Chapter 6:The War

The world erupted in a violent surge of power.

Elara barely had time to register Vesper’s shout before the explosion sent her body hurtling backward. A deafening roar of energy shattered the corridor, shaking the very foundations of the palace. Heat licked at her skin, and a blinding white light engulfed her vision before everything turned to darkness.

For a terrifying moment, all she felt was weightlessness.

Then—impact.

The air was forced from her lungs as she crashed against the cold marble floor. Her head rang, pain radiating through her limbs. She gasped for breath, heart hammering, trying to focus through the haze of dizziness.

The air crackled around her, still thick with lingering magic. Whoever had unleashed that power wasn’t just some common assassin—this was something more. Something darker.

“Elara.”

A deep, urgent voice broke through the ringing in her ears. A familiar warmth enveloped her as strong hands pulled her up.

Vesper.

His face was shadowed, but his grip on her was firm, his presence grounding. He knelt beside her, his storm-gray eyes scanning her body for injuries. His jaw was tight, tension rolling off him in waves.

“You’re hurt,” he murmured, fingers brushing against her cheek.

Elara winced at the sting. A shallow cut traced along her temple, warm blood trailing down her skin. But she pushed his hand away, her mind snapping back to the bigger threat.

“The assassin—” she started, turning her head.

But the cloaked man was gone.

Vanished, as if he had never been there. Only a black scorch mark remained where he had stood.

Her stomach tightened. This wasn’t a simple attack. This was a message.

Vesper exhaled sharply, his hand tightening into a fist. “They wanted us separated. That blast was meant to kill or distract us long enough for something worse.”

Elara forced herself to stand, ignoring the way her legs trembled beneath her. “We need to move. If this was a diversion, then—”

A scream tore through the halls.

Her blood turned to ice.

Vesper was already moving. “The ballroom.”

They ran.

Racing through the dimly lit corridors, Elara’s heart pounded. The scent of smoke and burning silk filled the air as they neared the grand hall. The music was gone, replaced by chaos.

As they burst through the archway, the sight before them stole Elara’s breath.

Flames licked at the edges of the ballroom. Guests screamed, pushing past each other in a desperate attempt to flee. Guards clashed with masked figures—not ordinary men, but sorcerers cloaked in midnight robes, their hands crackling with dark energy.

The palace was under attack.

Elara’s gaze swept the room, panic clawing at her chest. Where was her father? Where was the King?

Vesper’s voice was a growl. “This isn’t just an assassination attempt. This is war.”

And in that moment, as Elara watched her home fall to fire and magic, she realized one thing—

The true enemy had finally revealed themselves.

The palace was burning.

Elara stood frozen for a heartbeat, the chaotic scene unfolding before her like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from. Flames climbed the silk-draped walls, chandeliers crashed to the marble floors, and the scent of scorched magic tainted the air.

The once-elegant ballroom was now a war zone.

Masked sorcerers moved through the panicked crowd like shadows, their dark robes flowing as they struck down guards with vicious precision. Some wielded magic, their hands crackling with eerie blue energy, while others drew curved blades laced with an unnatural shimmer—poisoned steel meant to kill swiftly.

Elara’s pulse pounded. She scanned the chaos, searching for her father, for anyone who could explain what was happening.

Then—she saw him.

Across the room, the King stood surrounded by his personal guards, his golden cloak stained with blood. His sword was drawn, gleaming under the flickering firelight as he cut down an attacker with a single precise strike.

Her breath caught. He was still fighting. He was still alive.

But not for long.

Because in the shadows behind him, a figure moved.

Elara’s instincts screamed in warning. She lunged forward, but the moment she took a step—a wall of dark energy exploded in front of her, forcing her back.

“Elara!”

Vesper’s arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her to a stop just before she could slam into the magical barrier. The air between them shimmered, thick with arcane power—a protective ward, meant to keep her away.

Someone didn’t want her interfering.

“No—no, I have to stop him!” she gasped, struggling against Vesper’s grip. “That assassin—he’s going for my father!”

Vesper’s expression darkened, his storm-gray eyes locking onto the approaching threat. He saw it too.

And he didn’t hesitate.

“Stay here.” His voice was cold, sharp as a blade.

