The light of the Dawnspire bled weakly through the high windows, its glow a pale echo of what it had been a century before. Some said the tower itself mourned, that the fire Falrion had gifted to the land was fading with every passing year.

Queen Seralyth sat upon her throne of gold and stone, the weight of ages pressed upon her shoulders. Her hair, once golden as the morning, had dimmed with streaks of silver. Her eyes were still sharp, still unyielding, but she felt the centuries in her bones. She had bled in the First and Last, had watched gods die and now she sat, surrounded not by armies of light, but by squabbling courtiers.

The Dawn Court gathered before her.

Lord Caren, High Chancellor, cleared his throat.

"My queen," he said smoothly, his voice oiled with diplomacy. "If we do not open channels with Tharos, the people will starve. Pirates may be brutes, but even brutes can be bargained with."

A hiss rose from the opposite side of the chamber. Brenn, the dwarf who commanded the Bastion of Light, slammed his iron fist upon the table.

"Bargain with cutthroats? With thieves and killers? We should hang their corpses on the docks as warnings, not line their pockets with coin!"

At this, Lyra, the elven mage, spoke, her tone cold as frost.

"Perhaps you would prefer starvation, dwarf. Steel and stone cannot feed the hungry."

Her pale fingers brushed the runes etched into her staff. "Better a bitter trade than open rebellion in the streets."

The argument might have boiled over had Sir Taron not stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of his blade. His voice rang like a warhorn, fervent and unyielding.

"Enough! What matters trade or hunger when war is upon us? Neyros stirs. The Shadow Sovereign gathers legions. I say we take the fight to them before their blades find our queen's throat!"

From the shadows of the hall, a low growl cut through the clamor. Kael, the beastkin huntmaster, stepped into the torchlight, wolf-ears twitching.

"You speak of war, knight, but your knights bleed and bluster. Who holds the borders when your banners march north? My kin. My trackers. My hunters. Yet still, the nobles spit at us, call us beasts." His eyes flicked to Seralyth. "My queen, we give our lives for Veyra, but many in this court would see us driven out."

The chamber fell into uneasy silence. All eyes turned to Seralyth.

The queen rose slowly, her silver-edged cloak dragging across the marble floor. She leaned upon her spear, the weapon she had carried since the First and Last its edge dulled, but never broken.

"I have lived to see gods die," she said, her voice steady but heavy with weariness. "I have watched mountains fall, seas boil, and kingdoms burn to ash. And yet..." She paused, her gaze sweeping across them all. "...it is here, in this hall, that I see the greatest danger. Not in Neyros. Not in Draven. Not in Kharis. Here in our division. In our hunger for coin. In our mistrust. In our endless thirst for war."

The hall trembled with her words.

Seralyth lifted her spear, its tip catching what little light still flickered from the Dawnspire above.

"We are Veyra. We are the last light. And though the dawn flickers, it has not gone out. Not while I still draw breath."

For a moment, the court was silent. No one dared speak. Outside the citadel, the bells tolled a sound not of triumph, but of warning.

The bell's echo still lingered when the great doors of the chamber groaned open. A guard hurried in, helm under his arm, face pale beneath the torchlight. He knelt, bowing low before Seralyth.

"My queen," he said, voice taut with unease. "A body has been found in the lower quarter. A beastkin. Hunter's garb. His throat... slit clean. No witnesses. No sign of struggle."

The words fell like stones in water, rippling through the hall.

Kael's ears flattened, his nostrils flaring as though scenting blood. "Who was it?" he demanded, his voice a low snarl.

The guard hesitated. "One of your own, Huntmaster. A hunter of the Argent Vale."

The beastkin's claws curled against his palms, breath ragged with fury. "My kin serve this land with loyalty unmatched, and now they are butchered in alleys like vermin?" His gaze swept across the court, lingering on Lord Caren, on Sir Taron, on the nobles who had doubted his people. "Is this how Veyra thanks us? With knives in the dark?"

Before Seralyth could speak, Kael turned and stormed from the chamber, the doors shuddering as they slammed behind him.

Lord Caren exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. "This is unfortunate, my queen. Very unfortunate." His voice was calm, too calm. "But let us not leap to blame within these walls. A crime in the city is not proof of conspiracy. A lone cutpurse, perhaps. A quarrel gone wrong."

Brenn scowled, beard bristling like iron. "A quarrel? His throat slit clean, you heard the man. That is no thief's work. That is the work of assassins."

Lyra's lips curved in a faint smile, eyes half-lidded as though amused by the chaos. "Assassins? Or perhaps an inconvenient truth. The beastkin have always been quick to violence. Who's to say it was not one of their own, settling some tribal score?"

Sir Taron slammed a gauntleted fist upon the table. "Do not twist this, witch. If an enemy's hand moves within our walls, it must be crushed! Mark me, this reeks of Neyros. Shadow agents sowing discord, poisoning us from within!"

The queen's spear struck the marble with a crack, silencing the court.

