Prologue

The kingdom of Arinthix had long been divided. The nobility hoarded power while the common folk suffered. A rebellion had been simmering for years, led by those who believed in a world without kings and queens. And in the shadows, one man had shaped the tides of war more than any army or sword.

Mystique. The faceless assassin. The ghost in the night.

His legend was whispered in fearful tones—of how he could slip past a thousand guards unnoticed, how he had ended kings in their beds, and how no one had ever seen his face and lived. He was a tool of revolution, a blade wielded by the desperate. But beneath the name, beneath the myth, he was simply a man. A man with a past he could not remember and a future he did not care to build.

His name was Erchid.

The castle was not grand, nor was it heavily fortified like the royal palace. Yet, its thick stone walls concealed the true power behind the throne—the Minister of War, the man who orchestrated the suffering of the people from the shadows. And tonight, those shadows had come for him.

A figure draped in dark attire moved like liquid through the corridors, slipping past patrols with ease blending into the shadows. The flickering fire torch barely caught the movement of his form, his presence nothing more than a whisper in the night. Guards stood at every entrance, their armor glinting in the dim glow, oblivious to the silent predator among them.

Beyond the grand wooden doors of the minister's chamber, two figures lay on the bed. The minister, a man who had sealed the fate of countless innocents with the stroke of a quill, and beside him, his wife, wrapped in silken sheets. Neither of them knew that death was already in the room, watching, waiting.

The minister stirred, his eyes fluttering open as an unnatural chill crept through the air. He gasped softly, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze locked onto the figure at the foot of his bed. A shadow, clad in black, stood over him, eyes like twin voids piercing through the darkness. Cold. Unforgiving. The eyes of a reaper looking down on what belonged to it.

Before the minister could move, steel flashed. A single, precise slash. His throat opened in a grotesque red smile.

The minister's hands shot up to his neck, his fingers desperately clawing at the wound as his breath gurgled and failed him. His body convulsed, his eyes wide with horror as blood poured from his mouth, his ears, his nose—like a man crying tears of crimson. His silent struggle was enough to rouse the woman beside him.

Her scream tore through the silence, raw and piercing as she scrambled back against the headboard. Terror gripped her as she watched her husband thrash in a pool of his own blood, gasping for air that would never come. She turned wildly, seeking an assailant, but the room was empty. No one was there.

The doors burst open as guards in gleaming armor stormed in, their blades drawn. Their eyes found the minister's lifeless body, his blood soaking into the fine silken sheets.

"Minister! Minister!" they shouted in horror, their voices echoing through the halls.

Chaos erupted. Orders were screamed, footsteps thundered down the corridors, metal clashed against metal as the castle erupted into frantic search efforts.

But the killer was already gone.

Beyond the walls, a lone figure walked under the cover of night. His armor, stolen from a fallen guard, gleamed under the moonlight. He moved with purpose, his strides unhurried as the frantic shouts of the soldiers faded behind him. When he reached the tree line, he pulled off his helmet, revealing silver hair that caught the pale light. A scar marked his neck—a remnant of a past he had long forgotten.

As he shed the armor piece by piece, the man beneath it was revealed. Lean, refined, a phantom of the night.

Mystique. The faceless assassin. The ghost in the night.

And with his task complete, he vanished into the darkness, leaving only a legend in his wake.