Before she could argue, he was gone.

Vesper moved like a predator unleashed, dodging through the wreckage of tables and fallen nobles. He tore through attackers with brutal efficiency—a dagger to the throat, a slash across the ribs, a bone-crushing kick that sent one flying.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

The assassin had already reached the King.

Elara’s stomach twisted as she watched a silver dagger plunge toward her father’s back.

No. No, no, no—

At the last second, the King turned.

Steel clashed against steel.

The King parried the first strike, his sword meeting the assassin’s dagger with deadly precision. Sparks flew as they fought, the assassin moving with inhuman speed, his attacks relentless.

Her father was strong, but he was aging. Slower. Weaker.

And the assassin knew it.

With a cruel twist, the cloaked figure sidestepped, feinting left—then struck low.

The dagger sank deep.

Elara’s scream shattered the air.

The King staggered, his golden cloak darkening with blood. He gasped, gripping the blade lodged in his side.

But the assassin didn’t stop. He yanked the dagger free—raising it for the killing blow.

And then—

Vesper was there.

Like a shadow moving faster than light, he crashed into the assassin, tackling him away from the wounded King.

They hit the ground hard. The assassin snarled, twisting to stab Vesper, but Vesper was faster.

With one brutal strike, he drove his dagger straight through the assassin’s throat.

A wet gurgle. A final, strangled breath.

Then—the assassin went still.

Silence stretched for a single, unbearable moment.

Then the King collapsed.

Elara ran.

Her knees hit the marble floor as she reached him, hands trembling as she pressed against the wound in his side. Too much blood. Too much.

“Father,” she choked, her vision blurring. “Stay with me.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, weak but familiar. A father’s touch.

“My daughter,” he murmured, voice strained. “You must listen. They… they are coming.”

Elara’s heart pounded. “Who? Who did this?”

His lips parted—but before he could answer, a second explosion rocked the palace.

The ceiling caved in.

And then—

Everything faded to black.

The explosion ripped through the palace.

Elara barely had time to react before the force threw her back. Her body slammed into the cold marble, pain detonating through her ribs as dust and debris rained from above. The world blurred—screams, fire, the clash of steel all mixing into chaos.

Somewhere near her, the King lay motionless.

No.

No.

Coughing against the smoke, Elara forced herself onto her hands and knees. Her limbs shook, her ears rang, but she pushed through the agony. Her father—she had to get to him.

“Father!” she rasped, her voice barely audible over the roar of flames.

A figure emerged from the dust.

At first, all she saw was a shadow—tall, powerful, moving with slow, deliberate steps. But as the smoke thinned, the details became chillingly clear.

A man clad in obsidian-black armor, his presence exuding an aura so dark it seemed to swallow the firelight around him. A mask concealed his face, leaving only his piercing golden eyes visible—cold, unreadable, utterly merciless.

But the moment Elara saw him, her blood ran cold.

Because she knew who he was.

The Wraith King.

The name was whispered in fear across the kingdom. A phantom of the underworld. The true ruler of the hidden mafia that thrived in the shadows of the empire.

And he was standing over her father’s dying body.

Vesper appeared in an instant, his blade drawn, fury flashing in his storm-gray eyes. “Stay back.”

The Wraith King didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Elara’s chest heaved. The air around him felt… wrong. Ancient. Forbidden. As if the very magic binding their world together recoiled at his presence.

He slowly lowered his gaze to her father. The King barely clung to consciousness, blood pooling beneath him.

“Such a fragile thing,” the Wraith King murmured, voice deep and smooth—a dangerous whisper in the storm.

A flick of his wrist.

And a blade appeared in his hand.

Elara lunged forward, but Vesper grabbed her, holding her back.

“No! Let me go!” she screamed, thrashing in his grip. “He’ll kill him! Vesper, let me go!”

Vesper’s jaw clenched. His grip was iron. “If you go to him now, you’ll die too.”

But Elara didn’t care. She couldn’t just stand here and watch—

The Wraith King knelt beside the dying King, tilting his head, almost… amused.

“The prophecy unfolds as it should,” he murmured. Then, he raised the blade.

Elara’s heartbeat stopped.

“No—”

A flash of silver.

The dagger plunged down.

And everything shattered.