Chapter 1
The Assassin
In a room scented with sweet perfumes and tobacco smoke, carrying the vibe of low-class mobsters, a group of men—hidden behind ornate masks—gave themselves over to games and gambling.
The atmosphere was a blend of laughter, alcohol, and shady negotiations about politics and carnal pleasures. Around them, masked companions hovered, draped over the men like part of the décor.
"So you're telling me you had him assassinated?" one of the men said, holding a glass of wine with a girl sitting on his lap.
Laughter followed.
"Yes," the other replied without the slightest remorse. "After all, he was just a blacksmith from Rousth's lower district."
"Oh yeah? And why did you have him killed?" another asked, amused.
"Because he owed me money. I told him, 'You have five days to pay.' I also warned him that if he was late, he'd face the consequences. And well… I'm a man who keeps his word, so I had him killed."
"Wasn't he the one you raised the interest on to something he couldn't possibly afford?"
"The blacksmith knew the deal from the beginning," he said with a laugh. "Even if I hit him with higher charges than I originally planned… he still knew who he was dealing with. I made it very clear."
He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another.
"You're cruel," one of them commented, mocking.
They all laughed.
"Be grateful I'm not going to use his wife and his daughter as whores… though who knows. I might change my mind later."
He stubbed out the cigarette again and lit another, as if he were talking about something normal.
"Believe it or not, a lot of people make desperate deals for money. Then they scramble to figure out how to pay it back, even if they're men of completely insignificant status."
"And plenty of them do pay, hahaha… because just like the blacksmith, they know what happens if they don't."
Another man cut in.
"And what about you, Lutus? How are those businesses going?"
The one addressed—also surrounded by girls—smiled.
"Excellent. A lot of people pay for assassinations without anyone ever finding out. That's my specialty," he said, laughing.
Then he added:
"And my last big request… came from none other than Gliatus, of House Friust."
"Oh, yeah," another said.
"That son of a bitch wants to get rid of his competition in the villas of Lomohe. So yeah… there's a list of people to eliminate."
Someone else laughed, raising his glass.
"Well, sure. A lot of Sovereigns want to protect their status. Up above they greet each other… and down below they sabotage each other. Isn't that ironic?"
He laughed and shrugged.
"But hey, that's what we're here for, right? Someone has to do the dirty work."
"Yeah," another added. "As long as the idiots pay, it's all good. It's worth getting rich off them."
The host smiled.
"Level up. Get on the Houses' radar. So when they need something dirty… they think of us first."
He raised his glass.
"Besides, Sovereigns don't usually pay modestly."
Glasses clinked amid laughter.
"To the business ahead," one said.
"To the Sovereigns," another added.
While the conversation continued—laughter, betting, alcohol, and vulgar comments—the delicate hands of a girl, apparently one of the companions, worked behind a side table where bottles were lined up, clean glasses stood ready, and several trays waited to be served.
With subtle movements, she poured the wine and added a small amount of fine powder into certain glasses. Not all of them—only the ones she knew would reach the right men. It was quick, precise, concealed by the natural movement of the tray and the noise of the room.
Then she walked among them normally, handing out drinks as if she were simply doing her job.
She set the glasses on the central table.
The host stood up, grabbed the girl's hand, and addressed his guests.
"Well, gentlemen, it's time to have a little fun. I'll leave you with this exquisite Merlin wine; I need to go upstairs with this beauty."
Without taking a single sip of the wine, he left the room, dragging the companion toward a private room on the top floor.
Once inside, lust took over, and he lunged at her.
"Come on, give me all your—"
The words died in his throat.
A flash of steel and a clean stab to the stomach stole his breath.
The girl reacted instantly: she covered his mouth with one hand to smother any sound and, without hesitation, pressed his face into a pillow so he couldn't scream.
She let him fall to the floor.
He bled out in silence, unable to call for help.
The assassin left the room, closed the door without a sound, and began descending the building's stairs.
One floor down.
Another.
On the lower level, the atmosphere was different. The "partners" in ornate masks weren't there—this crowd was cruder.
Pimps, gamblers, thugs, and companions moved through the place like part of the party. The alcohol flowed faster, and the laughter was louder.
