The first arrow came without warning.It buried itself in the wooden doorframe just inches from Ayame’s head. She ducked instinctively, pulling Kairo down with her as three more followed, splintering wood and stone alike.“Ambush!” she hissed.Kairo was already moving. He rolled behind one of the tall stone pillars, unsheathing his blade in one swift motion. His senses sharpened—breathing slowed, muscles taut, ears tuned to the slightest crunch of gravel.Ayame pressed her back to a wall, blades drawn. “We didn’t leave a trail. How the hell did they find us?”Kairo didn’t answer. His mind was already putting the pieces together—only a few people knew they were heading to the Temple of Whispers. And betrayal wasn’t uncommon in the shadows they lived in.A figure dropped from the rafters above, silent as death, twin daggers gleaming.Kairo spun to meet them, blade colliding mid-air with a harsh clang. Sparks flew. The enemy—a masked warrior in a dark crimson robe—was strong, fast, preci

The rain had stopped, but the streets of Kaelven still reeked of blood and smoke.Kairo walked through the ruins, boots crunching over charred wood and broken blades. The town that once stood as a trading hub now lay in splinters, reduced to blackened rubble. A few survivors gathered the strength to mourn, but most had disappeared—either into the dead or the desperate.Ayame trailed behind him, her eyes heavy with guilt. "We were too late," she said softly.Kairo didn’t respond. His gaze swept the destruction, fingers brushing the hilt of Silent Fang. The blade had grown warmer, heavier, ever since their last battle. It pulsed now, faintly alive, as though feeding on the grief around them.“This wasn’t just a raid,” he finally muttered. “It was a message.”Ayame crossed her arms. “From who?”He turned, eyes dark. “From the Black Vow.”That name had begun to spread like disease in whispers across every corner of the continent—criminal lords, fallen knights, cursed scholars. And now, it

Kairo moved like a ghost beneath the canopy of the dead forest, his blade strapped tightly to his back. The cursed weapon pulsed faintly, as if sensing something just beyond the veil of sight. The night air was thick with fog, curling around the gnarled trees like ancient spirits seeking release. He had left behind the blood-soaked ruins of Murtal three days ago, but the images still haunted him—bodies of villagers twisted in agony, their eyes frozen in terror. The Crimson Vow had struck with merciless precision. And this time, they’d left a message: “The last of the Silent Blade cannot hide forever.” He wasn’t hiding anymore. Kairo crouched near a fallen log and scanned the faint trail ahead. According to the map Zeren had passed to him before their split at dusk, the next outpost of the Crimson Vow lay just over the eastern ridge—deep within the gorge known as the Widow’s Maw. A place few dared enter, not for fear of enemies, but for the silence that followed anyone who did. Beh

The night wind brushed against Kairo’s face as he stood at the edge of the old bridge, the stars hidden behind thick clouds. Ayame sat quietly behind him, tending to the fire. Ayaka was still out gathering herbs for Kairo’s wound, though she’d been gone longer than expected. His hand throbbed—splinted and wrapped in blood-stained cloth—but the pain was nothing compared to the weight sitting on his chest. Kael had escaped again. He could still hear the general’s voice: “Your blood… your curse… will consume you.” Kairo closed his eyes. He hated how those words echoed with truth. The cursed blade—passed down through generations of Silent Blades—had grown heavier each time he used it. Not in weight, but in presence. A dark hum lived in the hilt now. Sometimes, he swore it whispered to him. Kairo… He shook the thought away. “You’ve barely said a word since we left the ruins,” Ayame spoke up, watching him. Kairo didn’t turn. “What’s left to say?” Ayame poked the fire. “You fought

The scent of scorched wood and ash still lingered in the air as Kairo and Ayame stood at the edge of the ruins. What had once been the hidden monastery of the Iron Veil was now reduced to charred stone and twisted iron. The attack had been swift—merciless. Kairo clenched his fists, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the enemy that had done this. "Whoever did this wanted to erase them completely," Ayame whispered, stepping cautiously over a collapsed archway. Kairo nodded, jaw tight. “And they were sending a message.” They moved deeper into the rubble, passing the blackened remains of what must’ve been sacred texts and artifacts. The Iron Veil were neutral mystics—keepers of secrets that stretched back centuries. If someone was willing to destroy them, it meant those secrets were no longer safe. Kairo stopped at a shattered altar, dropping to one knee. He ran his fingers over a faint insignia carved into the stone—a blade wrapped in flame. “The Mark of Embers,” he mutte