'The kingdom does not care who we kill, only that we kill.''
''Failure is not an option. Hesitation is a death sentence.''
I learned this young. The first time I saw blood on my hands, I was too small to understand what it meant. Too weak to question why the kingdom needed warriors like me.
Now, I do not ask. I do not hesitate. I survive.
Until tonight.
My name is Saphira Valcrow—warrior of the Crimson Order, trained to kill without question.
I trace the inked number on my wrist—one more name, one last hunt. The final kill that will set me free.
Every warrior of the Crimson Order is marked at birth, a brand seared into our skin and bound by blood. The number on our wrist is our quota—the lives we must take to keep our own. A tally that dictates our worth, our purpose.
Each kill lowers the number. And when it reaches zero, we are either freed from the Order… or we become the hunted.
For most, there is no escape. No one truly leaves the Order.
But I have only one kill left.
And for the first time, I wonder if freedom is just another lie they told us.
I should be relieved.
But when they give me the name, the world tilts beneath me.
Because it's Killian Veyne.
The warrior whispered about in war camps, spoken of in both fear and admiration. A ghost on the battlefield, untouchable, unbroken.
The Kingdom's Phantom Blade.
I've heard the stories. A warrior shrouded in mystery, a man who moves unseen until it's too late. They say he is a ghost in battle, striking like lightning and vanishing before the blood dries. That his sword does not just take lives—it steals fate itself.
I have seen warriors gutted by him, their lifeless eyes frozen in shock, as if they never saw death coming.
And now, he is my target.
I have never failed a mission. I have never questioned an order.
Until now.
"You hesitate, Saphira."
The voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance up to see Commander Rathos, his cold eyes scanning me like a blade slicing through flesh. He holds the parchment tighter in his hand, the inked name glaring back at me.
"No, sir," I answer, my voice steady. I force my fingers to unclench at my sides. "I am ready."
"Good. Because if you hesitate, you die. And I will not waste my time burying another failure."
I nod once, sharp and precise, though my mind screams otherwise. I do not fail. I will not fail.
But as Rathos steps away, the name still burns in my mind. A name I have heard only in whispers.
Killian Veyne
The kingdom's greatest weapon. And my final kill.
The streets are empty as I move through the lower city, the weight of my daggers familiar against my thighs. Shadows stretch long under the flickering lanterns, and the distant hum of soldiers on patrol fills the silence.
I have hunted dozens before. I know how this goes.
Find the target. Strike before they see it coming. Finish it quickly.
But this time, something is wrong. The usual cold certainty that settles over me before a kill is missing. My heartbeat is too loud. My grip on the hilt of my dagger too tight.
I curse under my breath.
I have never met Killian Veyne, but his reputation precedes him. If half the stories are true, he is no ordinary warrior. He is a shadow in the night, a phantom in battle.
A monster trained by the very kingdom that now demands his death.
So why are they sending me?
I shake the thought away. It doesn't matter. The kingdom's orders are law. I was chosen, and I obey.
My target will be at the Black Iron Tavern tonight. The perfect place to strike—loud, crowded, full of drunken men who wouldn't notice a blade slipping between ribs.
But as I approach the tavern, my breath catches.
Because he is already waiting for me.
Sitting at a table near the back, eyes dark as the void, lips curled in amusement—as if he has known all along that I was coming.
His presence is suffocating. A quiet storm lurking beneath the surface, his body wound with the kind of tension that only trained killers possess. He is broad-shouldered, dressed in black, his cloak draped over his chair like a shadow itself. His fingers, scarred but steady, toy with the rim of a metal cup, but his attention is locked onto me.
Sharp. Unyielding. Assessing.
And when his gaze locks onto mine, I realize one terrifying truth.
I am not hunting him.
He is hunting me.