The whispers of Vostok's nocturnal winds clawed through the northern edge of Vallhala's opulent realm—a land where gilded spires pierced the heavens and streets shimmered like scattered stardust. But tonight, the wind carried no songs of grandeur. It shattered the silence with its icy teeth, howling a dirge that rattled the bones of ancient stones.
Snow fell not as a gentle caress, but as a slow, deliberate ballet of frost—each flake a silent conspirator in the city's suffocation. Beneath the storm's ghostly veil, the sleepless city thrummed like a caged beast: taverns spilled amber light and drunken laughter onto cobblestones, while shadowed figures traded secrets (and daggers) in alleyways. Yet even its relentless pulse grew muffled, buried under the weight of winter's pale, unblinking eye.
FHUUUSHHHHH!!!
Midnight's grip tightened as a black-cloaked figure glided through the storm—a wraith woven from the void itself. His obsidian robes, thicker than a dragon's hide, defied the snow's cruel bite, yet they could not smother the lethal aura that pulsed beneath, sharp as a serpent's coiled strike. The hood swallowed his face, leaving only a glimpse of unsettling calm: a marble-carved mask of serene indifference to the world's cacophony.
"Only these threads keep the frost at bay," he murmured, voice colder than the gale, boots etching no mark upon the snow.
But his eyes sharp as shattered ice flickered once to the darkness behind.
Ting!
A blade blurred through the air, a silver viper aimed for his skull. Yet before the steel could kiss flesh, he pivoted—a dancer's grace, a predator's precision—leaving the knife to quiver in a snowdrift. His gaze never wavered, calculating the shadows.
"Listen well, little ghost."
A man emerged from the gloom, his voice a serrated purr. "Kael Thalrune… Traitor's blood. Rebel's spawn. I've heard the ballads of your… infamy. But to find you here, so composed* in Vallhala's underbelly?" A laugh, brittle as frozen bone. "Tonight, the stars will feast on your corpse."
Kael's brow arched—a flicker of mockery in eyes as cold as glacial depths. His voice dripped with venom, yet his stance remained languid, almost bored. "If you crave my head… Come and claim it, gutter rat."
Crackle!
The assassin lunged skyward, muscles erupting with raw, crackling energy. The air hissed as arcs of lightning coiled around his arms like serpents born of storm. "BOLT!" he roared, hurling a jagged spear of lightning—a blinding streak that split the night faster than breath.
But Kael's lips curled into a languid smirk. In a blur of shadows, he vanished—not fleeing, but ascending, materializing mid-air above his foe. The lightning struck empty snow, igniting steam that curled like ghostly fingers.
"Impressive speed…" Kael mused, his voice silk over steel. "…for a little who feasts on scraps."
"Solaris Lightning Strom"
Kael's whisper hung in the air—a velvet threat laced with venom. Then, the world screamed.
Black lightning erupted from his fingertips, not as mere bolts, but as living tendrils of oblivion. They coiled and snarled, a constellation of dying stars forged from the void itself. With a flick of his wrist, he plummeted—a comet of shadow and fury—spearing the attack downward faster than thought, faster than light, faster than mercy.
KRAK-THOOM!
The strike tore through the assassin. No scream, no struggle. Flesh and bone dissolved into ash, swirling like damned souls in the storm's wake. The ground ruptured, birthing a smoldering crater where snow met hellfire. Smoke coiled upward, a serpentine requiem for the nameless dead.
Kael landed soundlessly at the crater's edge, his cloak untouched by soot or sin. He tilted his head, voice a blade wrapped in silk "Only ten of you?"
A pause. The blizzard itself seemed to hold its breath.
"You witnessed your comrade's… disassembly. Yet you linger?" His laugh was winter's first frost beautiful, lethal. "Come then. Let this crater become your shared grave."
Kael gave them no quarter.
He shot forward—a shadow unspooling in the blizzard—as the remaining assassins fumbled for weapons they'd never wield. Their eyes widened, catching only fragments: a flicker of steel, the gleam of a blade thirsting for crimson.
His katana sang.
SSSLLAASHH!!
One stroke. Two. Heads rolled, silent as secrets, their faces frozen in disbelief. The night swallowed their final breaths, the snow drinking their blood like ink on parchment.
CRACK!
Thunder ripped the sky apart, illuminating Kael's silhouette—a specter carved from the storm itself, katana dripping ruin. Then, darkness reclaimed the world, heavier now, as if the earth itself feared to exhale.
He paused. A bounty poster fluttered at his boot, half-buried in scarlet slush. Kneeling, he plucked it free, scanning the words with glacial calm:
"KAEL THALRUNE.
Wanted: Alive or Dead.
1.5 Million Crowns."
"Hm." He crumpled the paper, letting the wind steal it. "Still undervalued, I see."
