his dark eyes reflected only the flow of blood—his expression serene, detached, as the queue moved forward.
Alden nodded once. His attention then shifted. Code 04 and Code 33 entered, pausing at the threshold, taking in the scene calmly.
They didn't need explanations. Code 04 grinned—that feral expression Alden had seen on the battlefield. Before he died, he had wheezed through bloody teeth:
"Aye... Master. Leaving... first." A wet, rattling breath. "Don't... don't go crying. Just... sorry. Couldn't... do more."
Alden watched him now, alive. He kneeled before him, slashed his thumb deep, opening a vein without a tremor.
Code 33 followed. Alden remembered her end, too. Tears dripping from her eyes, clutching the body of Code 04, she had wept and cursed her own race over and over again. "Master allow me... Allow me to take revenge." Alden had allowed it. Then, in a frenzy at the Ravencliff war, she had drawn her last breath.
Right now, she moved like water. She came before him, dark skin glowing like midnight, her long ears twitching once as she came to a halt. Alive.
They both slammed their hands onto the parchment simultaneously.
No hesitation. No fear. Alden smiled softly. He could see the other agents' heads lowered, some averting their gazes.
Code 198 signed last, her hand shaking. Alden dismissed her with a gesture.
The moment she left, his fingers clawed the throne, head dipping forward. The room blurred. He couldn't breathe.
Three heartbeats. That's all he allowed himself.
Then he forced his spine straight, expression flat. By the time his vision cleared, no one was looking at him directly.
Except Gezel. Her eyes widened, then squeezed shut.
'Code 187 saw.'
He let his lips curve. Just slightly. Enough to see her freeze, breath catching.
Then, he moved on.
"Code 04. Duke Viremont's daughter. She covets jewelry. Bait her on Crown Street and sell her tokens from rival suitors—let the city mistake her greed for acceptance of marriage."
"That's it?" Code 04 tilted his head, violet eyes glistening. He sounded almost hurt. "Master, surely... I can do more than play shopkeeper."
"Like?"
"Like walking through their front door and slaughtering every last one of his bloodline." Code 04 grinned as his voice dropped to a low whisper only Alden could hear. "I can gut the Duke and pile his entrails at your feet. I can make them scream for the mercy of death for daring to plot against you. Just give the order."
"I will let you off the leash soon enough." Alden's voice remained flat. "For now, do as I say, Cyrus."
The man froze. His grin widened. "Oho... You know my birthname? I'm honored, Master."
Alden ignored the theatrics and turned to the left. "Code 33. You are the shadow. Feed Code 04 the details he needs to bait the hook."
"Yes, Master."
Alden shifted his focus to the man standing closest to the throne—the HQ Branch Manager. "Code 39. You have two days. I want the truth of the Rosewick Explosion—names, methods, and backers."
Sill bowed low. "As you command, Master."
"And come to my chambers past midnight." Alden added, his voice dropping. "The window will be open."
"Understood."
Alden flicked his fingers. Shadows uncoiled from the corners, wrapping around Sill and dimming his presence until he was little more than a smudge in the air. The room missed the display. Except for one. In the corner, Code 187's eyes darted, tracking the invisible ripple of magic. She snapped her gaze back to his. Widened.
Alden waved a hand, dismissing the collective, but his eyes locked on hers.
Slowly, he rose from the throne. One step. Then two.
Gezel's pulse hammered—a frantic rhythm he could hear across the silence. It tasted of fear, but also something else. Fascination. 'Attraction.' He'd seen that look before: the gaze of an agent who confused absolute power with charisma.
He stopped—close enough to see her pupils dilate, close enough for her to smell the copper scent of blood still clinging to his blade.
His hand moved to the clasp of his cloak. Eyes fixed on her. The robe was warm from his body heat.
He undid the latch, the fabric heavy as it began to slide from his shoulders.
She stood completely breathless, looking around in nervous anticipation.
'It might not be a bad idea,' he thought distantly, 'to reward her.'
The cloak pooled at his feet.