Alaric lingered after Daphne stepped back to gather her tools, his shadow falling across the Emperor's bed.
"There's something you should know," he said, his voice low.
Arin's heavy-lidded eyes opened a little wider. "Go on."
Alaric leaned closer, green eyes sharp. "The assassins, a group called Moon Shadows. They're not common blades–for–hire. They trace back to the royals of old. A relic of another era, sworn to protect the throne… now warped into butchery."
Arin frowned, the lines on his face deepening. "Moon Shadows…"
He said it softly, like a memory slipping through his grasp. "I've heard the name whispered, nothing more."
"They work like ghosts," Alaric continued. "No leader in sight, no structure anyone can name. Only messengers, drop points, orders written in cipher. But what they do, how they move, it's too old, too precise. They were trained for this, bred for this."
