Chapter 4: Phantom in the Study
Inside a house that stood apart from the grandiose estates of the noble district, smaller and less adorned, lived a man of notable reputation yet elusive presence—Beau Whittington. Despite being a renowned merchant, Beau's appearance was far from ostentatious. His plain face bore no distinguishing features save for the round glasses he always wore.
On the second floor of his modest home, Beau sat in his study. The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of a solitary lantern. He perched uneasily on the edge of his chair, his eyes fixed on a letter lying ominously on the desk. It had been delivered moments earlier by a mysterious man who vanished as quickly as he appeared. A sheen of sweat glistened on Beau's forehead, his troubled expression betraying the storm within. The letter bore the seal of the Silvers family—a name that sent shivers through the spines of even the most powerful.
The Silvers were no ordinary nobles. Their influence rivaled the king's, their duke title commanding respect and fear alike. They could claim anything they desired and erase whatever they deemed inconvenient. Beau knew better than to meddle with them, yet here he was, caught in their shadow.
As he wrestled with his thoughts, a sudden *thunk* broke the silence, pulling him from his reverie. He glanced upward, his heart pounding.
"It's just my mind playing tricks on me… nothing more, nothing less," he muttered, his voice trembling as though seeking to convince himself. Leaning back in his chair, Beau tried to shake the unease creeping through him. The oppressive silence that followed seemed alive, punctuated only by his own labored breathing.
"Guards!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the stillness. No response came. Panic began to set in. "GUARDS!" This time, desperation laced his tone. Again, silence.
"They won't be coming for you," a calm voice intoned from behind.
Beau spun around in his chair, his blood running cold. A hooded figure loomed in the shadows, their face obscured by the deep hood. This intruder was Azazel, an assassin whose presence alone spelled doom.
"Who are you, and what do you want in my manor at this hour?" Beau demanded; his voice unsteady.
Azazel's lifeless gaze bore into Beau's. "It is just business," he replied, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
Azazel began advancing toward him, each step deliberate and menacing. From beneath his sleeve, a blade gleamed in the faint light, its deadly purpose unmistakable. Beau stumbled backward, his words spilling out in a frantic plea.
"I-I can give you anything you want! Wealth, power, women—just spare my life! It's all yours!" he cried, falling to the floor in his desperation.
Azazel halted, his gaze filled with a flicker of disdain. "You nobles are all the same," he muttered, barely audible. "Nothing ever changes."
With a final step, Azazel stood over Beau, who quaked beneath him. The assassin's voice, low and chilling, delivered the last words Beau would ever hear: "May the gods have mercy on your soul."
The blade struck with precision, extinguishing the life in Beau's eyes. Crimson blood seeped into the once-pristine white carpet as Azazel knelt to close the merchant's eyes—a small, final gesture of mercy. Rising, he strode to the desk and retrieved the letter before moving toward the balcony to make his escape.
BOOM!
The study door slammed open, revealing a tall, imposing man clad in a trench coat. His long sword glinted ominously as he tossed a lifeless body—a fellow operative of Azazel's—onto the ground.
"Well done completing your mission," the man sneered. "But I'm here to clean up the roaches infesting the order."
Without hesitation, Azazel drew a knife from his hip and struck. The man deflected the attack with ease, retaliating with a slash that tore across Azazel's stomach. Pain seared through him as the stranger's mocking words cut even deeper.
"You thought a magicless worm like you could stand against someone of the second circle? Pathetic."
Azazel's mind raced. The gap in power was insurmountable; there was only one option left—escape. From his pouch, he pulled a small black orb—a last-resort explosive. Pressing the button, he hurled it toward the ground. The explosion that followed rocked the entire district, flames consuming the manor as Azazel leapt from the balcony, scaling the wall to flee.
"You can't escape me!" the figure roared, his voice echoing like thunder. "You're nothing but a cockroach scurrying from a hunter!"
Cackling maniacally, the pursuer surged forward, his magic illuminating the night. Azazel, bleeding and desperate, pushed himself onward, knowing the difference between life and death hung by the thinnest of threads.