"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

The wind howled as the White Raven soared above the enemy kingdom, her sharp eyes taking in every twisted alley, every broken street, every sign of rot festering beneath the surface. Shambell might have been powerful, but it was ugly—decayed from within, a kingdom built on conquest and cruelty, held together by nothing more than fear and oppression. Towers of blackened stone loomed over filthy streets, their jagged edges resembling the broken teeth of a dying beast. Shadows crept along the edges of the city, slithering through the underbelly where the true face of the kingdom was revealed.

Seraphis flew lower, gliding just above the rooftops, her keen gaze sweeping over the figures moving below. Soldiers patrolled with forced discipline, their expressions weary, their armor battered—not from battle, but from neglect. Merchants lined the streets, their stalls barely stocked, their voices weak as they tried to sell what little they had. The people—commoners, workers, beggars—looked hollow-eyed and thin, their faces carved with the weight of a life spent under oppression. This was not a kingdom that thrived. This was a kingdom that survived—barely.

She circled above the main square, where a massive platform had been constructed. At its center, three wooden posts stood tall, ropes hanging from them like silent executioners. Beneath them, a group of prisoners knelt, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces set in grim determination. A soldier—no, an executioner—stood beside them, sharpening a cruel, curved blade that gleamed even in the dim light. The gathered crowd watched in silence, their expressions blank, their eyes distant. This was routine for them.

Seraphis felt her jaw tighten. This was the kingdom that thought it could conquer Valleria? A land ruled by fear and desperation? She almost laughed. Power meant nothing if the foundation beneath it was crumbling.

Perching atop the tallest spire of the city, she folded her wings and let out a slow, measured breath. "Three weeks," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper against the night wind. King Aldric had given himself three weeks to prepare for his invasion.

A slow, wicked smile curled her lips.

"Then I’ll bring this kingdom to its knees in three weeks as well."

She would not wait for them to strike first. She would make them unravel from the inside, piece by piece, until they had no choice but to crumble under their own weight. And when the time came, when Aldric’s forces were poised to march on Valleria, he would find himself standing in the ashes of his own home.

She spread her wings again and took flight, her mind racing through every possibility. She needed to move quickly, but with precision. The key to destroying an empire was not brute force—it was knowing where to strike, when to pull a single thread and watch the entire tapestry unravel.

The council was her first target. The very men who sat at that table, who plotted war with calculated cruelty, who believed themselves untouchable—they would be the first to fall. And the best way to strike at them? Through fear.

She descended toward the castle once more, weaving through the air like a phantom. There was something poetic about bringing terror to those who thrived on spreading it. She would make them feel hunted, make them doubt the safety of their own stronghold. She would make them look over their shoulders, wondering if they were next.

Her plan was already taking shape. Sabotage, deception, assassination. She would dismantle their networks, turn their allies against them, and leave them scrambling in the dark. And she would start tonight.

The first council member on her list was Lord Gavren, the kingdom’s minister of war. He was the architect of Shambell’s military strategy, the one who ensured their forces remained strong even as the kingdom rotted around them. He was also a paranoid man, obsessed with secrecy, known for keeping detailed records of every operation in a private ledger hidden within his estate.

Perfect.

She flew toward the noble district, where mansions loomed behind high walls, their windows glowing faintly with candlelight. Gavren’s estate was heavily guarded, but it was no fortress. Not against her. She landed silently on the roof, shifting back into her human form, her white cloak billowing as she crouched in the shadows.

She moved swiftly, scaling the walls with ease, slipping past sentries who never even sensed her presence. Her daggers gleamed in the moonlight, her every step silent as death.

Within minutes, she was inside. The corridors were quiet, save for the occasional passing guard. She navigated through them effortlessly, her senses razor-sharp, her mind focused. The study was where she needed to be.

Reaching the door, she pulled a thin metal wire from her sleeve and worked the lock. A soft click. The door swung open.

She stepped inside and immediately spotted what she was looking for—a heavy oak desk covered in documents, maps, and ledgers. One in particular was bound in black leather, its spine adorned with a golden insignia—the mark of the war minister.

Seraphis smirked. Too easy.

She flipped through the pages, her sharp eyes scanning the contents. Troop movements, supply lines, encrypted messages—everything she needed to start dismantling Shambell’s war machine.

A sound behind her.

She turned just as a figure stepped into the room—a guard, his eyes widening in shock as he spotted her.

Seraphis sighed. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

Before he could react, she moved. A single, fluid motion—a blur of silver as she flicked her wrist. A metal playing card sliced through the air, embedding itself in his throat. He gasped, clutching at the wound, but no sound escaped. Silent. Efficient. Lethal.

She caught the card as it returned to her, wiping the blood against her sleeve before slipping it back into her pocket. No alarms. No commotion. Just another unfortunate casualty in the game.

Grabbing the ledger, she slipped back into the shadows, her mind already calculating her next move. This was only the beginning.

By the time dawn broke, Lord Gavren would awaken to find his most valuable documents missing, his guards on edge, and a single white feather left in his study.

The White Raven had made her move. And she was just getting started.