Kaelen's body was a map of agony. Nyx dragged him through the corridors of the Pale Rose manor as if he were an unwanted sack of meat. His blood—warm, viscous—left a dark trail across the cold marble.
— If I'd known I'd have to drag you halfway across the house, I wouldn't have cut you so much — Nyx muttered. She turned her face away, genuine disgust twisting her features when a drop of Kaelen's blood splashed onto her wrist.
It was her paradox: an assassin who could open a throat without blinking, yet despised the "unnecessary" mess of a beaten body. To her, blood from a brawl was a miscalculation.
When they reached Valerius's room—a damp cubicle that smelled of mold and despair—she threw him onto the cot. Kaelen let out a growl of pain, the air driven from his battered lungs. Without a word, Nyx grabbed a basin of water and began stopping the worst of the bleeding with rough, efficient movements.
— Why don't you just obey? — she asked, scrubbing the cut above his eye with excessive force. — It would be so easy. Take the black steel, take Vespera's orders, and stop trying to be a ghost of a knight.
Kaelen struggled to focus on her face. His ribs felt like they were on fire.
— Obedience… would make her the owner of my soul — he spat blood onto the floor. — I'll take the cot and the pain.
Nyx stopped. She looked at him for a long second, something like respect—or perhaps deep irritation—flickering in her eyes. She finished the basic bandaging and, before leaving, dropped a small leather pouch onto the crooked table. The sound was unmistakable. Copper.
— Use it. Buy something decent to defend yourself — she said without turning back. — Vespera won't wait for you to heal.
Kaelen didn't sleep; he blacked out in the dark, his mind haunted by fragments of Elara and his mother. In the dream, they were in the Lupanar of Black Roses, only a day away—yet their screams seemed to come from another world.
He woke to violent thermal shock. A bucket of ice-cold water was dumped over his face, flooding his lungs and forcing him upright in a coughing, shivering gasp.
Nyx stood there, the empty bucket in hand, boredom etched into her expression.
— Up, Valerius. The sun isn't even up yet and Madame is already losing patience.
Kaelen rose, every muscle screaming. He reached for the table and grabbed the pouch of copper. That same night, he had slipped out in secret, using the coins to buy a simple infantry sword in a black-market stall. It wasn't black steel. It was plain white steel—common, unadorned—but it carried what little dignity he had left.
The Courtyard of the Pale Rose
When he reached the courtyard, Vespera was waiting beneath the flickering torchlight. She was immaculate—the opposite of Kaelen, who looked like a stitched-together corpse. Her gaze fell immediately on the white blade at his hip.
— A bright blade? — Vespera smiled, but the smile never reached her eyes. — Do you really believe the color of the metal will absolve what you're about to do?
— It's what I am — Kaelen replied, his voice hoarse.
Vespera stepped closer, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper that Nyx, lurking in the shadows, caught perfectly.
— What you are, Kaelen, is an asset. And I have many enemies. To reach Malphas, we need to clear the path. Bishop Arlan is at the docks. He finances the Inquisitor's personal guard. Kill him. If you want to save your mother and sister, prove your hands can be as filthy as this city's streets.
The weight of the mission settled on Kaelen's chest. Kill a man of the Church. He looked to Nyx, who gave a faint nod.
— They've only been there a day, Valerius — Vespera continued, touching his face with a silk-gloved hand. — Every hour you hesitate is an hour Garrick writes their fate. Go.
Kaelen turned away, the white sword tapping against his thigh as he vanished into the darkness of Ostrava. He didn't see Vespera lean toward Nyx and whisper:
— Follow him. If he hesitates, finish the job. If he learns too much… bring him back in chains.
The alleys of Ostrava were scars on the city's skin—damp labyrinths where the darkness felt heavier, the stench of rot and sewage more suffocating. Kaelen moved like an imperfect shadow, every step sending lances of pain through his ribs. A fine rain turned the ground into a dull mirror, reflecting distant torchlight like hungry eyes.
He breathed in misery and decay, each breath scraping his already tortured lungs. The white sword at his side—the blade he hoped would symbolize purity—now felt heavy, cold, a prophecy of desecration. This was not a knightly duel. This was a slaughter in the dark.
At last, the Dockside Chapel emerged from the salty fog of the harbor. It wasn't the towering gothic majesty of the Grand See, but a squat fortress of black stone, built to withstand not only storms but riots of the poor. Two watchtowers crowned with loaded crossbows flanked the main entrance.
Kaelen halted, slipping in the mud and ducking behind a stack of rotting fish barrels. He studied the front. Six See guards, heavy mail beneath white surcoats, marched in pairs, halberds clinking in a dull, rhythmic cadence. Their faces were masks of boredom, but their eyes scanned the darkness with trained efficiency.
— Shit — Kaelen whispered. This was no soft target. A frontal assault would be suicide—especially in his condition.
He needed another way. A dirtier one.
The Invisible Shadow
From above, Nyx watched. She crouched on the jagged edge of a nearby warehouse roof, so still she looked like a forgotten gargoyle. Her hawk-sharp eyes tracked Kaelen's every move. The black bow rested in her hands, the string loose—but ready.