The Next Morning
Morning light spilled across the gilded halls of Ravish Daneen's estate—a fortress of marble and ambition where the air itself smelled of old money and older secrets. In her chambers, Shazmeen Daneena stood before a floor-length mirror, her reflection a study in controlled perfection. Lips painted the deep red of ancestral wine, hair coiled into a crown of midnight braids, she resembled less a woman and more a weapon sheathed in silk. Today, the Daneen heirs would kneel before their father's throne for the last time. Tomorrow, the clan's viper pit would decide who thrived… and who bled.
KNOCK-KNOCK.
A knock, feather-light.
"Pardon me, my lady," murmured Ashina, the maid's voice muffled through mahogany doors. "The carriage awaits."
Shazmeen didn't turn. "Thank you. I'll descend shortly." Her reply was honey over steel, the kind of tone that made servants bow deeper and rivals grind their teeth.
Ashina lingered, fingers twisting her apron. "Is… everything prepared, my lady?"
A beat. Shazmeen's gaze flicked to the lacquered box on her vanity—inside, a dagger forged from starmetal, and a letter sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
"All is ready," she said, turning finally to grace the maid with a smile softer than dawn. "Your care is appreciated, Ashina."
The Chamber of Shattered Stars
Far from the Daneen estate's gilded lies, deep within a sanctum carved from the world's oldest shadows, figures robed in black stood vigil. Obsidian diamonds glinted on their collars—a constellation of allegiance to something older than blood. Before them, a holographic abyss pulsed, its surface a living tapestry of a thousand eyes: crows perched on rain gutters, ravens circling clocktowers, all feeding visions of her. Shazmeen's face filled the void, her elegance a provocation.
"She is the key to the abyss we crave."
The voice belonged to the figure at the helm—Unknown-1, throne-cut from darkness, his power a suffocating tide. "Bring her to me. Peel the flesh from your morals if you must."
Unknown-7 stepped forward, bowing so deeply his hood brushed the floor. "She will grace your altar before the next moon, Master."
A snort echoed from the corner. Unknown-5 leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. "Still licking the boots of a false god, Exile? How… devout."
Unknown-1's laughter slithered through the chamber, cold enough to frost the screens. "Mock him all you wish. But remember— it's in his… design"
Daneen Clan Meeting
The council chamber of Clan Daneen hummed with the weight of severed futures. Marme walls drank the light of a hundred candles as Ravish Daneen patriarch, warlord, living monument to ambition rose from his throne of petrified cedar. His gaze, sharper than the dagger at his hip, carved into his three heirs.
"Today, you cease to be my children." His voice cracked like a whip. "You become storms. Go forth—ravage the horizon, bend kingdoms to your will, and return only when the world kneels at your feet. Or die forgotten."
He pointed to his eldest, Athena, her spine steel-straight. "To Estric's bleeding fields. Let war carve your truth."
Then to Shazmeen, her elegance a blade in silk: "To Hikani's veiled isle. Seek your purpose in its cursed mists."
Lastly, Ander, whose charm masked a strategist's mind: "To Avena's shattered heart. Conquer not with swords, but whispers."
"By your will, Father," they chanted, three voices merging into a single weapon.
As guards ushered them toward waiting vehicles, a shadow stirred in the rafters
Exile, cloaked in void-black, lips peeling into a grin. "Run, little phoenix," he whispered, watching Shazmeen's ship prepare to sail. "I'll savor snuffing your light."
Shazmeen's ship, The Daneena's Grace, shuddered as the storm's jaws clamped down—waves like blackened teeth, wind howling a dirge. She clung to the rail, her silk gloves tearing on salt-crusted wood. "This isn't weather,"
CRASH!
A force struck the hull, monstrous and deliberate. The deck buckled, throwing crewmen into the frothing dark.
"What in the Seven Hells was that?!" Afard bellowed, sword drawn, his loyalty outshining his fear.
Lesrac, the grizzled navigator, spat overboard. "Icebergs don't move, boy! That thing's alive!"
Another blow. Wood splintered. The ship screamed.
Shazmeen stumbled, her crown of braids unraveling into a storm-tossed banner. Afard lunged for her, but the sea reared up—a wall of ink and fury—and tore her from his grasp.
When the wave retreated, Afard blinked through stinging brine.
There.
A figure stood upon the water—no, hovered—boots kissing the waves as if they were glass. Their cloak billowed, untouched by the gale, face obscured by a mask of living shadow.
"You!" Afard roared, wading toward them. "Where is she?!"
The figure tilted its head. A laugh slithered into his mind, venomous and sweet. Then it rose.
A tentacle, thick as a fortress tower, erupted from the depths. Scales glistened, barbed and bioluminescent, before it slammed down.
Afard's world went black.