Back at the parking area where carriages and wagons stood lined like silent beasts, Kael slipped down from his carriage with the grace of a shadow. Moving behind it, he tugged at the straps of his coachman attire, peeling it off piece by piece until only his black battle gear clung to him, blending perfectly with the shadows.
Once freed of the disguise, he stole across the lot, his steps soft against the earth as he advanced toward the entrance of the underground chamber. The three guards from before were still there, their armored figures alert, eyes scanning the open terrain beyond like hawks guarding a nest.
Kael slowed his pace as he neared the closest one, crouching low, his hand slipping to the slim tube at his side. Raising the blowgun to his lips, he breathed out sharply—fhhht—and the dart flew with deadly precision, embedding itself into the back of the guard’s neck.
The man stiffened, a sharp pain flashing across his face. He turned his head slightly, just in time to glimpse Kael’s shadowed figure. But before his lips could part in alarm, his eyes grew glassy, his legs faltered, and the world slipped away. Kael lunged forward, catching the man under the arms and lowering him silently to the ground. Yet a mistake betrayed him—the sword at the guard’s hip slid loose and clattered faintly against the earth.
The sound was enough.
The two other guards, who had begun to pace toward the entrance, whipped their heads around, their gazes locking on the source. Their eyes widened at the sight of a man clad in black, bow and quiver across his back.
"Intru—!" one began to shout, but Kael was quicker.
His blowgun rose again—once, twice—two darts whistling through the air and burying themselves into the tongues of the knights as they drew breath to yell. Their words garbled into muffled gags, their mouths going numb, and within seconds their bodies slackened, knees buckling beneath them.
Kael surged forward in a blur, seizing each man by the collar before their armored weight could hit the ground and sound the alarm. Gritting his teeth, he eased them down against the rock wall, setting them into an almost natural slump.
"Phew," Kael muttered under his breath, exhaling with relief. "These bastards have sharper ears than I thought." He adjusted their bodies one last time, making sure they wouldn’t topple noisily, then straightened, his eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze back toward the parking lot.
Most of the coachmen loitering there were nothing more than commoners, hired hands tethered to reins rather than blades. Moving past them unnoticed would be simple, but subduing them all without raising suspicion from the guards at the hallway entrance—that was the real challenge.
His sharp eyes slid to the far end of the entrance, where two more guards stood sentinel. Unlike the fallen guards, these men hadn’t shifted once, their stares locked firmly on themselves. Kael knew well—they weren’t inattentive; they were professionals, watchful even in stillness. Their awareness of the coachmen meant approaching them unnoticed would not be so easily done.
"Tsk," Kael hissed softly. "Let’s take care of this first."
Sliding his bow from his back, he nocked an arrow, stepping out into the open. He put a good distance between himself and the chamber entrance, his stance solid as he lifted the bow toward the night sky. Closing his eyes briefly, he drew in a steadying breath. Fire myst surged at his command, gathering and kindling into the arrow’s tip until it glowed like a coal at the end of the world.
With a sharp release, the arrow tore through the air. It ascended high into the night and, with a sudden flare, erupted into a muted yet blazing red burst.
Kael lowered his bow, watching the glow fade against the darkness. "That should be visible from there," he said under his breath, slinging the weapon back over his shoulder. He reached down, pulling three blowguns from his belt, filling each with fresh darts in swift, practiced motions. Two he slid into place at his sides, the third he gripped firmly in his hand as he pivoted back toward the underground chamber.
His eyes hardened, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "Well then," he murmured. "Time to clear the road."
Not far from the entrance to Drosmir’s underground chamber—roughly three miles off—a full line of Solara Knights stood in rigid formation, rows upon rows of steel and resolve glinting faintly under the pale glow of the moon. There were a hundred of them, armored men and battle-hardened mages alike, their silence as heavy as the blades and staves they bore.
