Chapter 15: The Lion’s Dagger

The message came at dawn.

Wrapped in black cloth, sealed with a mark no one in House Aurelian had seen in over a decade.

A roaring lion with its throat slit — the sigil of the Thorne Pact, a disbanded coalition of royalist zealots who had once ruled half of the northern provinces.

They had been hunted. Broken. Scattered.

Or so everyone believed.

Now they were back.

And they wanted blood.

Caelan stood over the missive, jaw tight, hands clasped behind his back.

Serreth read it aloud. Her voice, usually sharp and precise, faltered just slightly on the final line:

"We offered you silence. You responded with defiance.So we offer you this:One life from your circle, every day the bastard prince continues to breathe."

No signature. No location.

Just the blood sigil of House Thorne — once exterminated by Caelan's grandfather for an attempted coup.

This wasn't politics anymore.

It was vengeance.

The inner council gathered at midday in the war chamber, but the atmosphere was tighter than ever before.

No strategies. No posturing.

Just grim silence.

Until Lys stepped forward.

"We go to the Queen," she said. "Force her to denounce this openly. The Thorne Pact is a splinter group — if we call her bluff—"

"She won't deny it," Serreth cut in. "Not while they serve her purpose. And we can't risk looking like we're pleading."

"They're going to kill someone," Siran growled. "We can't sit on our hands."

Caelan said nothing.

He walked to the map of the capital. Eyes searching the old paths — tunnels, back routes, networks abandoned since the last purge.

The Queen wouldn't strike directly.

But someone would be the first target.

He turned slowly.

And looked at the door.

"Where's Vale?"

They found him in the lower court hall, chained but awake.

He'd been silent for three days since his capture. Not resisting. Not speaking.

Just watching.

Like a dog who knew the whip was coming, but didn't care anymore.

Caelan entered the chamber alone.

The guards stepped aside.

"I'm unbinding you," Caelan said.

Vale didn't move.

Caelan knelt beside him, set the release sigil down, and tapped it.

The chains shuddered.

Then hissed — as the magic seal broke, and Vale collapsed forward, catching himself on one elbow.

"What's this?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

"You're going to lead me to them."

Vale laughed. Bitter. Exhausted.

"I betrayed my Queen to stop them from killing your circle," he said. "And now you want me to betray the ones beneath her?"

Caelan met his gaze.

"You said I'm not what she claimed I was. Prove it."

That night, they rode out with only four: Caelan, Lys, Vale, and an elite scout named Maren — small, sharp-eyed, and mute by oath.

They traveled by moonlight, crossing the lower canals and entering the ruins beneath the fallen Oldkeep — once the heart of Thorne territory.

The air smelled of mold and something older — forgotten loyalty.

Vale led without hesitation.

And when they reached the central sanctum — a crumbled cathedral hidden below the city — he stopped.

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

Lys shook her head.

Vale's eyes darkened.

"That's the point."

The trap sprung the moment they stepped inside.

Maren caught the first blade in her shoulder — not fatal, but clean.

Lys rolled, drawing her daggers and knocking back two attackers. Vale flung a smoke shard into the far corner, buying seconds.

Caelan didn't flinch.

Because he saw him.

The man in white.

Standing at the far altar, hands folded, no weapons visible.

He wore the lion's sigil like a crown.

"Caelan Aurelian," the man said, voice rich and unhurried. "You came yourself."

"I don't send others to fight my wars."

"A shame. Because I do."

Dozens moved from the shadows.

Silent, armored, fast.

The Dagger Sons — Thorne's personal death priests.

Each trained from childhood in one art only: execution.

Caelan raised his hand.

And from the torchlight above, a flare fired — blinding and scorching.

Outside, the detonations began.

They weren't alone.

He had brought more than Vale.

He had brought hell.

The underground cathedral erupted in chaos.

Smoke flared from torches ripped from the walls. Steel clashed. Spells cracked against stone.

