I stood in the crowd like a ghost that refused to announce itself.
Babel had not changed. The banners still bled red and gold beneath the late-morning sun, heavy fabric snapping softly in the warm breeze that drifted through the open arches of the great hall.
The stone still carried the echo of screams that never truly left this place—screams pressed so deep into the walls that even daylight could not burn them away.
The marble beneath my boots was warm, almost uncomfortably so, as if the floor itself remembered blood better than it remembered footsteps.
Music filled the air—drums beating a steady, ceremonial pulse that vibrated faintly through my ribs, strings crying out in bright, rehearsed harmony, voices trained to sound joyful even when joy was a lie.
The sound washed over the hall in controlled waves, never rising too high, never dipping too low, carefully measured to please a king who had lived too long to be surprised.
Dancers moved in perfect rhythm before Victor Zefar's throne, bare feet slapping softly against the marble, silks brushing skin, jewelry chiming with each turn.
Their shadows were cast sharply across the floor by the high daylight pouring through the arches, stretched long and thin like distorted reflections of people who had already been broken.
I kept my hood low.
The fabric smelled faintly of dust and oil, of roads traveled and battles avoided. It hid my face, but it did nothing to quiet the way my presence felt—like a pressure just beneath the skin, like a storm holding its breath.
I did not come for him.
That was the lie I told myself.
Victor Zefar, King of the Summoned Slayers, sat above us all, relaxed, amused, immortal. His throne was carved from black stone veined with gold, polished to a mirror sheen by centuries of reverence and fear.
He lounged as if this were not a court but a private balcony, one arm resting loosely against the armrest, fingers drumming idly as if the rhythm of the drums bored him. His eyes moved constantly, missing nothing, yet revealing nothing.
They were the eyes of a man who had watched generations rise and die while he remained unchanged.
Gifts piled at the foot of his throne—gold that caught the sunlight and threw it back in blinding flashes, weapons forged with techniques long forgotten, relics torn from conquered lands and conquered faiths.
Some still smelled faintly of incense or old blood. Every offering was another reminder of how much the world feared him… and how much it fed that fear, mistaking obedience for survival.
I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing I came for his birthday.
Then the hooded figure stepped forward.
No gift. No bow.
They moved against the rhythm of the celebration, each step deliberate, out of place. The dancers faltered half a beat, silk freezing mid-air. One of the drummers struck late, the sound cracking sharp and wrong.
The music stumbled.
I felt it before anyone spoke—a disturbance in the air, like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath, like the moment before lightning splits the sky. The warmth of the hall seemed to pull inward, the sunlight suddenly too bright, too exposed.
Zefar leaned forward, amused, interest flickering across his face like a rare indulgence.
"And you are?" he asked.
His voice carried easily, smooth and calm, the voice of a man who had never needed to raise it to be obeyed.
The figure lifted their head just enough for their voice to cut through the hall, low and steady, sharpened by resolve.
"Your reckoning."
Steel flashed.
The sound was small—a whisper of metal leaving leather—but it cut through the hall sharper than any scream.
My body moved before my mind caught up.
I lunged.
The world narrowed to motion and instinct. The dagger never reached him. I caught the assassin mid-strike, my grip locking around their arm, muscle and bone yielding beneath my strength.
The Sea of Darkness bloomed beneath our feet, a sudden, violent expansion of shadow that swallowed the sunlight whole.
Bright morning fractured into shards of black and gray as the world folded inward, sound collapsing into silence while we vanished.
There was no falling—only the sensation of being pulled through cold, endless depth.
We emerged outside the castle walls, the morning air cool and sharp against my skin. The scent of stone dust, salt, and distant sea filled my lungs.
I slammed the assassin into the stone, the impact echoing dully against the outer wall, vibrations running up my arm. I tore the scarf from their face in one brutal motion.
Everlyn.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
My cousin.
General of the New Force of Oma.
Queen of my kingdom.
Her hair was pulled back tight, strands loose around her face, her chest heaving with rage and exertion. Her eyes burned with fury and betrayal, brighter than any blade she had carried inside that hall.
"What have you done?" I demanded.
My voice sounded rougher than I expected, scraped raw by something deeper than anger.
She ripped herself free, rage shaking her whole body. "What you have done," she snapped. "I was seconds away."
"I coldly replied,
'You would have doomed the kingdom of Oma.'"
The words tasted like iron.
She laughed—sharp, humorless, the sound cracking against the stone. "There was no army between me and him."
I froze.
She stepped closer, jabbing a finger into my chest, each word striking like a hammer. "Oma, I always knew you were strange when you came back after fifteen years.
Silent. Changed. But stopping me?" Her voice cracked, raw and exposed beneath the fury. "That is an insult to your father. To my mother. What would Geni think of you, if she saw what you did today?"
Her breath trembled, but she did not stop.
"Have you forgotten that Zefar and his monsters slaughtered everyone we loved fifteen years ago?"
The morning sun caught the moisture in her eyes, turning it into something dangerously close to tears. The wind tugged at her cloak, snapping it like a banner of war.
I wanted to tell her the truth.
That Zefar would return in a new body by tomorrow morning.
That killing him the way she tried would change nothing.
That the man she hated was bound to something far older and crueler than a throne.
But some truths crush more than they save.
"I am the only one who can kill him," I said instead.
The words sounded hollow even to me.
Her face twisted, pain and anger colliding. "Stop pretending you're some hero. He took you. Groomed you. Made you loyal. And now you protect him."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
I felt them settle in places no armor could reach.
I turned away before she could see the answer in my silence.
I returned to Babel alone.
The celebration was dead when I stepped back into the throne room. The dancers were gone, leaving only scuffed marble and fallen petals.
The musicians dismissed, their instruments abandoned like corpses after a battle.
Morning light flooded the empty hall, merciless and bright, exposing everything the performance had tried to hide—cracks in the stone, stains too old to scrub away, the sheer emptiness of power dressed as splendor.
Only Zefar remained, lounging on his throne like a man mildly inconvenienced by an interruption to his day.
"Where is my would-be killer?" he asked.
"Taken care of," I said.
My voice echoed louder than it should have.
He smiled like someone who didn't believe me—but chose not to press, his eyes lingering on my face longer than necessary.
His gaze shifted. "You're bleeding."
I touched my right cheek. My fingers came away red, the blood warm against my skin, already drying in the sunlit air.
"You should see Naya," he said lightly. "She's quite remarkable now. The world's first true surgeon."
I said nothing and left.
The infirmary smelled of clean water and herbs warmed by the sun, sharp and soothing all at once. Linen curtains stirred gently, carrying the sound of distant bells and city life beyond the walls. Naya looked up the moment I entered.
Then she ran.
She wrapped her arms around me without hesitation, holding me like I might disappear if she didn't. Her hair brushed my cheek, her heartbeat steady against my chest. "I knew you'd come," she said softly. "Turns out you don't hate Zefar as much as you think."
I forced a smile, bitter and thin, unsure if that was good or bad.
She cleaned the cut with practiced hands, the cool touch of water followed by the sting of herbs. Her movements were confident, precise. Not the child I once knew. Strong. Brilliant. Alive.
When she finished, we stepped outside the infirmary.
The sun was higher now, the sky painfully blue.
I stood there with her, physically present but mentally wandering, the weight of years pressing down on my shoulders. I was questioning something I had stopped asking myself long ago.
Did I still have the heart to kill Zefar?
I looked at Naya's hand, warm and steady, holding mine.
And for the first time, I looked up to the heavens, searching for an answer.