The city of Velryn slept beneath a brittle moon, its towers clawing at the fog like desperate fingers reaching for a past that had long been forgotten. Most streets were silent, save for the occasional creak of timber, the rattle of a loose shutter, or the distant bark of a dog warning of unseen prowlers. But Aelthir Nightwhisper did not walk as most did. She moved like a thought, impossible to pin down, each step deliberate, each motion a calculated part of a larger rhythm.
The World Record System pulsed faintly at the edge of her consciousness, quiet yet insistent. It had been hours since the last notification, and she welcomed the silence. Nothing pleased her more than the feeling of being alone in a city that should have been awake to stop her. Her sharp ears caught the subtle hum of life—footsteps on distant rooftops, the creak of a gate swinging in the wind—but none threatened her. Not yet.
A thin panel of moonlight slid across the alley, catching on the delicate angles of her high cheekbones and glinting off the silver cuff on her pointed ear. Her eyes, pale green and luminous, scanned the darkness, noting the tiniest shifts of shadow: a curtain swaying in the wind, a lantern swinging, the faint reflection of steel on a distant guard's belt. Even the smallest detail mattered. Even the faintest sound could betray her.
The target waited in a mansion at the far end of the lane. A man who styled himself a benevolent ruler, cloaked in charm and laughter, but whose ledger whispered otherwise—bribes, disappearances, silent executions. The system had marked him as High-Value Target #27, a designation Aelthir neither celebrated nor questioned. In her line of work, morality was not an argument. Survival and necessity were.
She moved to the back door, feeling the familiar pulse of the system in her mind.
Target: Unaware. Alertness: 0%. Probability of Success: 93%.
A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at her lips. Her dagger, dark steel etched with faint runes, rested against her hip. Her fingers danced across the lock, the mechanisms yielding under the practiced touch of a rogue who had spent more than a century watching and waiting. The door clicked softly, a sound too faint to carry, and Aelthir slipped inside.
The mansion smelled of roasted meat, oil lamps, and faint perfume—luxury disguised as civility. She moved like mist, sliding past the guards with effortless poise, every step measured to avoid even a whisper. Light caught the edge of her dagger as she traced the hallway, each movement precise, practiced, and lethal. Time had taught her that hesitation was death. Patience, however, was a blade just as sharp.
At the top of the stairs, the target sat at a desk, quill in hand, humming softly. Aelthir paused in the shadows, letting the system calculate, letting the world hold its breath.
Target: Corruption confirmed. Execution warranted. Risk minimal.
The strike was almost imperceptible. Her dagger left its sheath, a ghost of movement, and found its mark. The man slumped without a sound, his last thought likely wondering why no one had stopped it. Aelthir stepped back, letting the shadows reclaim her. There was no triumph here, only necessity, only the quiet satisfaction of balance restored, even if only temporarily.
She lingered for a heartbeat, eyes sweeping the room. Nothing remained of the man but the faint echo of his deeds, recorded somewhere in the system. Each act like this left a mark on Aelthir—an invisible weight that no blade could measure, no system quantify. She exhaled softly, her breath mingling with the faint smoke of extinguished candles and the lingering aroma of the city outside.
The streets of Velryn were still alive, full of lies and rot and ambition thinly disguised as order. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world moved on, unmindful of the shadows that kept its balance. Aelthir would be there, always, unseen, a whisper of steel and resolve. Every life she touched left a memory in the system, every success a burden added to her soul. Immortality, she had learned, was a gift that came with a constant, gnawing cost.
She stepped back into the night, the fog curling around her boots, the city sprawled beneath her like a map of greed and ambition. The system pulsed faintly:
Echoes of the Fallen Age detected. Emotional impact: significant. Experience gained: 2.7.
Aelthir's lips twitched. Even the World Record System could not measure the weight of what it was like to watch the world rot quietly, to see heroes become myths, and tyrants take their place.
Tonight, one small ledger was balanced. Tomorrow, there would be more. And as long as the world forgot the cost of peace, she would remain in the shadows, a silent observer, a lethal whisper in a city that would never know her name.
The moon slid behind clouds, and the city exhaled. Aelthir vanished into the darkness, and the night held its breath once more.
Word count: ~837 words