Her door creaked open, and Mirak forced away the stutter threatening to tumble from his lips. Porcelain silks draped across Sanni's form, the fabric catching the faint light as it cascaded down her shoulders. Vibrant purple embroidery snaked along the sides of her dress, subtle but precise, like everything about her. Her braided silver hair glimmered faintly, framing her sharp features.
In that moment, Lady Sanni Fell embodied the nobility she so often described—elegance carved into flesh. For a fleeting instant, Mirak wondered if this was what Anntom could achieve: flawless perfection. But no, he chided himself, don't be foolish.
Sanni caught the hesitation in his expression and smiled faintly, her lips curving in amusement. "I'll take your silence and loss of words as a compliment," she said, the light lilt in her tone tinged with superiority.
Mirak swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. "Right... right this way, Lady Fell."
She swept past him, her silks whispering against the marble floor, and they entered the grand dining hall together. The sight, though familiar now, still sent a pang of disbelief through Mirak's chest.
The room was a spectacle of grandeur. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, their painted murals depicting stories of Koona's earliest noble families. Crystal chandeliers hung low, scattering fractured light across the marble floor, which gleamed so brightly it seemed unnatural. Each detail of the room spoke of wealth and power, an unspoken reminder of the Fell family's standing.
Mirak stopped at the threshold, watching as Sanni made her way to her seat at the table. At its head sat Lord Fell, her father, a silver mask concealing his face save for his sharp brown eyes. His voice alone betrayed his thoughts—cool and controlled, like tempered steel.
To his right sat Lady Fell, her purple eyes gleaming against her raven-black hair. While she didn't carry Sanni's striking elegance, her presence commanded respect. And finally, at the far end of the table sat the eldest Fell sibling.
The Fell heir.
He was everything the other nobles were not—relaxed, irreverent, and utterly unbothered. One leg rested on the table while his head lolled back as though he were studying the ceiling or contemplating a nap. His snow-white hair fell over his face, shadowing his features, though the smirk on his lips was unmistakable. He seemed almost bored with the grandeur around him, like it was all beneath him.
If Sanni embodied elegance, her elder brother was the embodiment of ease, yet there was something about him that felt sharper than his demeanor let on.
"Sanni," Lord Fell said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "You arrive precisely on time, as expected."
"I do as you require of me, Father," Sanni replied with a practiced bow.
Lord Fell's gaze shifted to his son, lingering just long enough to communicate his dissatisfaction.
"If you want to make it more obvious, Father, why don't you keep staring at me?" the Fell heir drawled, his tone laced with defiance.
Lord Fell's tone dropped further. "House Mallum and House Hesteran are to make an appearance. At least pretend to care."
Sanni interjected smoothly, seizing control of the conversation. "I was quite surprised to hear of tonight's guests. It has been far too long since we last saw anyone from House Mallum."
Lady Fell added with a faint smile, "One might think House Mallum intends to align itself with the Sunreacher elves, given how often their ships cross paths."
The comment hung in the air like a sword over the table. Every member of the Fell family turned their attention to Lady Fell, waiting for her to elaborate.
"The rumors are unavoidable," Lady Fell continued, her tone calm and deliberate. "A few resin flakes slipped to the right ears, and servants begin to talk. It seems the Lady of Mallum has been entertaining Sunreachers in her private chambers."
Before the implications could land, the heavy doors of the hall swung open with a low creak. Guards clad in blue and black entered first, their armor emblazoned with the crest of House Mallum: a four-armed reptilian figure wielding a trident against a whale. They flanked Lady Mallum herself, a woman who moved with the ease of a seasoned sailor. Her embroidered robes bore her house crest, though her confident stride and no-nonsense demeanor said more than her finery ever could.
Trailing her, the nobles of House Hesteran entered. Their resin-threaded garments jingled faintly with each step, catching the light of the chandeliers. Their emblem—a three-curled finger forming a circle—was etched into their coats and dresses, marking them unmistakably as members of a family with wealth tied to industry and finance.
"A grand feast indeed," said Lord Hesteran, his well-trimmed beard framing his smooth, diplomatic smile. "Lord Fell, you do know how to honor your guests."
Lady Mallum snorted, crossing her arms as she surveyed the table. "I suppose even Lord Hesteran finds something to approve of in all this pomp."
Lady Fell replied with a light drawl, "It's always a pleasure to hear your bluntness, Lady Mallum."
Lord Fell steered the conversation. "Are your children joining us this evening, Lady Mallum?"
"They're out sailing," Lady Mallum replied brusquely. "Apparently the fish are biting better this season. My youngest, at least, is running the family business."
"Our children are our treasures," Lady Fell said with ease.
"More like a constant headache," Lady Mallum muttered, taking a seat.
"And your daughter?" Lord Fell asked, turning to Lord Hesteran.
"She's attending to my wife," Lord Hesteran replied, though his gaze flicked briefly to the Fell heir as he spoke.
One of the Fell servants whispered behind Mirak, "More like she's out gambling in the entertainment district."