"Enough," Seralyth said, her tone cold as the steel in her grip. "Whether cutpurse or conspirator, this death will not be buried beneath whispers." She gestured to the guard. "Double the patrols. Post watch at every gate and alley. Bring me word of any shadow that dares move in Veyra."

The guard bowed and fled.

Yet even as Seralyth's voice echoed through the chamber, a heaviness settled in her heart. She knew the truth no decree could hide: Veyra's light was flickering, and now the shadows had found their way inside the walls.

And beyond those walls, in some dark alley where Kael now knelt over the body of his kin, the first embers of a storm were already burning.

The rain slicked stones of Veyra's lower quarter glistened beneath pale lantern-light. Kael crouched beside the body, his fur bristling as his keen eyes studied every detail.

The hunter lay still, throat cut in a single motion, clean as a butcher's blade. No struggle, no defensive wounds. Whoever struck had done so with practiced precision.

Kael's clawed hand moved to the fallen beast-man's belt. The leather purse was untouched, coins still heavy inside. His bow and quiver were still strapped to his back. Nothing taken. Nothing disturbed.

This was no robbery. This was a message.

Kael's jaw tightened. His kin bled in service to Veyra and now they were prey, stalked in their own streets. He rose, nostrils flaring, catching only the stench of rain, blood, and the faint lingering trace of oil, assassin's oil, used to keep blades sharp and silent.

He growled low in his throat. "Not a thief. A killer. And one who knew what he was doing."

But why? Why this hunter?

His mind twisted back to the court to Caren's silken voice, to Lyra's cold disdain, to Brenn's stubborn bluster, to Taron's zeal. Any of them might use a shadow's knife to tighten their grip or weaken another's hold. Perhaps even Seralyth herself was not beyond suspicion.

No. He could trust none of them.

This hunt was his.

Kael returned to the Argent Vale before the dawn, calling his trackers and scouts to his side. Wolf-headed, cat-eyed, lean-bodied hunters slipped from tents and burrows, answering their alpha's call.

"The shadows have come for us," Kael said, his voice carrying across the campfire-lit circle. "One of our own, cut down in silence. This was no thief's hand. This was an assassin's strike."

Snarls and growls rippled through the beastkin gathered, their hackles rising.

Kael's eyes burned with resolve. "The court will talk and scheme until more of us lie cold. We will act. We will hunt."

That night, the beastkin slipped back into the city, ghosts in fur and steel. They prowled the alleys where the hunter fell, noses to the ground, ears twitching at every whisper. From rooftops and hidden perches, they set watchpoints, eyes glinting in the dark.

They would not wait for another corpse. They would find the killer before the killer found them.

Somewhere in the shadows of Veyra, an assassin's blade was waiting.

And Kael meant to meet it.

The hall of the Dawn Court was slow to empty. Nobles whispered behind sleeves, elves glided in silence, dwarves muttered like grinding stone. One by one they withdrew, until only torchlight and the queen's shadow remained.

Seralyth sat upon her throne, spear across her knees, her gaze heavy on the stone floor. At her gesture, only one man lingered: Sir Taron, Knight-Commander of the Dawnforged Order.

The great knight bowed low, the steel of his armour catching the faint glow of the Dawnspire. "You summoned me, my queen."

Seralyth exhaled, long and weary. "Taron, you heard the guard. A hunter of the beastkin, murdered. His throat cut like cattle. No struggle. A clean strike." She leaned forward, eyes meeting his with grim weight. "This was no thief's work. This was an assassin."

Taron's hand gripped the hilt of his sword until the leather creaked. "Then give me leave, and I will drag them from the shadows myself."

"That is what I fear," Seralyth said quietly. "That this is no single killer, but the start of something far greater. If a blade has already slipped through our walls, then soon there may be more." She paused, voice softer. "The light of Veyra flickers, Taron. I will not see it snuffed out in silence."

The queen rose, her cloak spilling down the steps of the throne. She placed her hand upon his armoured shoulder, the gesture both commanding and pleading.

"You are my sword," she said. "The Dawnforge Order are my shield. Find who did this, and tear them from their hiding places. By steel, by fire, by any means you must. Bring me names, or bring me corpses."

Taron bowed, fist to chest. "It will be done, my queen. No shadow will stand against the Dawnforged."

Seralyth's gaze drifted to the high windows, where the pale light of dawn struggled against the dark. "Good. For tomorrow I leave the citadel. The elves of the Luminar Woods have sent word  they have found... something. Not a threat, but a sign. A blessing, perhaps. Something that may yet remind us that the Dawn-Forger's hand has not fully left this world."

She turned back, her voice low. "I go at first light. While I am gone, this city is yours to guard. Do not fail me, Taron."

The knight's head remained bowed, his oath heavy as iron. "By my life and the lives of my order, the citadel will stand."

Seralyth nodded once, though unease lingered in her heart. Darkness had already cut its way into her city, but somewhere beyond the walls in the glowing groves of the Luminar Woods there might yet be a spark of light worth chasing.

The end of chapter one - part one.