Moonlight poured over the clearing, bathing blood-soaked stone in silver light. The assassin knelt before Lucien—head bowed, blades dropped, his chest heaving from exhaustion and something deeper. Awe.
Lucien stood over him, silent. Observing.
Then: "Do you know why you failed?"
The assassin didn't respond.
Not yet.
Because before this moment—before the blade slipped from his grip and the cold truth pierced deeper than steel—there was a mission.
Flashback – Two Days Earlier
The assassin crouched on a jagged cliff ledge, the icy wind clawing at his cloak. In his hand, a scroll sealed with a wax sigil he'd never seen before—not the Obsidian Order's, but one twisted and blackened with void residue. Odd.
The words inside were brief:
"The Nameless King stirs. Test him. And if you survive—kneel."
Test him?
That wasn't a kill order.
That was… submission dressed as defiance.
Still, he obeyed. Because obedience was the first lesson carved into his bones.
But as he moved deeper into the Red Crest Mountains, doubt clung to him. His instincts—the ones honed to sense danger—weren't screaming. They were silent. Watchful. Like the world itself was waiting for what came next.
He passed through veils of light that shimmered unnaturally. Heard chants in no known tongue. And at the shrine—he didn't find ruins, but a presence. A figure standing beneath the moon.
Lucien.
Their clash was ceremonial. Inevitable. Every strike answered, every breath heavier.
Until the assassin stopped fighting.
And knelt.
Present
"I was sent to kill a ghost," the assassin whispered. "And found a god instead."
Lucien crouched before him, fingers brushing the cracked earth. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"A god? No. Gods crave devotion."
He touched the assassin's forehead—just two fingers.
"I demand surrender."
A brand flared into being beneath Lucien's touch. A symbol from a language long buried: the Mark of the Voidborne.
"You're the first," Lucien said, rising. "The first to kneel."
As the wind howled through the trees, and stars above shimmered unnaturally bright, the assassin knelt deeper—not in fear, but reverence.