Back in Castle Ebonwind, the air was thick with tension. The hallways, usually filled with the bustling of servants and courtiers, seemed unnaturally quiet, as if even the stone walls sensed the unease that had settled over the kingdom. Days had passed with no word from the spies, and the silence from Tharavara gnawed at Queen Nyssa's nerves.
Seated on her imposing throne in the dimly lit great hall, Nyssa's fingers drummed rhythmically against the armrest, the metallic ring of her rings against the stone filling the silence. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, resting on nothing but flickering candlelight and shadows that seemed to grow longer with each passing day. The queen had always prided herself on her patience, but now, a restless energy coursed through her veins.
Beside her stood Prince Varrick, his broad shoulders tense, his face locked in a permanent frown. His gaze flickered between the closed doors of the throne room and his mother, as if expecting news to arrive any moment—but nothing came.
"They should have returned by now," Nyssa muttered, her voice sharp with frustration. Her words cut through the silence, echoing faintly against the high stone walls. The great hall, once the center of power and control, now felt like a cage—a waiting room for bad news.
Varrick crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Something has happened," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "If they were discovered—"
"They are too skilled to be caught so easily," Nyssa interrupted him, her voice as cold and cutting as the autumn winds that howled outside the castle. She had handpicked each spy, trained them in the arts of deception and shadow. They were the best in the kingdom, capable of slipping through even the tightest nets. Yet, as the days dragged on, doubt crept into her mind, uninvited and unwanted.
Varrick watched her closely. He had seen that flicker of doubt in her eyes before—a rare sight, one he knew she would never admit to. "But something is wrong," he pressed. "We should prepare for the possibility that they won't return."
Nyssa's eyes narrowed, her gaze hardening. The very thought unsettled her. Failure was not something she tolerated, least of all from those under her command. "If they do not return, then we must assume they were eliminated." Her words hung in the air like a death sentence.
For a moment, neither spoke, the gravity of her statement sinking in. The spies had been sent to Tharavara for a reason—to gather vital intelligence about Emperor Eldryn's court, to uncover any plots against Ebonwind before they could take root. Without them, they were blind. Worse, they were vulnerable.
Varrick shifted uneasily. "Eliminated by whom? The emperor's court?" His voice was quieter now, as though the walls themselves might be listening. "Or another force at play?"
Nyssa's lips pressed into a thin line. "That is the question, isn't it?" Her mind raced, considering the possibilities. Tharavara was a place of secrets, and the emperor's illness had created a power vacuum that every noble and courtier was eager to fill. But was that all? Or was there something—or someone—else, lurking in the shadows?
"I've heard whispers," Varrick said after a pause, his tone dark. "Of movements in Aramoor and Zephyris. Queen Amara has been uncharacteristically quiet, and Isolde... well, you know she never lets an opportunity slip by."
Nyssa's gaze sharpened. "Do you think one of them had a hand in this?"
"Or both," Varrick replied grimly. "Ebonwind is not without its enemies, and neither of them would hesitate to strike if they saw weakness."
Nyssa's fingers stilled, her mind piecing together the puzzle. It was true—Ebonwind's power had always drawn envy from the other kingdoms. But striking at her spies? That was bold, too bold for Amara, who preferred subtle manipulation, and Isolde, who thrived on misdirection. No, this was different.
"The game has shifted," she murmured, half to herself. "We're playing in the dark now, and they know it."
Varrick's jaw clenched. "We can't afford to sit here and wait for whatever comes next."
"And we won't," Nyssa said, rising from her throne. Her long, dark gown trailed behind her as she moved toward the windows overlooking the castle grounds. The storm outside had grown fiercer, rain slashing against the stone, the wind howling like a beast kept at bay only by the walls of Ebonwind. But Nyssa knew better than to rely on walls.
She turned back to her son, her eyes hard as steel. "We'll double our defenses, increase patrols along the borders. No one gets in or out of Ebonwind without us knowing."
"And the spies?" Varrick asked, though he already knew the answer.
Nyssa's gaze darkened. "They're dead," she said bluntly. "Or worse, they've been turned against us. Either way, we cannot rely on them anymore."
The prince nodded. It was the answer he had expected, though it did nothing to ease the cold knot in his stomach.
"Send word to our allies in Drakmere and Solari," Nyssa continued. "We need to know where they stand. If they're still loyal, we'll need their support. If not..." She trailed off, but the meaning was clear. If they could not be trusted, they would be treated as enemies.
"And what of Aramoor and Zephyris?" Varrick asked.
Nyssa's eyes flashed with a dangerous light. "We'll deal with them in due time. For now, we watch, we wait, and we prepare for whatever comes next."
Outside, the storm raged on, but inside Castle Ebonwind, a different kind of storm was brewing. Unseen forces were closing in, hidden in the shadows just beyond Nyssa's reach, but she was not one to be taken by surprise. Whatever was coming, she would be ready.
As Nyssa and Varrick exchanged a final glance, the weight of the days to come hung heavy in the air. The game had shifted, and Ebonwind was playing blind, but the queen had not survived this long by being careless. She would do whatever it took to protect her kingdom—even if it meant stepping into the darkness herself.
-----
The early morning mist clung to the towering walls of Ebonwind, shrouding the fortress in a blanket of gray. The castle stood like a grim sentinel against the desolate landscape, its iron gates a barrier between the kingdom and the wilderness beyond. The sound of the wind howling through the narrow mountain pass was a constant companion to the soldiers who guarded those gates. It was a cold, thankless duty, but one they carried out with grim determination.
Sergeant Caldor stood at his post, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to ward off the biting chill that seeped through his armor. The morning was quiet, too quiet for his liking. His eyes scanned the horizon, looking for any sign of movement.
