Chapter 30

Silas sat at the head of the long, dark table, his fingers drumming impatiently on the cold surface. The room was dimly lit, shadows flickering across his face as the fire in the hearth behind him crackled softly. His dark eyes narrowed as he glared at the group before him, each one of his assassins standing with their heads bowed, silent and motionless, as if waiting for their execution. The air was thick with tension.

His patience had run thin.

"Explain to me," Silas began, his voice low and dripping with venom, "how is it that you, my most skilled and trusted assassins, have failed to track down a single boy, an amulet, and one rogue martial artist? Explain it to me now."

The silence was deafening, and no one dared to speak. The other assassins shifted uncomfortably under Silas’s gaze, knowing that his anger was a dangerous thing to provoke. Raven, the most senior of them, glanced toward Malachai, but neither spoke, unwilling to risk being the first to face Silas’s wrath.

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