Valerius sat cross-legged on the roof, his voice low and tired.

  “Ziraiah’s got a… boyfriend. And he’s a traitor. I tried to tell her, but she won’t listen.”

  Eliana, seated a little way off, raised an elegant brow.

  “A traitor? Really? You don’t even know him.”

  Valerius turned, eyes flashing. “I observed him for days. Found out he’s been passing information about us to Unbound.”

  “Three days?” Eliana tilted her head, unimpressed. “That sounds less like investigation and more like stalking.”

  “Yes, I stalked him,” Valerius snapped. “And it’s a good thing I did. Otherwise, we’d still be in the dark. The people he’s working for aren’t just any Unbound—they’re the same ones who kidnapped us three years ago. I saw one of them.”

  Eliana’s eyes widened slightly.

  “…The Black March? They’re here?”

  Valerius nodded grimly. “Looks like it. But here’s the weird part—I couldn’t sense him at all. Nothing. No mana, no Bravo, not even a heartbeat. It was like he didn’t exist.”

  For a long moment, Eliana stared at him. Her usual poise faltered.

  “If the Black March is here,” she whispered, “then Heful isn’t safe.”

  Valerius blinked, surprised. “You believe me?”

  “I don’t think you’d invent something like this,” she said, her tone quieter now.

  “What about the part where I can’t sense the guy?”

  Eliana didn’t answer immediately. She drew her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them, arms circling her shins. Her gaze drifted out across the night.

  “This is Yilheim,” she murmured. “All sorts of things are possible.”

  Her eyes slid back to Valerius, lingering on the burns marring his face and chest.

  “That’s a nasty wound. Ziraiah wasn’t holding back.”

  Valerius shrugged, his voice flat.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be healed by tomorrow.”

  Eliana smirked faintly. “How about right now?”

  With a flick of her wrist, a crystal vial appeared between her fingers. The liquid inside glowed faintly, like sunlight caught in glass.

  Valerius frowned. “That looks just like the elixirs Eryndor makes.”

  Her head snapped toward him, eyes sharp.

  “Your brother makes these? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah,” Valerius said. “He’s got a bunch.”

  Eliana stared at him as though he’d just announced he could forge gods from stone.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? This—” she held the vial higher, studying it in the moonlight—“isn’t some trinket. Do you know how rare it is to find a healing elixir of this quality? Even nobles can’t get them easily. They take a month to make, and the process is so precise most who try fail long before the end. These things put healers out of business—they work instantly.”

  Valerius shrugged again. “Eryndor’s always been good at making stuff. No matter what it is.”

  “He could make a fortune with this,” Eliana said softly. “Set for life, wealthier than half the royal houses combined.” She tossed him the vial. “Go on. Drink.”

  Valerius uncorked it and swallowed.

  Warmth surged through him. In moments, the burns along his skin faded. The raw flesh knit itself smooth, and his chest, once blackened, gleamed unscarred. Within seconds, it was as though he had never been injured.

  Eliana leaned back, lips curling. “Prodigies, every last one of you.”

  ---

  Elsewhere in Heful, in a dimly lit chamber beneath the royal tower, a mage bent over his table. The vial Eryndor had given him hovered in the glow of enchanted light, its contents swirling. His hands trembled as he whispered:

  “By the heavens… it’s the same. Is he… is he truly him?”

  ---

  And in Eryndor’s room, the truth sprawled across his workbench.

  Twenty elixirs, identical to the one Valerius had just drunk, lined the table in neat rows. Beside them, vials of every colour bore meticulous labels:

  Weight Loss

  Muscle Gain

  Supreme Libido

  Increased Height

  Perfect Figure

  At the centre of the table sat a ring, unfinished, its surface carved with runes that pulsed faintly.

  Eryndor sat in silence, his green eyes fixed on the suit hanging neatly in his wardrobe. His hands ached, burns still raw. Without a word, he uncorked another elixir and poured it across his palms.

  The light burned, then faded. Skin smoothed, flawless once more.

  His work continued.

  ---

  The alleys of Heful at night were never silent.

  They whispered.

  Smoke curled from the grates of taverns, gamblers argued in hushed tones, and gold slipped from palm to palm faster than prayers ever left lips. Beneath the glitter of the palace, another Heful breathed — a world of hunger, greed, and secrets.

  And in that world, a new name had begun to spread. A name carried with reverence, and with fear.

  Shade.

  None had seen his true face. He never allowed it. But all knew the mask. Obsidian black, polished smooth, its expression unreadable save for the faint red etching that curved like a whisper along the jawline.

  He wore a suit as dark as midnight, traced with thin red lines that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

  Tonight, he waited in a chamber beneath Heful’s old market. Candles guttered low, their smoke curling toward stone walls carved with runes of silence. At the door stood two cloaked guards, motionless as statues.

  The first visitor entered — a nobleman, breathless, clutching a pouch of coin so tight his knuckles were white. His rings rattled as he bowed.

  “Mr. Shade… please. I need it. For the ball tomorrow. You promised—”

  Shade raised one gloved hand.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The words died on the man’s tongue.