And still, the man in white — the Lion — stood at the altar, unmoved.

Caelan's small squad had fought in ambushes before. But never like this.

These weren't common assassins.

They were the Dagger Sons, raised in blood and taught only one thing: kill fast, and never miss.

Lys was a blur of steel, her twin daggers flashing arcs of silver. Every movement she made ended with a body falling. Yet for every one she cut down, two more emerged from the shadows.

Maren fought beside her, wounded but grimly effective. Despite the pain, the scout never uttered a sound.

Vale was bleeding — a thin slash across his ribs — but fought as if possessed. He had trained with the Sons once. He knew their weaknesses. And he knew their tells.

But even that wasn't enough.

They were outnumbered twenty to one.

And Caelan—

He stood beneath the half-collapsed archway, face painted with firelight, eyes locked on the man at the altar.

The Lion.

His cloak fluttered. His smile was serene.

"You knew I'd be here," the man said.

"I knew you'd make a mistake," Caelan replied. "Wearing that face was one of them."

The Lion stepped forward slowly, boots echoing over ancient tile.

"No mask, Caelan. No lies. Just an old truth, buried too long."

He reached into his sleeve and drew a curved dagger with a lion-carved hilt.

"This was my brother's. He was ten when the king's hounds slit his throat."

Caelan's jaw tightened. "Then you already know the justice you seek isn't with me."

"No," the Lion whispered. "But I'll carve a new justice from your bones."

The battle surged.

Maren fell first.

A blade pierced clean through her thigh, then another struck just under her ribs. She staggered back toward the broken altar, mouthing something — a warning? A prayer?

She didn't cry out.

She just slumped down, eyes wide and unblinking, hands still holding her weapon.

Lys screamed her name but couldn't reach her in time.

Then Vale fell — not by steel, but by betrayal.

A Dagger Son feinted toward Lys, then turned and sliced at Vale's neck.

He caught the blade just in time — but the second attacker came from behind, plunging a dagger into his shoulder.

He roared, twisting with the strength of a man refusing to die, and pulled both attackers down with him.

"Go—!" he shouted.

"Vale!" Lys turned, but Caelan caught her arm.

"No," he said. "He knew what he came here for."

And then the Lion moved.

He was fast — too fast.

No spell. No shout.

Just pure, lethal grace.

Caelan drew his blade in time to block the first strike, steel grinding against steel. Sparks flew. The Lion pressed, his movements elegant and efficient — like a dancer trained to kill.

"You fight like royalty," the Lion murmured.

"Then you bleed like a traitor," Caelan replied, driving him back with a sudden counter-thrust.

They circled.

All around them, the Sons collapsed. More reinforcements had arrived — Caelan's hidden scouts, pouring in from the sewer tunnels. The tides were shifting.

But Caelan didn't look.

He didn't blink.

The Lion lunged again — dagger aimed at his throat — and Caelan dropped low, swept his leg, and drove his sword upward.

Steel pierced flesh.

The Lion staggered, blood seeping from his side.

But he smiled.

And stabbed forward anyway — driving his dagger into Caelan's shoulder.

The pain was immediate and blinding.

But Caelan didn't fall.

He gritted his teeth, twisted his sword, and pulled free.

The Lion gasped.

Then dropped.

Dead.

Silence settled.

Only the crackle of dying flames remained.

Lys knelt beside Maren, hands trembling. The scout's body was still warm.

Vale lay nearby, barely conscious, breathing in shallow bursts.

The Sons had scattered or died.

The cathedral was secure.

But Caelan knew: this was only the beginning.

They burned the old altar.

Buried Maren with her oathblade beside her heart.

Caelan spoke few words.

But he lingered after the others left.

In the ruins of the Thorne Pact's last sanctuary, he stared into the flames.

Then turned toward Lys.

"We strike the Queen next."

Lys looked up sharply.

"You're sure?"

"She wanted war," he said. "Now she'll get it."