The assassin blended into the stream of people without drawing attention.
Meanwhile, upstairs, in the main room, the celebration reached its peak.
The men passed the glasses around, raising them with euphoria.
"To business!"
They drank, celebrated, and laughed.
At the same time, the supposed companion slipped away into the lower floor's crowd.
Taking advantage of narrow hallways and dark corners, she performed an invisible metamorphosis: she removed her wig, changed part of her clothing, and adjusted her appearance with quick, precise movements in moments when no one was watching.
Then it happened.
The laughter in the main room turned into choking gasps.
The men began coughing violently, collapsing one after another as blood spilled from their mouths.
The wine had done its job.
Panic erupted.
The screams were loud enough to be heard even on the lower floors.
The companions started running, and several men tried to force their way toward the stairs, convinced it was an attack—or a raid.
Unbothered by the chaos, the assassin now walked with a completely different presence, moving away from the epicenter of the disaster.
She watched the guards rush upward in the opposite direction, straight toward the slaughter she was leaving behind.
And just like that, she walked out of the building without being detected.
Minutes later, the figure slipped into the bustle of a merchants' fair, blending into the crowd until she reached a man waiting discreetly for her.
He broke the silence at once.
"How did it go?"
"They're all eliminated," she replied with absolute coldness.
The man swept the area with a quick glance, making sure no one was watching them.
"Good. Let's move."
They started walking, drifting away from the center of attention. As they moved, he lowered his voice.
"The others are already in position. They'll alert us if there's any activity tied to the Sovereigns."
Amarantha didn't respond. She simply kept walking beside him, her pace unchanged.
He continued, blunt as ever.
"I managed to reach our collaborators inside the Rousth Palace. I've got the forged documents and everything you need to get you into the Cloth Maids' Stable."
He pulled out a small, discreet bundle and handed it to her.
"Here. Your new identity. This is your entry."
Amarantha took it without a word.
He studied her for a second, more serious now.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Affirmative," she answered without hesitation.
His jaw tightened.
"We can still look for another option. We can leave this behind."
Amarantha cut him off immediately.
"Victor… it's already decided."
He exhaled through his nose, resigned.
"Alright."
They kept walking.
"These reports are what you need to study," he added, handing her another bundle. "Memorize everything."
Amarantha stored it carefully.
Victor lowered his voice even further.
"When we get the green light, I'll let you know. There are collaborators inside the palace as well. They'll give you the bare minimum you need, but don't trust anyone outside the agreed points."
They walked for a few seconds in silence.
Eventually, they reached a fork in the crowd. He stopped.
"This is where we split. I have to report back to central."
Amarantha nodded.
Victor looked at her one last time, with a mix of respect and restrained concern.
"I wish you success in what's coming. And one last thing: take care of yourself, Amarantha."
She held his gaze and answered without emotion.
"I wish you success on your return to base, Victor."
That was where they parted, each disappearing into opposite directions.
The Burden of Sapphire
As she walked, memories of her recent missions blended into the present.
They weren't complete images. They were fragments.
A dark corridor. A half-open door. A voice on the other side.
Her, dressed as a domestic worker, head lowered and hands busy, listening to secrets without ever lifting her gaze.
Then another scene: a poorly locked desk. An official seal. A document folded and hidden beneath her clothes, stolen in seconds.
And another: the docks. The crowd. A different disguise. Her face covered, her voice altered, moving like just another man among porters and sailors.
Those missions involved killings.
No noise. No warning. Only the exact moment and the precise cut.
There were also interrogations in cold alleyways, where information was torn out by force.
Hours of surveillance under the rain, tracking supply routes.
And informants who spoke freely, believing they were dealing with someone ordinary… unaware of who they were truly facing.
In every place, the outcome was the same: secrets obtained and obstacles removed.
No trace remained. Only absence.
At last, she reached what appeared to be a discreet lodging house. She went inside, paid for a room, and climbed to her quarters.
That was when the ritual of stripping away began.
She removed the fake tattoos, took off the wig, and set aside the rest of the tools of her disguise.
Then she stepped into the bathroom.
