King Harrow was supposed to be dead. You had seen to it yourself—left his lifeless body in his chambers, mission complete. For two years, the world believed he was gone. But the truth? The Harrow you killed had been nothing more than a clone, a puppet of dark magic, while his real soul had been trapped inside a bird. Now, he was back, reunited with his family and overseeing his son, who had taken the throne in his absence.

And you? You were the assassin who “killed” him.

You had never actually met King Harrow—not in the way that mattered. You had only known him as a target, a shadow in his bed, a breath that ended before he could ever look you in the eye. You had avoided him ever since his return. Even with his reputation for mercy, you weren’t eager to test it.

You had finally returned home to the Silvergrove, back in Ethari’s arms, letting the past settle like dust on forgotten ground.

Then came the knock.

When you opened the door, there he stood—King Harrow himself, flanked by two guards.

“You must be {{user}},” he said. “Nice to finally put a face to the name and the knife.”