The aftermath of the assassination attempt left a trail of blood and unanswered questions, a shadow that lingered long after the bodies had been hauled away and the guest house's polished floors scrubbed clean. The air still carried the faint tang of iron, a reminder that Varenhelm—beneath its veneer of marble and gold—was not as secure as it appeared. Alexander stood by the narrow window of their residence, gazing out as the city stirred beneath a gray dawn. Lanterns flickered in the streets below, their light swallowed by the creeping mist, while merchants and servants began their daily dance. The assassins had failed, their blades turned back by the Dominion's steel, but their message had landed like a stone in still water: ripples of intent spreading outward.
They were being watched.
They were being tested.
And someone—a noble house, a shadowy faction, or a hidden hand pulling strings from the dark—wanted them dead, their rise snuffed out before it could threaten the kingdom's fragile order.
Silas stepped beside him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his sharp eyes reflecting the dim light. "The scouts followed the trail," he said, his voice low and edged with a grim certainty. "Those assassins didn't crawl out of the slums or some mercenary den. They had a handler—someone inside the noble district, with access and coin."
Alexander's expression didn't shift, his gaze fixed on the city's waking streets. "Which means?"
Silas smirked, though there was no humor in it, only the cold recognition of a predator sniffing out prey. "Which means someone with power—real power—approved this attack. This wasn't a rogue blade for hire; it was sanctioned, planned."
Elias tightened the belt around his sword, the leather creaking as he adjusted the blade's weight at his hip. His scowl deepened, a storm brewing in his broad frame. "Then we find out who—hunt them down and gut them before they try again."
Alexander nodded, a single, deliberate motion that carried the weight of command. "And we send a message back—one they won't forget."
The Hunt Begins
Tyrell's scouts moved like phantoms through Varenhelm's labyrinthine streets, their work swift and silent as they traced the assassins' path before the attack. By midmorning, their efforts bore fruit: the trail led to a seemingly abandoned manor on the outskirts of the noble district, its crumbling facade a stark contrast to the polished estates around it. Ivy clung to its walls, and the windows stared blankly, their shutters hanging askew like broken teeth.
Silas examined the entrance, his hand brushing over the broken lock—a crude splintering of wood that spoke of haste. "They left in a hurry," he muttered, his fingers tracing the jagged edges. "Whoever orchestrated this knew we'd come looking—didn't want to leave anything behind."
Alexander stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied the doorframe. Scratched into the weathered wood was a symbol—a serpent wrapped around a dagger, its coils tight and menacing. The same mark as the letter, the same tattoo etched into the dead assassin's neck. The connection was undeniable, a thread tying the warning to the attack.
Tyrell's voice was a low growl as he joined them, his cloak still dusted with the morning's grime. "That's no coincidence."
Inside, the manor was a hollow shell, stripped bare of life. No weapons littered the floors, no supplies hinted at a base of operations, no documents revealed a mastermind—only dust and shadows where plans had once been laid. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of neglect, and the silence pressed against them like a living thing.
Alexander clenched his jaw, his frustration a quiet simmer beneath his calm exterior. "They were expecting this—knew we'd follow the trail and made sure there was nothing left to find."
Elias kicked a fallen chair aside, the wood clattering against the stone floor with a hollow echo. "They covered their tracks well," he said, his voice thick with irritation. "But not well enough. They slipped somewhere."
Tyrell knelt near the hearth, brushing his fingers over the cold stone, his brow furrowing as he inhaled faintly. "There's a scent—burned parchment." He rose and crossed to the fireplace, sifting through the soot and ash until his hand closed around a single fragment of paper, its edges charred but its ink still legible in the dim light.
Silas took it from him with careful fingers, holding it to the window's faint glow as he read the barely discernible words aloud: "…Dominion must fall before the summer…" His voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavy in the air.
The meaning was stark, chilling. This wasn't the end of the threat—it was the opening salvo, a promise of more to come. Alexander turned to his men, his voice steady but laced with resolve. "We're leaving Varenhelm tomorrow."
Elias frowned, his broad shoulders tensing. "Just like that? We run from this?"
Silas smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he tucked the fragment into his cloak. "Not before we send them a parting gift—something to keep them up at night."
