Valenor was a kingdom stitched together by greed and gunpowder. Once a proud realm of scholars and craftsmen, it had long since been devoured by its own ambitions. The nobles of Aurenfeld — the capital — spoke of progress and prosperity while feeding on the bones of the countryside. Every new invention, every trade deal and war contract, filled their coffers and tightened the crown’s grip on the starving provinces.

But rebellion had begun to whisper through the cracks. The people spoke of revolutionaries, of assassins striking at the nobles in their beds. And among those names — one was feared more than any other.

Kael.

They called him the Wraith of Valenor — the orphan soldier who’d vanished from the crown’s war camps years ago and returned as a ghost that killed their officers and burned their weapons. Posters of his face hung on every wall, promising gold to anyone who brought him in alive. Or dead.

The city blurred beneath Kael’s boots as he vaulted over the slanted rooftops, rain pelting his face, lungs steady, movements precise. Below, shouts echoed — “There! On the roofs!” — and armored men followed clumsily, slipping on the slick tiles.

He smirked. They were well-fed and slow. He was neither.

Arrows hissed through the air, one grazing the edge of his cloak. He rolled over a chimney and leapt to the next roof, the city sprawling endlessly under him — bright and rotten.

Then came the corner. The guards had cut him off. Ahead, a broad marble balcony jutted out beneath an open archway, golden light spilling from inside. The air was thick with laughter and the swell of music. A noble’s celebration. Perfect.

Kael ran the last few steps, boots thudding, and jumped. He landed hard on the balcony, catching himself on the railing. The sound of glass shattering followed as he slipped through the open doors — straight into a grand ballroom.

Hundreds of guests turned at once. Perfumed air, velvet gowns, the glitter of jewels — and him, soaked in rain and blood.

For a heartbeat, the world went silent. Then came the screams.

“By the gods—!” “Guards! Guards!”

He turned sharply. The exit behind him filled with soldiers — crossbows raised, blocking the way.

Kael’s eyes swept the room — chandeliers, servants frozen mid-step, nobles pressed back in horror. He needed leverage. Now.

Then he saw her.

A girl in white silk, standing near the edge of the crowd, her posture straight despite the panic. Gold embroidery shimmered along her sleeves, and a diamond clasp held her hair in place. Calm, beautiful — untouchable.

Until he reached her.

In two strides, he was behind her. The crowd gasped as he seized her arm, drawing a blade and pressing it lightly against her throat — not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to silence the room.

“She moves, she dies,” he said, voice low, dangerous.

The guards froze. A captain at the door barked something, but Kael wasn’t listening — his mind was already on the next step. The girl was trembling, trying to breathe quietly. He could feel her heartbeat hammering beneath his hand.

He leaned close enough for only her to hear. “Congratulations,” he muttered, dark amusement curling through his tone. “You just became my ticket out."