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Chapter 117: The Final Name on the List
Chapter 117: The Final Name on the List
The Three Shadows Converge
The night was thick with tension.
Seraphis stood at the edge of the ruined courtyard, her white hair whipping in the wind, her white eyes reflecting the pale moon above. The air smelled of stone, blood, and the fading traces of death—the remnants of Sylvaine and Elowen’s last kills still lingering in the atmosphere.
The three assassins had cut through the Ivory Hand’s council, one by one. Now, only one name remained—the true mastermind behind it all.
Lord Veylan Astor.
The head of the council.
The man who had orchestrated countless assassinations, wars in the shadows, and held noble families under his heel with threats and coercion.
Unlike the others, Veylan had not run.
He was waiting for them.
Seraphis tightened her grip on the metal playing card between her fingers, feeling its sharp edge press into her skin.
Beside her, Elowen adjusted her twin daggers, their black hilts disappearing against the night.
Sylvaine stood at her other side, silent as ever, her piercing gaze locked on the massive fortress ahead.
They did not speak.
They didn’t need to.
The hunt was ending tonight.
And only one side would walk away.
A Fortress of the Damned
Veylan Astor’s estate was a fortress of nightmares.
A towering black citadel, lined with serrated iron fences, surrounded by a moat of dark water that reeked of alchemical corruption.
The torches lining the stone walls burned an eerie green, their glow illuminating the twisted gargoyle-like statues watching from above.
Seraphis scanned the entrance.
No visible guards.
No sign of movement.
Too quiet.
Elowen flicked her wrist. A dagger spun between her fingers. "It’s a trap."
Sylvaine exhaled softly. "Obviously."
Seraphis nodded once.
"Then let’s spring it."
Breaking the Gates
The three of them moved as one, gliding across the stone bridge.
Their footsteps made no sound.
As they reached the great iron doors, Elowen ran a gloved hand over the surface. The metal was cold… unnaturally so.
She pressed a dagger against the edge—and the steel immediately began to corrode.
"Poisoned," she muttered. "The whole damn door is coated in alchemy."
Sylvaine narrowed her eyes. "Then we make our own entrance."
Seraphis threw her hand forward.
Her metal playing cards shot out, spinning through the air like slicing razors.
They struck the hinges—shattering them instantly.
The door groaned, cracked, then collapsed inward with an earth-shaking boom.
The trap had been triggered.
Now, the real fight began.
The First Wave – The Black Sentinels
The moment the door fell, shadows lunged from the darkness.
Humanoid figures—twisted, half-living, half-dead—clad in black armor that pulsed like living flesh.
Their eyes glowed with eerie, violet fire, and their movements were unnatural—gliding, twitching, shifting as if they weren’t fully bound to the material world.
Elowen cursed. "Great. Veylan has necromancers."
The first sentinel swung a massive glaive toward Sylvaine.
She ducked, her dagger flashing upward—cutting through its throat in a perfect arc.
The creature didn’t fall.
Instead, its severed head twisted back into place, flesh knitting together with unnatural speed.
Seraphis didn’t hesitate.
She flung three playing cards, each one embedding into the creature’s skull.
This time, it crumbled into dust.
Sylvaine flicked blood from her blade. "Aim for the core. The head doesn’t matter."
Elowen spun, her daggers slicing through another sentinel, hitting just beneath the ribcage.
It let out a horrible, gurgling scream—then disintegrated.
Seraphis threw another card—then another—each one cutting through the air, finding its target with surgical precision.
The sentinels fell, one by one.
The way forward was clear.
For now.
The Throne of Shadows
They ascended the great staircase, moving through corridors lined with hanging banners of silver and black.
The deeper they went, the colder it became.
Seraphis could feel the magic in the air—ancient, malevolent, suffocating.
Then they reached the grand chamber.
At the center of the vast, dimly lit room sat Veylan Astor.
Not on a throne.
But on a massive obsidian altar, veins of glowing red light pulsing through the stone.
He was dressed in flowing black robes, his silver hair slicked back, his pale hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair.
And he was smiling.
"Welcome," he said softly. "I was wondering how long it would take."
Seraphis felt something shift.
The room was closing in.
Shadows twisted at the edges of the chamber. The walls themselves seemed to breathe.
Then Veylan stood.
And the final battle began.
The Final Duel
Veylan moved like a phantom.
One moment, he was at the altar.
The next, he was behind them.
Seraphis barely dodged in time, twisting mid-air as a dagger slashed through where her throat had been a second before.
Elowen lunged, her blades a blur of silver.
Veylan caught them between his fingers.
Then twisted.
Elowen gasped as a pulse of dark magic sent her flying backward.
Sylvaine was already in motion—her blade aimed for his heart.
Veylan turned to mist.
Reappeared.
His hand closed around Sylvaine’s throat.
He lifted her off the ground, squeezing.
Seraphis reacted instantly.
A single thought—and her playing cards spun forward, forming into a massive, spinning spear.
She hurled it.
Veylan released Sylvaine just in time to dodge—but the spear grazed his shoulder, cutting through cloth and skin.
His eyes narrowed.
"Interesting."
He raised a hand.
The shadows around them exploded.
Seraphis felt the magic surge toward them—an endless wave of darkness.
But she wasn’t afraid.
She met Elowen’s gaze.
Then Sylvaine’s.
And together, they charged.
The End of a Tyrant
The battle raged for what felt like hours.
Veylan was fast.
Powerful.
But not invincible.
Seraphis’ cards cut through his defenses. Elowen’s daggers struck deep. Sylvaine’s blades sliced through his magic.
Wounds piled up.
His speed slowed.
His movements became desperate.
And then—
Seraphis drove the final card into his chest.
Veylan’s eyes widened.
He staggered, choking on his own breath.
A whisper.
A curse.
Then his body crumbled into nothing.
The leader of the council was dead.
The Ivory Hand was no more.
And the three assassins stood victorious.