The water ran, washing her hair and skin clean. She treated her wounds as a matter of routine and, once she was done, she let herself fall onto the bed.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling.
Her eyes didn't reflect physical exhaustion.
They reflected something else.
The silence of the room weighed on her.
Amarantha kept staring at the ceiling, motionless, her mind far too awake to sleep.
And then she remembered.
She had been seventeen.
She was sitting before a chessboard in a quiet room in Erthus. Across from her sat Hedo Murem, Reydem's intellectual director: old, stern, his gaze fixed on her as he moved a piece.
"Are you sure you want to join Zafiro?" he asked. "You don't know what's waiting for you."
Amarantha didn't take her eyes off the board.
"I'm ready."
Hedo didn't seem convinced.
"Here in Erthus, you're comfortable. You're the lead recruiter. You trained Thomas to replace you, and I don't doubt his abilities… but I had other plans for you."
He paused briefly.
Then he looked at her directly.
"I'm asking you again. Are you sure you want to leave Erthus and go to Zafiro? Do you know who Zeldrin is? Do you know how he thinks? Do you know what it means to work under him?"
Amarantha answered without hesitation.
"I do. I know the risks. And yes… I want to join Zafiro."
The memory faded.
Now, at twenty-two, she was in the same position, staring at the ceiling of a lonely room.
She whispered, without emotion, as if speaking to no one:
"I knew what I was walking into… and what I had to do. But I never thought it would affect me more than I expected."
She closed her eyes.
For an instant, her mind filled again with fleeting memories flashing through her thoughts: blood, alleyways, nameless faces, bodies falling.
Then she took a deep breath.
And surrendered to sleep.
-Illustration-
Hedo Murem, Reydem's Director (70 years old)
The Echo of Ignorance
After several days trapped in the routine of her trade— infiltrations, distortions, and executions— Amarantha ended up staying at a rural inn in the village of Thertus.
She woke before dawn.
She lay there staring at the ceiling beams, motionless, her eyes cold and expressionless. Outside, it was still winter. Inside, the silence weighed heavy.
The doubt slipped out on its own, in a low voice:
"Did I have more options… and still choose this?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
She got up and dressed with mechanical movements. Common clothes. Discreet. A simple set of armor, just enough to pass unnoticed.
Not long after, she stepped into a nearby tavern.
The air was saturated: rancid grease, peat smoke, old sweat. Men drinking from early morning, loud voices, easy laughter. Amarantha sat alone, as if she were just another traveler.
A few tables away, a group of locals laughed with overflowing mugs and mud-stained clothes.
"So you're saying they're offering a reward for anyone who gives information on Reydem," one of them remarked, slurring his words.
"Yeah," another confirmed, downing his mug in a single gulp. "They say the Sovereigns won't stop until the last one of those bastards is hanging from a rope."
"They're making it harder and harder," a third added, slamming the table. "'Free the world from the Entities,' they say… like anyone asked them for the favor."
The first man let out a loud laugh.
"You really believe that?"
The others followed.
One of them, his face red from alcohol, leaned forward and spoke louder:
"Did you see the stupid crap they make up? They say if Merthe devours you— that thing that shows up like an earthquake and swallows everything— your soul doesn't die."
He made a theatrical pause.
"They say it goes into that thing's stomach to suffer. To be digested for eternity! Like a piece of living meat! Hahahahaha!"
The tavern burst into laughter.
The sound was harsh. It wasn't just mockery— it was pure, comfortable ignorance.
Another man chimed in, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes:
"And Estorur? They say if you die by him or by his creatures, you end up in a labyrinth… and beasts chase you forever. And if they devour you, you go back to the start. Again and again."
He laughed with contempt.
"As if hell were a game!"
The others kept laughing.
Amarantha listened without moving. Not a reaction. Not a gesture.
But inside, something tightened.
A dark thought crossed her mind, heavy as stone:
Sometimes I think what we do isn't deserved either. They hunt us… or mock us… for trying to save them.
The noise of the tavern faded for an instant.
And then she remembered.
She was thirteen.
She was in Erthus, seated in front of a desk crowded with manuscripts and maps. Across from her sat Hedo Murem, his face old and his gaze calm.
