Deep in the Hollow Warrens, far below Neyros's charnel fields, the Shade Wyrms stirred in their lair.

It was a place of rot and ritual a cavern draped in tattered veils of black silk, lit by cauldrons of green flame. From the ceiling hung trophies of their craft: arms, skulls, and torsos of every species, bound in wire, suspended like grotesque windchimes. The air reeked of burnt marrow and old blood.

The three necrosorceresses swayed together before a circle of bone-dust, their veiled heads moving in unison. Their voices wove into a single chant, muttering in riddles, curses, and fragments of prophecy. Each tone rose and fell like a serpent's hiss.

Their anger still burned. Lady Sera's threats, her heel striking their pet like refuse, an insult they could not forgive.

And so they wove. Their clawed hands stirred cauldrons of viscera and ink, drawing glyphs in the air with dripping fingers. Shadows twisted into shapes a blade snapping, a heart pierced.

Their voices rose together, venomous and cold:

"Her assassin walksss, but her assassin fallsss.

The Regent's pride will be her thrall.

Kael will ssstand, the vampire ssslain,

and Sssera's name shall drown in ssshame."

A curse was born, a spell of spite. They poured it into the air, binding it to the unnamed vampire assassin Lady Sera would choose. Not to kill it outright, but to twist its fate to ensure Sera's mission failed, and her power faltered in the eyes of Maltherion.

The Wyrms laughed, low and hollow, as their pet limped back into the chamber, stitches splitting across its pale hide. They stroked its mangled head, whispering promises of vengeance.

In the Hollow Warrens, treachery festered and the Regent's doom had already been set in motion.

High in the spires of Craveth Hollow, Lady Sera summoned her most trusted. The chamber was lit by crimson glass, its glow casting long shadows across her crimson glass throne.

The doors opened, and a tall figure entered with measured grace. Her skin was pale as moonlight, her leathers black and fitted for war, and her eyes carried the weight of centuries without a flicker of fear.

Thyra Veyth, Mistress of the Veilborn the most feared assassins of Neyros. She had ended kings in their keeps, queens in their chambers, and generals in the safety of their war councils. Whole lines of power had withered beneath her knives.

She knelt, bowing her head. "You summoned me, my queen."

Sera's voice was calm, but her words cut. "Kael of the Dawn Court. Huntmaster of the beastkin. He must die."

Thyra rose, steady and unflinching. "I know of him. Loyal to his kin, stubborn as iron. But loyalty and iron both break. He will bleed, as all the others have."

"Do not take him lightly," Sera replied, her crimson eyes narrowing. "His death will not simply be vengeance it will unmake the beastkin's bond to the Dawn Court. Strike him down, and the queen's strength falters. Maltherion demands this. I have chosen you to deliver it."

Thyra inclined her head once. "Then it will be done. Veyra may lie leagues away, but no distance will save the Huntmaster. His dawns are counted."

"Take two of the Veilborn," Sera said. "Move quickly, strike clean. I want his corpse cold before the court can even grieve him."

Thyra turned toward the doors, her cloak drifting like smoke. "Consider it done. He will not escape me."

Sera's tone sharpened as she leaned back against her throne. "Do not fail me, Thyra. You know what failure costs."

The assassin paused only long enough to say, "I have never failed."

And then she was gone, leaving the Regent in silence, already plotting the Huntmaster's death.

The Vale of the beastkin lay hushed beneath the night, torches burning low as the pack gathered within their great hall. The walls were rough-hewn timber, marked with claw-carvings of their ancestors, the air thick with the scent of smoke and fur.

At the centre sat Kael, the Huntmaster, flanked by his kin. Though Lord Caren had pledged his support, doubt gnawed at him. Two of his own had fallen first the hunter in the alleys of Dawnspire, then the scout on the rooftops. Both slain by vampire blades. Both failures he carried on his shoulders.

"We are hunted," growled one of the elders, his muzzle streaked with grey. "If assassins stalk the streets, then we must vanish into the wilds. Hide, regroup, endure. It is the way of survival."

A rumble of dissent spread through the hall. Younger warriors shook their heads, claws tapping against the table. "Hiding shames us," one spat. "If we run now, we tell Neyros that we fear them. Better we fight, and if we fall, we fall as hunters, not prey."

The voices rose, a chorus of growls, snarls, and sharp words. The elders pressed for caution, but they were few. The pack's blood ran hot, their pride stronger than their fear.

At last, Kael raised his hand, and the hall fell silent. His eyes burned with fire as he looked from face to face, from elder to youth.

"Two of ours are gone," he said, voice low but steady. "Two kin slain under my watch. I will not see a third buried while we cower in the shadows. We know now our enemy, and we know they will not stop."

He reached down, drawing the twin daggers that never left his side. The blades caught the firelight, edges keen, ready.