— Come on, Valerius — she hissed to the wind. — Vespera wants a butcher, not a poet. Find the back door. If you go in head-on, I'll kill you myself to spare her the bad news.
She saw him melt back into the dark, circling the block. Nyx leapt, landing without a sound on a slate roof, moving with the fluid grace of a shadow dancing across chimneys. She was an extension of the night itself—and her real target wasn't the Bishop, but the man Vespera intended to forge.
Kaelen found it: a service entrance at the rear of the chapel, hidden among empty crates and the reek of fish guts. Only two guards stood there, visibly more relaxed than those at the front, chuckling as one lit a cheap tobacco pipe.
Kaelen felt the cold of the white steel in his hand. It wasn't fear of death that made him hesitate, but the weight of the act. Killing in fair combat was one thing. Murdering from behind was another entirely. But Elara's pale, frightened face from his dream crushed what remained of his honor.
He exhaled slowly, breath fogging the air. He crouched, waiting for the moment, the throb in his ribs the only rhythm left in the world. The guard with the pipe turned, coughing—his unprotected neck exposed.
Above, Nyx drew the bowstring tight. If Kaelen failed now, she would act.
Kaelen moved.
There was no heroism—only brutal efficiency. He slid through the mud, silent as a whisper. The guard barely registered a shadow before Kaelen's bandaged fist slammed into his throat with a muffled crack.
As the man collapsed, choking, Kaelen drew the white sword. The blade reflected no nobility—only a cold, merciless gleam as it found the gap in the second guard's neck armor. Steel bit deep, severing arteries. The man fell without a sound, blood pooling across the wet stone.
Kaelen stared at his hands. The white linen was now stained with the blood of the Church—an indelible mark of his new reality. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, which groaned softly, and stepped into the chapel's gloom, where incense mingled with the scent of imminent death.
On the rooftop, Nyx lowered her bow. A dark, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.
— Not bad, Kaelen Valerius.
— The bloodbath is only beginning.
The interior of the chapel was a vacuum of sepulchral silence, broken only by the rhythmic crackle of tallow candles weeping grease over bronze candlesticks. The air was thick with a nauseating blend of old incense, mold, and the cold metallic scent of marble columns.
Kaelen advanced down the central aisle. His heavy boots echoed against the stone slabs, each step a declaration of intent. He no longer bothered to hide; the adrenaline of the deaths outside had dulled caution. He felt like an avenging specter, his right hand clenched around the hilt of the white sword, its pale reflections cutting through the gloom like a shard of ice.
At the end of the aisle, before the gold-drenched altar, Bishop Arlan knelt. His crimson vestments spilled over the steps like a pool of overturned wine. He did not move when Kaelen stopped a few paces away, the man's heavy breathing audible beneath his hood.
— Pray quickly, Arlan — Kaelen's voice came out rough, loaded with a contempt that vibrated in his chest. — The god you serve doesn't take bribes to open the gates of heaven.
The Bishop let out a long sigh, almost bored. He rose slowly, joints popping in the oppressive silence. When he turned, there was no panic on his face—only an irritating complacency. His small, sunken eyes gleamed with the reflection of Kaelen's blade.
— A Valerius — the Bishop said, his voice velvety and vile. — I would recognize that arrogant stride anywhere. Vespera must be truly desperate if she sent a broken cadet to do a man's work.
— Vespera sent an executioner — Kaelen corrected, taking another step forward, the tip of the white sword aimed at the cleric's heart. — And I came for what you did to my family. For every coin you laundered for Malphas while my blood was spilled in the streets.
Arlan smiled crookedly, yellowed teeth showing. He didn't retreat.
— You speak of blood and justice, but you reek of desperation, boy. Do you really think you're in control? That you walked in here because you're skilled? — The Bishop spread his arms, the sleeves of his robe swaying like a vulture's wings. — Malphas knows the Matriarch of the Pale Rose better than you ever will. We knew she would send a dog. And dogs… well, they need collars.
A chill ran through Kaelen that had nothing to do with the chapel's damp cold. His senses—sharpened by days of pain—fired a belated warning. The air behind him didn't move, but the candlelight flickered in a way physics couldn't explain.
He didn't see it—but he felt it. A presence. A void of light in the shadows between the marble columns to his left. There, fused with the darkness, stood the Reaper of the See. An Inquisition assassin, wrapped in gray rags that swallowed light, holding a curved dagger that looked as if it were made of obsidian.
The killer did not fully reveal himself, remaining a black stain in Kaelen's peripheral vision, simply waiting—for a signal, or for the boy's first mistake.
— You are very far from home, Valerius — the Bishop continued, his voice now lower, almost a whisper of pleasure. — And very close to your grave. Tell me—how does it feel to know you're about to die beneath the same roof that was meant to grant you salvation?
Outside, Nyx still hadn't entered. She crouched on the roof, uneasy with the prolonged silence. Her instincts screamed that the "knight" had just stepped into a slaughterhouse—and that he was the cattle.