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Chapter 111: The First Mark
Chapter 111: The First Mark
A Silent Night
The moon hung high over the city, casting long shadows over the rooftops. The streets below were quiet, save for the occasional echo of drunken laughter or the distant clatter of hooves against cobblestone. Somewhere in the heart of this sleeping city, Seraphis’s first target was unaware that their final night had begun.
She crouched on the edge of a slanted rooftop, her white hair blending into the moonlight, her piercing white eyes scanning the manor below. This was the home of Lord Bastian Veyne, one of the Ivory Hand’s council members. His wealth had been amassed through assassinations, blackmail, and the sale of classified information to the highest bidder. He had ruined kingdoms, toppled rulers, and ended bloodlines, all from the comfort of his estate.
Tonight, he would pay the price.
The Marked House
The manor was grand, four stories of white stone and gilded windows, surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence with trained guards patrolling every entrance. It wasn’t the defenses of a noble—it was a fortress designed to keep people like Seraphis out.
She smirked. Amateurs.
The Ivory Hand thought like merchants, not assassins. They relied on money to solve their problems, hiring the best guards, the strongest warriors, the most expensive locks. But Seraphis had been a killer long before she came to this world.
And she had never needed a key.
Slipping In
She moved, silent as death, leaping from the rooftop to the manor wall, her hands finding small grooves in the stone. The guards below never noticed as she scaled the surface, pressing herself against the cold marble balcony on the third floor.
A single guard stood at the entrance to the study, his back turned. Perfect.
Seraphis reached into her sleeve and pulled out a thin, silver wire. With a flick of her wrist, it sailed through the air, wrapping around the man's throat. His hands shot up in panic, fingers clawing at the wire as it tightened, cutting off his air.
She leaned close, whispering in his ear.
“You should have worked for someone else.”
A sharp pull, and the wire sliced through flesh like butter. The guard crumpled, his lifeless body collapsing without a sound.
Seraphis dragged him into the shadows, her gaze turning toward the study doors.
Lord Bastian was waiting.
The Snake in the Den
The study was lavish, filled with red velvet chairs, towering bookshelves, and golden candelabras. Lord Bastian sat behind an ornate desk, a glass of wine in one hand, his other resting lazily on a jeweled dagger.
He was expecting her.
“Seraphis,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “I was wondering when you’d come knocking.”
She didn’t waste words. In a blink, she closed the distance between them, her blade aimed straight for his heart.
Bastian moved faster than she expected, toppling his chair backward as he rolled across the floor, narrowly avoiding her strike. Magic surged through the room, dark tendrils rising from the floor like a nest of writhing vipers.
Seraphis leapt onto the desk, dodging the first wave of shadowy whips, her mind already calculating his weaknesses.
Bastian was no warrior.
But he was a mage.
The Dance of Blades and Shadows
The tendrils lashed out, tearing books from their shelves, shattering glass. Seraphis twisted mid-air, flipping over the blackened coils, her hands moving in a blur as she unleashed her metal playing cards.
The razor-thin blades sang through the air, slicing through the shadows, disrupting his magic. One of them grazed Bastian’s cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.
He snarled, his fingers weaving another spell, but Seraphis was already on him.
She grabbed a nearby candlestick, using it as an improvised weapon, swinging it toward his face. He barely had time to dodge before she pivoted, bringing a knee into his stomach.
Bastian gasped, stumbling back, his magic flickering.
Seraphis didn’t let him recover. She was on him again, her blade flashing in the candlelight. He tried to block with his dagger, but she twisted his wrist violently, forcing him to drop the weapon.
A Desperate Plea
He collapsed against the desk, panting, his eyes wide with fear.
“Wait,” he coughed. “We can—”
Seraphis drove her blade into his hand, pinning it to the desk. He screamed, his body jerking violently as blood pooled around his fingers.
She leaned close. “You think I’m here to negotiate?”
His breath hitched. She could see it in his eyes—the realization. The fear. The knowledge that this was the end.
“Please,” he whispered. “I have information. I can—”
She drew another card from her sleeve.
It was over in a single clean, elegant motion.
His head rolled across the desk, toppling onto the floor, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.
The Final Message
Seraphis wiped her blade on his robe, taking a moment to glance around the ruined study. The Ivory Hand would know about this by sunrise.
She walked over to the bookshelf, pulling free a small, sealed envelope. A quick glance inside confirmed her suspicions—documents detailing the Ivory Hand’s dealings. Names. Locations. Secrets.
A slow smile spread across her lips.
They had no idea what was coming for them.
The Escape
She turned, vanishing into the shadows, slipping through the balcony once more. The city stretched out before her, endless and waiting.