Damian stood still as the double doors creaked open, revealing the King's private chamber, a grand hall dressed in deep red velvet and polished obsidian. The walls glimmered with arcane etchings, old relics, and weapons too ancient for display. Yet the King himself sat casually on a throne-like chair, legs crossed, swirling a glass of wine with the ease of a man who had nothing to fear.
"Come," he said. "Sit."
Damian obeyed, cautious but composed.
The King studied him in silence for a while, the kind of silence that felt like being dissected. Not a word, just his eyes sharp, calm, and weighing every breath Damian took.
Finally, he spoke
"You're not here for the prestige, are you?"
Damian's jaw clenched slightly, but he didn't respond.
The King stood and walked toward the massive window overlooking the courtyard. "Most men come with pride in their step. You came in like a blade already drawn. Cold. Quiet. Looking for something. Or someone."
He turned back, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"I don't need loyal dogs," he said. "I need wolves who know how to hunt."
A pause.
"If there's rot in my kingdom, I want it cut out. Starting with the Queen's side. You see, her guard don't answer to me they're loyal to her majesty. If they're hiding something, I want to know."
Damian kept his tone even. "Why ask me?"
The King poured himself a drink and offered one to Damian. He didn't take it.
"Because you don't owe anyone anything. That makes you dangerous… and useful."
He walked past Damian, stopping near the door. "You've got fire in your eyes, boy. Just make sure you don't burn the wrong castle down."
The king waved his hand and a servant appeared, leading Damian to his room.
Damian had never seen anything like it.
His new quarters inside the King's castle were absurd. The door alone stood taller than any building he'd ever lived in. Inside was a sea of velvet and marble, a four-post bed carved with lion heads, towering windows draped in crimson, and a fireplace big enough to sleep in. Shelves lined with books, blades mounted like art. And in the corner, a desk… no, a command post.
He stepped in slowly, as if his boots weren't allowed to touch the floor.
The servant had told him earlier: "The King likes his soldiers comfortable. Comfortable soldiers don't rebel."
Damian didn't care for comfort. He'd slept in soot and metal his whole life. But this place… it gave him something else: access. And access meant information. Information meant answers.
He walked toward the desk. A thick corkboard was mounted on the wall above it. Blank now. Not for long.
He pinned the first card.
1. Duel Arthur.
If Arthur was Death, his swordplay would reveal it. It wasn't brute force or speed. Death's style was something else entirely. Like wind wrapped in silence. If Arthur moved like that, Damian would know.
But he couldn't challenge him yet. He'd have to earn that fight.
He pinned the next card.
2. Study the Pattern.
Death only hunted the powerful. Nobles, governors, corrupt merchants. People with influence. Always at night. Always clean kills. No valuables taken.
Not a murderer. A messenger?
What if Death wasn't just killing for pleasure — but sending a warning?
Damian didn't have answers. Not yet. But now, in this place, among the elite, he could find them.
He added one more pin:
3. Get close to the Queen's side.
Everyone said her guards were untouchable. Unbeaten for five years. Four of them barely older than him. That meant one thing: they were recruited young. Groomed. Kept.
And if Death wasn't Arthur, then Damian knew in his gut that he'd find him across the kingdom. In the Queen's court.
He stepped out onto the balcony. The view of Elaria from up here was almost unreal. Rooftops glinting silver, smoke curling from chimneys, the Queen's castle faintly visible across the divide of the river. Two crowns. One kingdom.
But beneath the beauty, he saw what Rhys always talked about — rot in the cracks, shadows that didn't belong, silence in places where there should be sound.
Damian turned away from the view and looked back at the parchment pinned to the wall, threads of mystery, red circles, dead names. Then at the sword resting beside it.
The servant then returned to Damian's open door.
"A letter for you sir"
Damian stretched, and crossed the room to reach the servant. In his hand a letter sealed with the King's black wax.
He opened it.
Tomorrow morning, Throne room. Be there by sun's rise where i shall appoint you your first task. — The King