"Hush!" another servant hissed. "If anyone hears, we'll be sent to the Eleventh District!"
The nobles began to settle, their conversations drifting between idle pleasantries and the undercurrents of politics. As the first course was served, Lady Mallum leaned forward. "Enough of this. Let's talk business—that's why we're here, isn't it?"
Lady Fell nodded. "We would be happy to."
Lord Fell, meanwhile, spoke directly to Lord Hesteran. "Come now, Lord Hesteran. I can't think of a better deal. If we reduce the cost of materials for the new resin bank, surely you can raise the percentage backed in your vaults."
Lord Hesteran stroked his beard thoughtfully. "An interesting offer, but my banks are not dependent on your materials. The resin value will rise regardless, and I see little reason to undercut its future worth."
Mirak let their conversation fade as he turned his attention to Lady Fell and Lady Mallum.
Lady Mallum grunted, "What about the excess costs for imported goods?"
Lady Fell responded smoothly, "We're the ones absorbing the additional manpower cost to work with House Omen."
"And we're the ones carrying those goods," Lady Mallum countered.
Lady Fell turned to Sanni. "What do you think, my dear?"
Sanni paused, measuring her response. "I believe House Mallum has... overstepped its bounds."
Lady Mallum bristled. "Overstepped? I'll—"
The sharp clang of doors breaking interrupted her.
The hall's heavy doors, though freshly shut, shook violently. The muffled sound of commotion followed—a scuffle, a faint cry. Then, silence.
It shattered when one of the Fell guards was hurled through the doors. His body hit the marble floor with a sickening thud, blood pooling beneath him. The room froze.
From the darkness of the corridor stepped the figure responsible.
Mirak froze. His breath caught in his chest, and a faint ringing filled his ears as the scene before him sharpened into focus.
The man—if it could even be called that—was clad in polished silver armor, streaked with dark red stains that glistened in the chandelier's light. A crimson cloak, heavy and saturated with the same blood, clung to his shoulders and billowed faintly with each step. His boots struck the marble with a deliberate, unnervingly steady rhythm, the metallic clang echoing louder than it should have.
Mirak's heart slammed against his ribs.
He tried to breathe, but the air felt heavy, oppressive, as though the room itself recoiled from the intruder. The figure's movements were slow, deliberate, and purposeful—each step carried an unspoken menace. Though the man's face was hidden beneath the slit of a smooth visor, Mirak could feel the weight of his gaze. It pressed down on him, cold and calculating, stripping away the thin veil of calm he had managed to maintain.
This is wrong.
The thought whispered in his mind, faint yet undeniable. Mirak's instincts screamed at him to move, to run, but his legs felt like they had been turned to stone. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stand there, paralyzed by the suffocating aura emanating from the intruder.
The hall, so alive with tension moments before, had fallen into a dead silence. The nobles, the guards, even the servants—all froze, trapped in the stillness that followed the assassin's entrance.
But Mirak's world felt louder. His pulse roared in his ears, the rapid thrum of blood coursing through his veins growing louder with each passing second. His knees weakened, and his hands trembled faintly at his sides.
Who is this?
Mirak didn't know. He didn't understand. But the faint whisper he caught from Sanni's lips—barely audible yet sharp as a blade—made his stomach twist.
"Silver Mark." Sanni whispered.
He didn't know what the term meant, but the weight of her words carried enough dread to make his blood run cold. The man before him was no mere assassin. He was something more. Something worse.
The Silver Mark continued his silent approach, boots clicking against the marble. There was no hurry in his stride, no acknowledgment of the room's frozen stares. He didn't need to speak. His presence alone was enough to choke the life from the air.
Mirak's breath came in short, shallow gasps as his eyes darted to the blood trailing from the Silver Mark's boots. It smeared into the rug beneath him, staining the vibrant colors with crimson. Mirak could see it clearly—too clearly.
The smell of copper filled the air, sharp and nauseating. Mirak's stomach churned as the tension in his chest swelled to the point of bursting.
The fear hit him in waves, each stronger than the last. It wasn't the fear of dying—not yet—but the fear of the unknown, of standing in the shadow of something so utterly wrong. The figure's mere presence exuded menace, a primal aura that felt like the weight of a predator bearing down on prey.
And Mirak was prey.
His legs wobbled. His fingers curled into fists, clenching the fabric of his coat as though it might anchor him. Sweat slicked his palms and dampened his brow, and he realized, distantly, that his teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw ached.
Move. Run. Do something.
But he couldn't.
He wanted to look away, to break the spell, but his eyes were drawn back to the Silver Mark—his armor glinting, his cloak dragging blood in his wake, his slow, methodical steps that echoed in the silence. The assassin moved like death itself had taken a form, indifferent to the fear he left in his wake.
A metallic tang filled Mirak's mouth—he'd bitten his lip without realizing it. His breaths came quicker now, shallow and desperate, and he fought the rising panic clawing at his chest.
Chaos erupted as servants screamed and bolted for the doors, scrambling past the assassin in their bid to escape. The guards tightened their grip on their weapons, sweat visible on their brows.