A Spy's Whisper
Azrael Kaelthorne stood in the dimly lit chamber, his golden eyes locked onto the trembling figure before him. The spy—a man who had served him for months—knelt, his forehead pressed to the cold stone floor.
"You hesitated," Azrael said, his voice a cold whisper. "You considered not telling me."
The man flinched. "M-My lord, I only needed time to confirm—"
Azrael's Aura flared ever so slightly, pressing against the man's body like an unseen hand choking the life out of him.
"I decide how much time you have."
The spy gasped, nodding frantically. "I… I overheard a conversation in the noble districts. They spoke of a fortress hidden in the southern wastelands. It doesn't appear on any map, but their operations run deep. They're… gathering forces. Testing something."
Azrael narrowed his eyes.
The southern wastelands—an unclaimed, lawless stretch of land where bandits and mercenaries roamed freely. If a faction had managed to construct a fortress there without attracting attention, it meant they had resources, power… and connections.
More importantly—it meant they were preparing for war.
Azrael withdrew his Aura, allowing the spy to breathe. "You've done well."
The man exhaled in relief.
Azrael turned away. "Return to your post. Continue gathering information."
As the spy scrambled out, Azrael folded his arms.
A hidden fortress.
A shadow faction appearing too soon.
And now they were preparing for something big.
I need to see it for myself.
---
The First Strike
Two days later.
Smoke rose in the distance, black tendrils twisting against the morning sky.
A small town, barely worth mentioning on a map, was burning.
The enemy had moved.
Azrael watched from a nearby ridge, hidden in the shade of an old ruin. Below, the attackers—masked warriors clad in unfamiliar armor—moved with discipline, cutting down those who resisted.
Their weapons glowed faintly with enchanted energy—something far beyond what simple bandits could afford.
This isn't just a test of their strength.
It's a message.
Azrael's fingers tightened around the hilt of Necrilith.
He could wait. He could observe.
But the town was already lost.
And there was nothing to gain from letting these enemies walk away unchallenged.
He would strike.
But he wouldn't let them know he was watching them.
---
A Silent Execution
Darkness moved.
A whisper of steel.
A flash of Umbral Mana.
One moment, the enemy commander stood surveying the wreckage. The next—his head hit the dirt, eyes frozen in confusion.
The soldiers barely had time to react.
A second fell.
A third.
Azrael moved through them like a specter, cutting them down before they could so much as scream.
His Aura remained suppressed.
His Mana—hidden.
He was nothing but a shadow among the dying.
Within minutes, the town fell silent.
Only corpses remained.
And not a single survivor to report what had happened.
Azrael cleaned his blade, his expression unreadable.
Whoever had sent these men would soon realize that they had lost their scouting party.
They would come searching.
And when they did, he would be waiting.
---
A Watcher in the Dark
Unseen by Azrael, a figure lingered in the shadows, perched atop a distant rooftop.
A pair of silver eyes gleamed beneath a dark hood.
They had watched everything.
His movements. His tactics. His silence.
And they understood one thing.
Azrael Kaelthorne knew too much.
The figure smirked.
And then, like a whisper on the wind—they vanished.
---
To Be Continued…