At the forefront of this host stood a man whose presence alone marked him apart. His armor gleamed darker, heavier, and upon his shoulders hung a red cape that billowed faintly in the night breeze, signifying his rank. He was broad-shouldered, towering like a war-forged wall, with a thick beard bristling like steel wire and hair shorn close to the scalp. The moon caught the glint of his single eye—sharp and cold—while the other lay hidden behind the black leather of an eyepatch. This was their commander, the man who had led countless charges across blood-soaked fields: Sir Harald Kroiph.
This was the very reinforcement Serah and her father had had an agreement on.
The knights waited, breaths held, as though the night itself commanded stillness. Not a word passed their lips, for each man knew the weight of what was to come. The quiet stretched until, at last, a streak of red-orange light cut through the darkness, soaring into the heavens. It burst with a muffled explosion, burning briefly like a false star before fading into the night sky. The signal had come.
Harald’s jaw tightened as he exhaled a long, steady breath through his nose. The anticipation that had been bottled within the ranks seemed to shift, the silence sharpening into tension, then into readiness. He raised his chin, his voice carrying like a hammer striking iron.
"All men!" His single eye burned as he gazed across the rows of steel. "It is time. Tonight, we march. Tonight, we cast down those who trample human life as though it were dust beneath their boots." His voice hardened. "We will drag them to their knees, and they will know justice."
A ripple of grim resolve passed through the ranks. Weapons tightened in hands, armor shifted, boots pressed into the soil as one unified host. Then, with a single command, the line of knights and mages moved out.
Back within Drosmir’s underground chamber, far past the misleading hallways and deep inside where the grand double doors sealed off the auction room, the line of guards stationed at their posts stood in unwavering silence. They were arranged in two straight lanes, one to the left and one to the right of the massive door, forming an unbroken row of steel and vigilance. Yet their stillness was not camaraderie, for there was no bond between them—none had spoken a word, nor did they feel the need to. They were strangers united only by coin and command.
The oppressive quiet lingered for what felt like an eternity, until, at the far back of the left lane, a sudden, deliberate motion broke the stillness. One of the guards slowly unsheathed his sword. Without hesitation, he drove the blade forward, straight into the back of the man standing before him.
The guard struck gasped, eyes widening in shock as cold steel punched through his heart. He looked down in disbelief, blood bubbling from his lips, dripping onto the polished stone beneath his boots. A faint trickle ran down the edge of the blade before it was yanked free. His body collapsed, lifeless, crumpling to the floor without a sound, not even the faintest exhale disturbed the silence.
None of the others noticed. None, save for the guard at the back of the right lane and the one just ahead of him.
The guard closest to the back shifted uneasily, as if sensing something amiss, about to open his mouth—when the man behind him was already upon him. A swift slash cut across his throat, steel slicing flesh in a clean line. He clutched at his neck as blood poured between his fingers, drowning his voice in a wet, choking gurgle before his knees buckled. Like the other, he collapsed soundlessly onto the floor, his body twitching before going still.
Now, with the last men of both lanes eliminated, the two "guards" at the rear moved with quiet efficiency. They stripped away the borrowed uniforms, the identical guard attire falling away piece by piece, until their true selves emerged—black-clad assassins, their hoods pulled low over their heads.
It was Jorin and Myla.
From across the lane, Jorin caught his lover’s eye, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he watched her wipe her dagger against the fallen man’s cloak, proud of the fluid elegance with which she had slit his throat. Myla, ever confident, flicked her hair back with a subtle motion before unsheathing the twin daggers strapped to her back. Their silver edges glinted faintly in the dim light, thirsting for blood.
Jorin, in turn, reached behind him and drew forth his short axe, its worn steel head engraved with old battle scars. His grip tightened around the hilt, his grin fading into the focused calm of a predator.
The faint shimmer of the Silent spell they had cast moments earlier lingered in a 200 meter radius, canceling every form of noise. Here, in the very heart of Drosmir’s den, they were phantoms—footsteps vanished before touching stone, steel carried no whisper, even the rush of breath was erased.
Their gazes locked for a final instant. Myla gave a sharp nod; Jorin mirrored it.
And then, in perfect unison, the two assassins surged forward, black shadows cutting through the still air, death incarnate unleashed upon the unsuspecting.