"Why do we try to save the world if they don't even help us?" Amarantha asked, moving a few pieces Hedo used to mark fronts on the maps— pieces that also happened to be available like a board game.
Then she added:
"More than that… they persecute us."
Hedo answered without raising his voice:
"When I was a child younger than you, I had an ideal. I saw people suffer under the curses of the Aspects. Centuries of suffering."
He kept writing a manuscript that would be sent to another division.
He paused.
"Would you truly want humanity to live like that forever?"
Amarantha looked at the black pieces.
"But is it worth fighting… if people don't support you? If they hate you… even if it's for them?"
Hedo watched her with a steadiness that felt like it went straight through her.
"The world is against us. It always has been. Reydem has existed for centuries, and from the beginning we've been seen as enemies."
He leaned slightly toward the board.
"But that doesn't change the mission this organization was created for."
Hedo finished writing the manuscript, then sealed it with a signet ring.
"We're not here for people to thank us. We're here to sever these entities, even if it costs us our lives."
His voice stayed firm.
"Because we don't fight for those who support us… or don't. We fight for the right to life and death."
The memory faded.
The tavern returned.
Amarantha finished her meal in silence, stood up, and prepared to leave.
As she passed near the men's table, one of them— emboldened by drink— stretched an arm out to stop her.
"Hey, girl, don't go. Come drink with us."
Amarantha didn't even pause.
She looked at him with empty, cutting eyes.
"I'm not interested."
She left the tavern.
She left behind the laughter, the smoke, and the stale warmth.
Under Thertus' leaden sky, she became what she was again.
The cold-eyed assassin.
Ready for what was coming.
The Price of Information
Victor returned to the Sapphire Division's base camp and headed straight for the command tent.
Inside, Zeldrin was leaning over a table, reviewing maps and strategic positions alongside his trusted men: Torken, Felix, and Carlos. A few lower-ranking soldiers were also present.
Victor stepped in and greeted them with formal, military discipline. Then he spoke without preamble:
"I have classified information. Level 2."
The moment he stated the security code, every soldier—except Torken, Felix, and Carlos—looked to Zeldrin, waiting for orders.
Zeldrin raised a hand.
A sharp, silent gesture.
The others withdrew.
The tent fell into absolute secrecy.
Zeldrin broke the silence.
"What do you have?"
Victor reported that he had managed to contact collaborators inside the Kingdom of Rousth, and that he now had everything needed to outline the plan to infiltrate Amarantha into the Palace of Rousth.
Then he revealed the crucial detail:
"She'll enter under the cover of a Cloth Maid."
The phrase hit immediately.
Torken, Felix, and Carlos tensed. The impact was visible—not because it was tactically surprising, but because of what it meant.
Zeldrin, however, didn't flinch. He continued as if nothing had happened, eyes still on the records spread across the table.
Without looking up from the map, he answered coldly:
"Good work."
Zeldrin's indifference lit a fire in Victor.
"She's going because she knows what it implies… but also because she has no choice. You didn't leave her a choice."
Zeldrin's tone didn't change.
"We need her inside the Kingdom of Rousth."
Victor clenched his jaw.
"You know what they'll do to her in there."
Zeldrin turned a page, reviewing another report as if it were just another detail.
"If we have no other method, it's the only option to get the information."
Then he set the papers down on the table.
He stepped closer to Victor and stared him down.
"Also, you are not to question my decisions."
Victor held his gaze for a moment. He was furious, but the hierarchy was clear.
He swallowed his pride.
"With your permission. I'll take my leave. I'll begin preparations for the next missions."
Before stepping out, he spoke the organization's motto:
"For Reydem."
And he left, abandoning the command's cold calculation behind him.
After Victor's departure, Zeldrin remained in the tent with his inner circle: Felix, Torken, and Carlos.
Torken broke the silence.
"So we managed to open a breach into Rousth."
Zeldrin didn't answer right away. He remained absorbed in the map laid out across the table.
Carlos stepped in with a field report.
"I was informed that Amarantha has already eliminated several political lackeys. People who worked for some Sovereigns… the same ones who were considering hiring mercenaries against us."
Zeldrin still didn't lift his eyes from the map.