The Duke's Final Move
Before their departure, Alexander made one last stop, a calculated move to test the waters of an ally—or a rival. Duke Lennox Vale's estate stood as grand as ever, its pale stone walls gleaming in the late afternoon sun, its halls a testament to wealth and power. Yet today, there was a subtle tension beneath the luxury—a shift in the air, a tightening of the threads that wove Varenia's political tapestry.
Lennox met Alexander in a private study, its walls lined with bookshelves and its windows draped in heavy velvet. The duke sat behind a carved desk, his sharp eyes gleaming with intrigue as he gestured for Alexander to take a seat. "Leaving so soon, Lord Maxwell?" he asked, his voice smooth and probing, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Alexander didn't return the smile, his posture rigid as he met the duke's gaze. "For now. But we will return—stronger."
Lennox leaned back in his chair, swirling a goblet of wine with a casual grace that belied the sharpness of his attention. "You've stirred quite the storm in this city," he said, his tone almost admiring. "Some will see your rise as an opportunity—new blood to bolster their own ambitions. Others… as a threat to be stamped out before it grows too large to contain."
Alexander held his gaze evenly, unflinching. "And what do you see, Your Grace?"
Lennox's smirk was razor-thin, a blade's edge of amusement and calculation. "A piece on the board that refuses to be played—a rare thing in Varenia."
A pause settled between them, charged with unspoken questions. Then Alexander reached into his cloak and placed the burned scrap of parchment on the table, its charred edges stark against the polished wood. "We found this in the ashes of an assassin's hideout," he said, his voice low and deliberate.
Lennox's smirk faded, his fingers stilling around the goblet as he picked up the fragment. His expression became unreadable, a mask of stone as he studied the words: …Dominion must fall before the summer… "So," he murmured, setting the paper down with a faint tap, "they've already begun moving."
Silas folded his arms, his voice cutting through the silence. "You know who sent them, don't you? You've got the pulse of this city in your grip."
Lennox exhaled, a slow breath that carried the weight of years spent navigating Varenia's shadows. "Perhaps," he said, his tone measured. "I hear whispers, see patterns—but knowing and proving are two very different things, Lord Maxwell. The serpent's coils are deep, and they don't unravel easily."
Alexander straightened, his presence filling the room as he leaned forward slightly. "Then let me make something clear," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "If they try again—if they send another assassin, another army, another hidden knife in the dark—we will not wait for them to strike. We'll burn their coils to ash and let the kingdom see the flames."
Lennox smiled faintly, a flicker of genuine respect in his eyes as he raised his goblet in a slow, deliberate toast. "Then I shall enjoy watching the next game unfold, Lord Maxwell. You play with fire—let's see if you can wield it."
Without another word, Alexander turned and left, his delegation falling in behind him. The duke's parting words lingered, a challenge and a promise wrapped in one.
The Journey Home
By dawn, The Maxwell Dominion's delegation rode out of Varenhelm, their horses' hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the cobblestone road. The city gates loomed behind them, their iron jaws shutting with a resonant clang that echoed in the morning mist. On the surface, the ride back to Emberhold was swift and uneventful—the sky clear, the wind sharp, the road stretching toward the frontier like a lifeline.
But beneath the calm, Alexander felt the weight of unseen eyes. The Kingdom was shifting, its foundations trembling as the Dominion's rise sent cracks through Varenia's old order. The serpent's strike had failed, but the burned fragment and the tattooed mark promised more—a war brewing in the shadows, its first blood already spilled.
Silas rode beside him, his gaze flicking to the horizon. "They'll come for us again," he said, his voice low but certain. "That note wasn't a one-off."
Elias grunted, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "Let them try. We'll be ready this time."
Tyrell, ever watchful, scanned the road ahead, his silence a testament to the calculations running through his mind. "It's not just about us anymore," he said at last. "They're moving against something bigger—maybe Aldric, maybe the whole damn kingdom."
Alexander's grip tightened on the reins, his eyes fixed on the path to Emberhold. The assassins had been a warning shot, the serpent a symbol of a deeper game. The real war—the one that would test the Dominion's steel and soul—was coming, and it would not wait for summer.
"We strengthen our borders," he said, his voice a quiet command that carried over the wind. "We fortify our alliances. And when they strike again, we'll be the ones left standing."
The gates of Varenhelm faded into the distance, but the war had already followed them into the open. The serpent's coil was tightening—and The Maxwell Dominion would either break it or rise above it.