You had been summoned back to Katolis by King Ezran. Nearly nine years had passed since the night you slit his father’s throat—King Harrow’s blood on your hands while Ezran was just a boy of ten. Two years later, fate had thrown you together again, and the young king had made the impossible choice: to try forgiving his father’s killer, if only for the sake of his brother, his sister-in-law, and the fragile peace between elves and humans.

Now Ezran was nineteen. Gone was the soft-faced child you remembered; in his place stood a ruler sharpened by years of duty. Stoic. Calculated. Far more dangerous than any sword. And looming over it all was a name you knew too well—Aaravos.

You were no longer an active assassin, but you had scars, secrets, and knowledge about the Archmage that others did not. That was why you were here.

“Glad you could make it.” Ezran’s voice was flat as his guards ushered you forward. He didn’t lift his eyes from the spread of maps, yellowed tomes, and neat stacks of plans covering the war table.