Chapter 9 – Shadows Beneath the Spires
Jean did not linger in Argon.
Cael had found a sanctuary. Her path, however, remained steeped in war. The Succession loomed larger with every passing day. And Darien—her elder brother, brutal and cunning—was gathering strength.
But as she left the sacred city, shadows moved behind her.
The Shadow Guild.
She noticed them on the second night after departing Argon: a trail too precise, a whisper where there should be silence.
Assassins.
Whitney confirmed it. "Not Magisters. Not Darien. These blades are bought, not born."
Jean led them to a ruin—once a temple of Celeste, now collapsed stone beneath open stars.
She waited.
The first assassin struck from above, silent and swift.
Jean turned without a sound—Luminous Edge cleaving the air, catching the blade mid-strike.
A second moved in the darkness. Jean shifted her aura, sending a pulse of divine light outward.
The ruin lit up like dawn.
Six assassins surrounded her.
All cloaked in shifting magic, their blades glowing black.
"You're worth a fortune," said their leader. "To the Iron Empire. The Magisters. Even your own Clan."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "Then you're underpaid."
What followed wasn't a battle—it was butchery.
She danced through the assassins like a storm of light.
Whitney struck with divine ferocity, tearing through enchantments. The air smelled of ash and steel. Three assassins died within moments. One tried to run—Whitney brought him down.
Only the leader remained.
He dropped his blade.
"I yield! I yield!"
Jean walked up to him, blood on her cloak, silver hair untouched by the wind.
"Who sent you?"
"I-I don't know! The contract was masked. Shadow Level Black. It was signed with only one mark—a serpent and sword crossed over flame."
Jean froze.
The Serpent-Sword Flame crest.
Not Darien.
Not the Iron Empire.
Not even the Magisters.
She had just been targeted by someone far worse:
The Dragon Cult.
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End