Chapter 3: Shadows in the Night
As the four men exited the grand chamber, Azazel's mind was a whirlwind of uncertainty. The mission seemed simple: assassinate a merchant and retrieve a letter. But simplicity was often a mask, and his instincts—honed through years of grueling training—warned him that something was off.
The dim, desolate hallway stretched before them, its silence oppressive and unyielding. Azazel tried to push down the gnawing suspicion that twisted in his gut. The elders' intentions in his mind rarely aligned with their words. Still, he knew better than to let doubt cloud his purpose. Success was the only path forward, the only possibility that would lead to his survival.
Behind him, the atmosphere among the three other men was starkly different. Excitement radiated from them like heat from a roaring fire, their eager whispers breaking the quiet.
"This is it," one of them murmured, his voice quivering with anticipation. "If we pull this off, we'll earn our names. Finally, we'll matter."
Another chuckled, a spark of hope lighting his eyes. "Imagine it—a name of our own. No more being nobodies just because we can't use magic."
Their enthusiasm grated on Azazel. They didn't see the cracks, didn't hear the venom laced in the elders' words. To them, this mission was a chance for glory. To Azazel, it felt like a noose tightening around their necks.
As they approached the hallway's end, the faint light of the outside world stretched their shadows, making them loom larger against the cold stone walls. Azazel halted and turned to face them, his expression sharp and commanding.
"Don't let your blinding enthusiasm cause you to fail our orders," he said, his tone cutting through their excitement like a blade.
The three nameless men exchanged looks, their faces hardening into masks of contempt. Azazel saw it in their eyes—the resentment. To them, he was a fluke, a man without a shred of magical talent who had lucked into a name. A leader they neither wanted nor respected.
But there was nothing they could do. Orders were orders, and Azazel had been chosen. Silently, they nodded in agreement, their disdain unspoken but palpable. Together, the four shadows stepped out into the cold, decrepit night, leaving the warmth of the chamber behind.
[One Hour Before the Incident]
In the heart of the Kingdom of Eryndor lay the bustling capital city of Crownspire. A city of stark contrasts, it housed both the kingdom's highest-ranking nobles and the royal castle itself. At its center stood the sprawling palace, a beacon of hope for its people—whether noble or commoner. For the elite, it was a symbol of ambition; for the peasants, it was the seat of the king who guarded their peace.
On the outskirts of the noble district, away from the opulent grandeur near the palace, sat a smaller, understated mansion. It was modest by noble standards, yet it radiated an aura of quiet importance. This was the target—a house unassuming enough to avoid notice but significant enough to warrant the elders' attention.
High above the ground, perched on the stone wall dividing the commoners from the nobility, stood four shadowed figures. Their dark silhouettes blended into the night, only their human-like postures betraying their presence.
The figure at the center, standing closest to the edge, studied the mansion intently. His sharp gaze traced every detail of the layout—the positions of the guards, the faint glow of lights within, the potential entry points. The others remained silent, waiting for his word.
Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, Azazel spoke. "It's time."