Chapter 27: The Devil in Silk

The road to Astatine, the capital of Plyon, wasn't just a journey. It was the beginning of retribution.

Fifty years of silence. Fifty years of smiling diplomacy and false treaties. Fifty years since Plyon gifted trees—planted in the gardens and forests of Aethelgard as a peace offering. A tree that slowly leeched the kingdom's magic, siphoning it like a parasite.

They smiled when they gave it.

Now it was time for her to return the favor. With interest.

She rode alone. No entourage. No fanfare.

You don't announce revenge. You plant the seeds, keep your head down, and let it bloom like a rot in the dark.

Each mile brought her closer to enemy soil. But fear wasn't in her vocabulary anymore. Ethan had faced drug lords, corrupt politicians, cartel traitors, and smiling liars who shook your hand while plotting your execution. Plyon? They were just another empire built on rot.

At the border checkpoint, guards in red and silver armor blocked the way.

"May I see your identification?"

Antoinette handed the guard a forged merchant identification from Kap.

The guard checked it, then paused while looking behind the horse.

"Says here you're a merchant, so where's your cargo?" The guard asks while looking at Antoinette up and down as if judging that she is being suspicious.

Antoinette opened a leather bag that she carried on her back. 

"I have herbs to create medicine from the forest to sell."

The guard leaned down to see the herbs in the bag and nodded as a sign that she could pass the gate.

Good thing I ran into those bandits.

A few moments ago, before Antoinette arrived at the gate of the capital,

Antoinette rode steadily along the forest road. The rhythmic clatter of her horse's hooves was interrupted by the sound of rough voices. Three bandits had emerged from the treeline, riding on foot, their eyes glinting with the promise of easy prey.

One bandit hollered, "Hey, princess—bet you're hiding something valuable under that fancy mask!"

Antoinette's grip on the reins tightened. Without slowing her pace, she flicked her hand to the hilt of her dagger. In a heartbeat, her horse swerved, closing the gap between her and the bandits. The lead bandit leapt onto his horse, but before he could gain ground, Antoinette's blade sliced through the air—finding its mark and dropping him from his mount with a single, precise strike.

The second bandit charged forward on foot, but Antoinette anticipated his move. Her horse reared as she swung a well-aimed boot into his chest, sending him sprawling into the underbrush with a dull thud. The third tried to scramble away, but she pulled her horse to a controlled halt beside him. Leaning over, she grabbed him by the collar and, with a swift, brutal jab of her dagger under his jaw, he slumped into unconsciousness.

Rummaging through his satchel, Antoinette found what she sought: a bag filled with dried, potent herbs. With a smirk, she draped the stolen bag over her shoulder and nudged her horse back into motion.

"If that's all you had to offer," she murmured, her tone as cold as the night air, "you've been off easy."

With that, she rode off into the darkness, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the echo of her enemies' defeated groans behind her. The guard flinched, then looked into the hollow black of her mask. Something in him buckled. He stepped back. They let her through.

Once inside Astatine, she moved like a ghost. The city pulsed with opulence and deception. Marble buildings, spiraling towers, velvet-draped windows. But beneath it all—she could feel it. The mana that should've belonged to Aethelgard. Soaked into their streets, powering their cities, strengthening their mages.

They've been drinking our strength for half a century. And no one noticed.

She found a room in the merchant quarter. High enough for surveillance. Low enough to disappear. Two exits, one roof crawlspace, and an alley that led to three escape routes. She stashed poison, blade, smoke bombs, and cash. Routine.

First rule of infiltration: Never unpack like you're staying. You're not.

By candlelight, she laid out the files Kap had given her. The old bastard reeked of cigar and beer, but the intel was tight. Lords with secrets, mages with forbidden relics, knights with bastard children hidden in slums.

But one name burned brighter than the rest: Baron Leto Varin.

Young. Reckless. Tied to illegal magical experiments. And most importantly, ambitious enough to think he was untouchable.

Perfect.

She shadowed him for three days. Never too close. Never the same disguise. One night, a drunk noble's daughter. Next, a scullery maid. Then, a hooded scribe. She learned his routes, his habits, the name of the prostitute he saw every Thursday.

He was routine. And routine is vulnerability.

On the fourth night, she found him behind a den of sin, half-drunk, fiddling with his pants. Alone.

Her blade kissed the back of his neck before he could finish a breath.

"Move, and I'll make your next piss your last," she murmured.

He froze.

"You're going to help me get into the palace."

"Wh-who the hell are—?"

She shoved a parchment into his shaking hands. Evidence. Blackmail. Signed names, stolen ledgers, a personal letter from his mistress begging him to stop using her blood in rituals.

"I don't want your head," she said. "Yet. But if I hear a whisper, if I catch a tail on me, if I see you so much as twitch out of place—your secrets go public. Understand?"

He nodded once. Pale. Broken.

"Good dog."

She disappeared into the alley, melting into the shadows like smoke.

Back at the inn, she sat on the windowsill, mask still on, watching Astatine under the silver gaze of the moon.

The same moon that had watched over Aethelgard as it withered.

The same moon that had given her its blessing.

She lit a match. The flame danced. Smoke curled around her like a snake.

"This time," she whispered, "the snake bites back."