Creak.
The door to the small inn room swung open slowly. A man entered—hooded, cautious. The flickering oil lamp revealed little more than the outlines of the space: a modest, dust-ridden chamber typical of roadside inns.
Seated inside were four others, their expressions tight with anticipation. One more sat cross-legged on the floor—a woman, silent, still, like a drawn bow.
"I've made one last attempt," the man said grimly. "I still can't poison their wine or water. We need to move on to the next plan."
The others nodded without protest.
For two days, they had schemed, shadowed, and slithered through every opening, trying to slip poison into the celebration's wine. But the paladins were everywhere—unyielding, vigilant. The best of them had managed to evade their sight… only to find themselves blocked by figures in black—phantoms.
Assassins. Trained and deadly. Loyal not to coin, but to House Ashbourne.