"But hear me we are not cowards. We are not prey. If Neyros thinks we will hide, let them come and see what the hunt truly means."

A murmur of approval rolled through the pack, building into a steady growl of agreement. The Huntmaster's pride was their pride, and in his defiance, they found their answer.

Kael drove the points of both daggers into the table before him, the wood splitting under the force. "We stay. We defend our vale. We sharpen our claws and ready our blades. Should more come, they will find hunters waiting and they will bleed for every step they take."

The hall erupted in howls, the pack's voices rising together, fierce and unyielding.

Yet even as Kael stood with his daggers buried in the wood, doubt lingered like a shadow at the edge of his mind. Neyros would not stop with two deaths. More would come. And soon.

The Dawn Hall glowed with morning light spilling through tall windows of golden glass. At the throne's heart sat Queen Seralyth, her presence radiant, her hair glimmering with new-gold strands, the Necklace of Dawn resting against her collar. Its subtle glow lent her an aura of strength that none in the hall could mistake.

Before her, the members of the Dawn Court stood assembled Lord Caren, draped in velvet and rings; Sir Taron, armour chased with gold, a silent sentinel; Lyra, the court mage, robed in elven silver; and Brenn, the dwarven tactician, his beard braided with iron clasps. Only Kael, the Huntmaster, was absent. His seat lay empty, and no reply had come to Seralyth's summons. She had expected as much.

The queen stood, and the court fell quiet. "I returned from the Luminar Woods with more than hope. The elves led me to an artifact, one forged by Falrion himself. This necklace grants strength, clarity, and life a blessing thought lost since the First and Last. With it, I can lead not only as queen but as the Dawnkeeper Falrion intended."

A murmur spread through the hall. Caren's sharp smile grew warmer for once, Brenn's heavy brow eased, Lyra bowed her head in reverence, and even Taron dipped his helm in silent approval.

"For this gift," Seralyth continued, turning to Lyra, "we owe gratitude to our elven kin. Without their watchful eyes, it may have remained hidden in stone forever."

Lyra bowed. "It was not ours to keep, Majesty. Falrion left it for you."

Seralyth nodded, then let her voice shift, the warmth hardening into resolve. "But hope alone will not fill empty stomachs. You all know the truth: our people hunger. Hunters return with little; the herds grow thin. Fishing boats yield less with each season. To send our hunters into the Wasteland is to send them to their deaths. And yet we must eat."

She rose from her throne, golden light streaming across her shoulders. "I have considered this long, and I see only one path. We must open trade."

At that, Brenn scowled, stepping forward. "Trade with who? Neyros? Draven? You know as well as I that their 'alliances' are signed in blood."

Seralyth's eyes did not waver. "No. With Tharos, to the south. With Rovan Blackwake, the Pirate King of Saltspire Keep."

Brenn's voice rumbled low. "Pirates are no allies. They plunder, they break their oaths. Every deal is made with a knife under the table. And you would trust them with Veyra's lifeblood?"

Lyra lifted her chin. "It may be dangerous, but the queen is right. Better risk pirates than famine. Trade is safer than sending our hunters to die in the Wasteland."

Caren spread his hands, voice smooth and agreeable. "For once, I find myself aligned with elven wisdom. If the king can be bought, then why not? Better to pay his price than starve on principle."

Sir Taron said nothing, but lowered his head in a soldier's silent assent.

Seralyth looked across them all, her voice firm and final. "We cannot fight hunger with pride. Veyra has docks enough, built and kept strong by Brenn's kin. No, we do not boast fleets like Tharos, but we need only a channel of trade not conquest. If the Pirate King will parley, then we will endure another season. If not... then we will find another way. But we must try."

She turned to Caren. "Send a crow to Saltspire Keep, addressed to King Rovan Blackwake. Tell him the Dawnkeeper invites him to Dawnspire, to discuss an alliance of trade."

Caren bowed low, his velvet sleeves sweeping the floor. "At once, Majesty. Let us hope the pirate king's hunger is as keen as ours."

The night was moonless, the land a blur of shadow and stone as Thyra Veyth moved with unnatural speed across the wastelands. Cloak whipping behind her, she ran as if tireless, her stride devouring miles with every heartbeat.

Two of the Veilborn flanked her, silent as wraiths, their red eyes glinting whenever starlight pierced the clouds. None spoke. They did not need to. Their purpose was singular the Huntmaster's death.

Halfway to Veyra, the trio paused atop a ridge of black rock. From there, the faint glow of distant fires marked the borderlands of the Dawnlands.

Thyra crouched, tasting the night air. Her lips parted in a whisper only her companions could hear.

"Not far now. Keep your blades ready. The beastkin will not see another moonrise."

And then they were moving again, three shadows slicing across the dead earth, their passage silent as the grave.

End of chapter two - part two.