"Amarantha turned out to be more useful than I expected. When she arrived from Erthus, I questioned her determination… because she was Hedo Murem's protégé."
He tossed a few papers onto the table with a sharp motion.
"So far, she's done everything I've told her to do. The assassinations, the missions… all of it. Without questions."
Felix frowned.
"How do you think she'll leak the information from inside the palace?"
Zeldrin answered with certainty.
"Her role as a Cloth Maid will allow her to stay close to the main Sovereigns. To many of them, a woman in that position isn't a person. She's an object. They'll speak about their plans in front of her as if she were just another table in the room."
Then he added:
"The information she gathers will be passed to the collaborators we'll station in different parts of the Kingdom of Rousth."
Carlos couldn't help but say it.
"What she goes through in there… she'll never forget it."
Zeldrin cut off any sentimentality with icy pragmatism.
"That's the cost of this mission. She knows it. It's the only way."
With the matter closed, Zeldrin picked up other documents and returned to the map.
He pointed to a location with his finger.
"Our mission now is to intercept the armies detected in this area."
Then he gave each of them precise instructions.
Once the orders were assigned, the group withdrew to carry them out.
-Illustration-
Zeldrin, Commander of the Sapphire Division (60 years old)
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Torken, Sapphire Division (40 years old)
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Felix, Sapphire Division (40 years old)
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Carlos, Sapphire Division (42 years old)
-Illustration-
Victor, Sapphire Division (40 years old)
The Final Decision
The day began in silence.
Amarantha opened her eyes without moving. She lay there for a few seconds, listening to the room, as if waiting for something to stop her. Nothing did. She sat up calmly.
She washed with cold water from a small basin. The metal was icy. The water ran over her skin and snapped her awake, but it didn't wash away what she carried inside: a steady, buried tension, like she was clenching her teeth from within.
She dressed. She placed each piece of clothing on with quiet precision, unhurried, as if following a procedure.
She didn't look in the mirror. Not out of vanity. Because she didn't want to see her own face before crossing that threshold.
When she was ready, she left.
The Kingdom of Rousth was awake, but not alive. The streets moved with a cold rhythm: merchants opening their stalls, carriages rolling by, guards walking without looking at anyone, and people lowering their heads and stepping aside whenever they saw an insignia.
Amarantha walked alone. She didn't stop. She didn't ask for directions. She didn't hesitate.
She reached a specific building—one among many—with a discreet façade and closed doors. It had no sign. No symbol.
Still, Amarantha stood there for several minutes, as if she knew she was about to enter something she would never return from.
Amarantha knocked. The door opened only enough to reveal a figure watching her from within.
A man in a mask.
He didn't give his name. He didn't ask anything. He simply opened the door wider and stepped aside.
Amarantha entered.
There was a narrow corridor. The light was low. And the silence… was different from the one outside. It wasn't peace. It was the silence of rules.
The masked man walked ahead without speaking to her. He didn't look at her like a person, but like a delivery.
Amarantha followed him.
They went down a set of stairs. One flight, then another. As they descended, the air grew colder and heavier. At some point, the sound of the city vanished completely. All that remained were their footsteps.
At the bottom, they reached a long underground corridor. The walls were damp stone, and the floor bore streaks of dried mud, as if people passed through often, yet no fresh tracks ever remained for long.
The masked man stopped. He turned slightly and gestured with his hand. There were no words, no instructions. That was the worst part.
Amarantha nodded and continued alone.
She moved down the corridor. Each step was slower than the last—not because she was afraid, but because her body understood what was coming.
At the end of the passage, there was a single door. It wasn't elegant or hidden; it was thick, reinforced, fitted with heavy ironwork. A door made so no one could leave without permission.
Amarantha stopped in front of it.
For the first time since she had left, her breathing changed. It didn't speed up. It simply became deeper, more deliberate.
She looked at the handle. Nothing special—just cold metal, like everything in Rousth.
Amarantha placed her hand on it. Turned it. Opened the door. Stepped inside.
The door closed behind her.
And in that instant, without anyone needing to say it, she knew a simple truth:
there was no turning back.
-Illustration-
Amarantha, Zafiro Division (22 years old)