  His voice, smooth and elegant, slid across the room like silk laid over steel.

  “Need… is such an inelegant word, my friend. One does not need what I offer. One covets. One aspires. And one… pays the price.”

  The noble swallowed. “Then I covet. I’ll pay anything.”

  Shade reached into his coat and withdrew a vial. Its liquid shimmered faint silver, swirling with menace and allure both.

  “This draught,” he intoned, “will grant you posture as a king, breath as a storm, tongue sharp enough to cut silk. For a few precious hours, you will be the man you always wished to be. But when its fire fades… so too will its effects.”

  The noble’s hand trembled as he reached. “I’ll take it.”

  Shade let silence reign for a heartbeat, then placed the vial in his palm as though passing down a crown.

  “Very well. Go. Shine. Dance. Impress. And as you woo women, remember whose hand made it possible.”

  The noble fled clutching the vial like salvation.

  Shade leaned back, masked gaze lifting to the ceiling, as if peering through stone to the glittering palace above. His voice curled softly into the silence.

  “And so… the night begins once more.”

  Then, sharper, he called:

  “Bring in the other.”

  The door creaked. This time, a woman entered — heavyset, clad in layers of silk that strained against her frame. Her steps faltered as she neared the table.

  “You… are Shade?”

  “I am.” His hands folded before him with perfect composure. “Sit.”

  She lowered herself onto the chair, fidgeting with her bracelets.

  “Tell me,” Shade said, resting his arms upon the table. “What is it you desire?”

  Her voice quavered. “I heard… you can fix problems. Any problem.”

  “Indeed.”

  She placed a bag of gold onto the table. It clinked heavy with coins.

  Shade tilted his head slightly, amused. “Ooo… paying in gold, not the local currency. Delightful.”

  She leaned forward, urgency breaking through her embarrassment.

  “There’s a ball tomorrow. Nobles, royals — everyone will be there. I… I want to be beautiful. I want to lose all this weight. Do you have something?”

  Shade’s gloved fingers brushed his coat. From within, he drew a vial labeled in neat, careful hand: Weight Loss.

  He set it upon the table with reverence.

  “This,” he said, “will strip away your worries as dawn strips away the dark. Drink it all before you sleep tonight. When you wake, even your reflection will doubt itself.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. She clutched the vial as though it were hope itself.

  “Thank you… thank you, Shade.”

  And so it continued.

  For hours, they came — nobles, merchants, even thieves in borrowed silks. Some sought beauty. Some sought power. Others begged for things unspoken in daylight.

  Shade provided. Elixirs slid across the table, each labeled with quiet precision. Every transaction ended the same: gold and silver added to the growing pile at his feet.

  When at last the night waned, he rose. A massive bag of wealth now waited on the table. With one fluid motion, he swung it over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing.

  At the door, he slipped a single gold coin into each guard’s pocket — too fast to be seen, only felt.

  “Your payment.”

  Both men bowed. “Thank you, Master Shade.”

  Without another word, he ascended the long stairway, shadows swallowing him whole.

  Above, the palace lights still burned. But in the streets below, the whispers grew louder.

  Shade had worked again.

  The iron door groaned as it shut behind him. Shade emerged from the underground stairway into the cool morning breeze. The sky filled with stars.

  But he was not alone.

  Steel rasped as dozens of guards stepped from the shadows. Some crouched on rooftops, crossbows and rifles trained down. Others stood in the street, swords and spears gleaming in the lantern glow.

  “Hands in the air!” one barked.

  Another sneered. “We’ve finally got you.”

  Shade paused. His black mask turned slowly, red etchings glinting faintly as candlelight from below licked its edges. Then he chuckled — a low, velvet sound.

  “You and your little toys…” His voice rolled like smoke. “Don’t you know? A deer does not challenge a lion. It flees. You would do well to learn from it.”

  And he walked forward.

  The line of spears quivered. Bows creaked, fingers trembled on triggers. Yet no one moved. No one dared. Something deeper than fear coiled in their bones — instinct screamed that to attack this man was to embrace their own death.

  Shade passed between them as if they were statues, the bag of gold slung casually over his shoulder. At the edge of the street, he glanced back once, voice smooth as silk.

  “Have a wonderful morning, gentlemen.”

  Then he was gone, swallowed by the night.

  ---

  From an alley’s mouth, two men watched. Their skin was pale beige, their hair brown — the carefully crafted disguise of Aurellians.

  Katos exhaled slowly. “I heard the commotion. To think I’d find someone like that here.” His eyes narrowed. “He’s strong.”

  Beside him, Omfry’s lips curled faintly. His sentinel stretched outward, brushing against the fading trail of Shade’s presence — and he knew, Shade was no ordinary man.

  Above them, high on the roofline, a lone figure stood upon a narrow pole. His arms folded neatly behind his back, long hair drifting in the wind.

  Dreados.

  Silent. Watching.

  His gaze never left the masked man fading into Heful’s dawn.

  ---

  To Be Continued...