It was then that he saw it: a dark shape emerging from the mist. At first, he thought it was a lone traveler, perhaps a merchant or a peasant braving the treacherous path to seek shelter within Ebonwind's walls. But as the figure drew closer, he realized that something was off.
There was no rider.
A donkey, laden with saddlebags, plodded toward the gates, its hooves clopping softly against the cobblestones. Its head hung low, as if exhausted from a long journey. The beast moved slowly, its steps almost labored, and there was no sign of anyone guiding it. Caldor frowned, signaling to the men at his side to be on alert.
"Hold," he called to the other soldiers. "Something's not right."
The donkey came to a stop just outside the gates, its sides heaving with labored breaths. It stood still, as if awaiting some unseen command. Caldor narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, motioning for one of the gatekeepers to join him.
"Open the gates," Caldor ordered, though his voice held a note of caution. "But be ready."
The creak of the iron gates echoed through the mist as they swung open just wide enough for Caldor and the other soldier to approach the donkey. As they drew near, the stench hit them—a thick, sickly smell that sent a wave of nausea through their stomachs.
"What in the gods' name…" the gatekeeper muttered, covering his nose with the back of his hand.
Caldor reached for the saddlebags, his fingers trembling slightly as he loosened the straps. He pulled the bag open, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the contents.
Three heads.
The severed heads of the three spies that had been sent to Celestria stared back at him, their eyes wide open, faces frozen in twisted expressions of terror and agony. Blood still stained their matted hair, and the skin had taken on a ghastly pallor in the cold morning air. Caldor stumbled back, his heart pounding in his chest as bile rose in his throat.
"Gods above," the gatekeeper whispered, his face pale with shock.
Caldor forced himself to look at the grisly sight again, his mind racing. These were no ordinary deaths—whoever had done this had taken great care to deliver a message. The fact that the heads had been brought back on the donkey, with no rider and no sign of the bodies, only deepened the mystery.
"Send for Queen Nyssa," Caldor ordered, his voice tight with barely contained anger. "She needs to see this."
The gatekeeper nodded quickly, turning to one of the younger soldiers. "You heard him. Go!"
The soldier sprinted off toward the castle, disappearing into the mist as the rest of the men gathered around the grim scene. They exchanged uneasy glances, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, as if expecting the assassin to appear out of the shadows at any moment.
Minutes later, the young soldier returned, accompanied by Queen Nyssa herself. Her dark cloak billowed behind her as she strode toward the gates, her face a mask of cold indifference, though her eyes gleamed with a sharp, calculating light. Prince Varrick followed close behind, his expression grim.
Caldor bowed low as she approached. "Your Majesty, we—"
Nyssa raised a hand, silencing him. Her gaze fell upon the donkey, then shifted to the saddlebags. Without hesitation, she stepped forward, her fingers deftly opening the bags and revealing the heads within.
For a moment, there was silence.
Nyssa stared at the heads, her face betraying no emotion, though Varrick stiffened beside her, his fists clenching at his sides.
"These are your spies," Varrick said quietly, his voice laced with anger. "Someone wanted to make sure you knew they were dead."
Nyssa knelt beside the donkey, inspecting the heads more closely. Her sharp eyes flicked over every detail—the ragged cuts, the bruises on their faces, the expressions of fear frozen in their final moments. Whoever had killed them had been deliberate, precise. This was no random execution.
"No ordinary hand did this," Nyssa said, her voice low and cold. "This was the work of a professional. Someone skilled in the art of death."
Caldor swallowed hard. "Do you think it was someone from Tharavara, Majesty? Perhaps the emperor's men?"
Nyssa shook her head slowly. "No. If it were Eldryn's men, they would have paraded these heads through the streets of Celestria, not sent them back to us in secret. This was done by someone who wanted us to know they can reach us, no matter how far."
Varrick frowned. "Then who?"
Nyssa stood, her mind racing as she considered the possibilities. Her spies had been sent to gather information about the emperor's illness—information that could have shifted the balance of power in the empire. But now they were dead, their heads returned as a gruesome message. Someone had wanted them silenced.
But who?
"The council?" Varrick ventured. "They've been trying to consolidate power for months. If they knew what we were after—"
"Perhaps," Nyssa replied, though her tone was distant, her thoughts elsewhere. "But this doesn't feel like the council's work. They rely on politics, on backroom deals and alliances. This... this is something darker."
She turned her gaze back to the heads, her eyes narrowing. "Whoever did this wanted to remain unseen. They didn't leave a name, a mark, anything we can trace."
Caldor stepped forward, his voice hesitant. "Majesty, what do we do now? If there's an assassin in the empire—"
Nyssa cut him off with a sharp gesture. "We find them."
Varrick raised an eyebrow. "How? We have no leads, no clues to follow."
Nyssa's lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile. "We may not know who sent the message, but we know where our spies were last seen. We start there. We send out our own hunters, those skilled in tracking shadows. If there is an assassin in Tharavara, we will draw them out."
Varrick's eyes darkened. "And if we don't?"
Nyssa's smile faded, her expression turning cold. "Then we burn the empire to the ground until we find them."
The soldiers around her exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to speak. Caldor, for his part, simply nodded, stepping back as Nyssa and Varrick turned to leave.
As they walked back toward the castle, the mist swirling around them, Nyssa's mind raced. The heads of her spies had been delivered to her doorstep, a clear and brutal warning. But she would not be cowed by fear. Whoever had done this would pay in blood.
For now, she needed to play her part carefully. She would bide her time, watch and wait for the assassin to make their next move. And when they did, she would strike, swift and deadly as a serpent in the dark.
To Be Continued...