The midday sun hung low in the sky, though its light did little to warm the streets of Aetherfall. Dense fog clung to the cobblestones, curling around the feet of hurried passersby. In the heart of the city, amidst a cacophony of merchants hawking wares and horses clattering down the roads, Saphielle moved unseen, slipping through the crowd like a shadow.
Her hood was pulled low, the dark fabric blending seamlessly with the folds of her cloak. In her hands, she clutched a small satchel, its weight a constant reminder of the job she had just completed.
The assassination had been clean. Quick.
Now, she only needed to get out of the city before anyone realized what had happened.
The alleyways of Aetherfall were familiar to her—narrow, labyrinthine, and perfect for someone who knew how to disappear. Saphielle's boots made no sound as she stepped over puddles and avoided the scattered refuse. Her pale hair was hidden beneath her hood, and her amethyst eyes scanned her surroundings with a practiced wariness.
She didn't notice the man tailing her until it was almost too late.
Saphielle turned a corner, her path taking her deeper into the maze of alleyways. But when she glanced over her shoulder, she caught the faintest flicker of movement—a shadow detaching itself from the wall and following her path.
Her heart quickened, but her steps remained measured, deliberate. If she panicked now, she'd only confirm that she knew she was being followed.
She took another turn, slipping into a narrow passageway where the fog hung thick and oppressive. Her hand drifted to the blade strapped to her thigh, its hilt cool and reassuring beneath her fingers.
The shadow moved closer.
Saphielle spun, drawing the dagger in one fluid motion and pressing its edge to the throat of the man who had been tailing her. He froze, his hands raised in surrender.
"Who sent you?" she hissed, her voice low and sharp.
The man was younger than she expected, barely out of his teens, with wide, fearful eyes and a patchy beard. He stammered, his words tumbling over one another in his panic.
"I—I wasn't sent by anyone!" he said. "I swear, I was just curious—saw you leave the house and thought you looked… suspicious!"
Saphielle's grip tightened, her dagger drawing a thin line of blood against his neck. She studied him carefully, her eyes narrowing. "You've got ten seconds to tell me the truth, or this alley becomes your grave."
"I swear!" he blurted out. "I just—I thought you were someone important. Someone worth watching. Please, I didn't mean anything by it!"
Saphielle frowned. He wasn't lying—at least, not about being untrained. He wasn't an assassin or an enforcer; his movements were sloppy, and his fear was genuine. But his interest in her was troubling nonetheless.
She lowered her blade but kept it in hand. "Go home," she said coldly. "And if I see you again, you won't have the chance to explain yourself."
The man nodded frantically, backing away before turning and sprinting down the alley.
Saphielle exhaled softly, her mind already racing. She had been careful—more careful than usual, in fact. If someone had noticed her, it meant the city was growing more dangerous.
She reached the edge of the alley and slipped into a quieter street, one lined with abandoned warehouses and shuttered shops. Her destination was close now—a small inn nestled in the shadows of the old district.
The innkeeper greeted her with a nod, his eyes lingering on the satchel in her hands for a moment before he returned to cleaning the bar. Saphielle crossed the room without a word, making her way to the small private chamber she had rented under a false name.
Once inside, she bolted the door and placed the satchel on the table. The room was sparse, with a narrow bed and a single window covered by heavy drapes. It was perfect—unremarkable and forgettable.
Saphielle opened the satchel, revealing its contents: a small, glass orb filled with swirling silver light. The orb pulsed faintly, its glow casting shifting patterns on the walls.
She stared at it for a long moment, her mind drifting to the moment she had taken it from the study of her target. The man had been a scholar, deeply connected to the strange occurrences spreading across the realm. His research had been meticulous, his collection of artifacts impressive.
But this orb—this was what he had guarded most fiercely.
Saphielle reached out, her fingers hovering over the glass. The light within seemed to respond to her presence, swirling faster, brighter. She hesitated, unsure whether to trust the instincts that urged her to touch it.
A sharp knock at the door broke her concentration.
She froze, her heart leaping into her throat. No one should know she was here.
The knock came again, louder this time.
Saphielle's hand went to her dagger as she moved silently to the door. She pressed her ear to the wood, listening.
"Open the door, Saphielle," a voice said from the other side. It was deep, calm, and far too familiar.
She cursed under her breath, her mind racing. She hadn't expected him to find her so soon—not here, of all places.
"Go away, Maren," she said, her voice steady despite the tension coiling in her chest.
"I don't think so," Maren replied. "We need to talk. Now."
Saphielle tightened her grip on the dagger, her eyes flicking to the orb on the table. The light within it pulsed faster, as though it, too, sensed the rising tension.
This was bad. Very bad.
End of Chapter 7