In a candlelit chamber deep beneath a forgotten cathedral, hooded figures swayed in unison. Wax dripped like blood onto stone, pooling around an altar etched with sigils older than any empire. The masked members of The Order hummed low chants that reverberated like a distant war drum.

At the center of the table lay a single photograph: Thomas Thanos Royal, his sharp features captured mid-smile.

“He falters,” one masked figure rasped.
Another’s voice slithered through the dark: “Then he becomes a liability.”

The leader of the Order rested gloved hands on the table. “Every king serves a purpose. Until he doesn’t.”

Their whispers carried like venom in the dark, an echo that would reach no ears—at least, not tonight.

Owen woke with a start, his body slick with cold sweat. His heartbeat rattled against his ribs like a war drum. He didn’t need a mirror to know his eyes were bloodshot, haunted by the nightmare that clung to him like smoke.

Allen’s face had been there again. His brother stood barefoot in a field of stars, blood dripping from his fingertips, his smile hollow. Behind him loomed faceless men in masks, their hollow sockets filled with darkness. One reached forward, and Owen jolted awake, the echo of a gunshot ringing in his ears.

His hands trembled as he buttoned his black shirt. The Royal estate’s halls felt suffocating; the paintings of stern ancestors seemed to watch him like judges. He walked silently to the dining room, where an untouched breakfast sat waiting. No one else joined him.

The eggs were cold. The silence was colder.

A black sedan glided down a rain-slick road. Inside, the assassin was methodical, expressionless. He drove with one hand, the other brushing over the hard edges of a rifle case in the passenger seat.

At a red light, he checked his watch. Time flowed with precision in his mind: approach, position, execute, vanish.

He didn’t hum or whistle. The only sound was the soft ticking of his watch and the steady rhythm of rain on the windshield.

Later that morning, Owen stood with John in the courtyard. The air smelled of wet stone and iron.

“Did you ever wonder why the ambush happened?” Owen asked, voice calm but razor-sharp.
John’s gaze narrowed. “Always. You’re thinking it wasn’t Zeke or Ronald?”
Owen’s lips curved faintly—not a smile, more like the shadow of one. “I’m thinking it was someone closer. Someone who knew every turn of that road.”

John didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Owen met his eyes, and for a moment, John saw something chilling in the boy’s stare: calculation.

“Watch your father,” John said finally.

School was no escape. The corridors buzzed with gossip and laughter, but Owen drifted through them like a ghost. His reputation as “the Royal kid” kept others at arm’s length. He sat alone at lunch, stabbing at his food, scanning the cafeteria like a battlefield.

Even here, the weight of power pressed on him. Teachers’ smiles felt forced; whispers always trailed behind him. He didn’t speak to anyone, except once—to a girl who asked if he was okay. His answer was a quiet, “Are any of us?”

Back in the car, the assassin pulled into an empty warehouse. He moved like clockwork—laying out the sniper rifle, screwing on the suppressor, checking each bullet with reverence. His gloves creaked faintly as he loaded the magazine.

On the wall behind him hung a map of the city, routes marked in red. At the top, scrawled in black ink: Royal.

He wiped the rifle’s barrel with a cloth. “Tonight,” he murmured to no one.

That evening, Owen met with John again in a dimly lit study. The older man leaned forward, lighting a cigarette.

“There’s movement in the council,” John said. “They’re pretending to push for peace.”
“Pretending?” Owen echoed.
“Always pretending. Power’s like a game of cards; they just reshuffle the deck.”

Owen leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Maybe I should reshuffle it myself.”
John chuckled darkly. “Careful, boy. You sound like your grandfather.”

The words hung in the air, heavy as a verdict.

The sedan rolled quietly through narrow streets. The assassin wore a baseball cap, his features hidden in shadow. His mind was a metronome: Approach. Position. Execute.

He parked near a cafe, lifting the rifle case into his arms. Each movement was deliberate, unhurried. He vanished into a nearby building, climbing stairs in silence.

Owen sat across from John and Eliza in a quiet corner of the cafe. The warm glow of pendant lights contrasted with the tension in their faces. Eliza stirred her iced coffee, her expression guarded but sharp.

“You think it’s really them?” she asked softly.
“Zeke and Ronald?” Owen shook his head. “No. They’re too loud. Whoever’s behind this… they want us to tear ourselves apart.”

John sipped his drink, watching the window. “Then we don’t give them the satisfaction.”

The doorbell chimed as a stranger walked in. Owen’s eyes flicked toward the window, where raindrops traced crooked lines down the glass. For some reason, his chest felt tight.

Across the street, the assassin lay prone on a rooftop. Rain slicked the shingles beneath him. Through the scope, the cafe’s windows were perfect frames. His finger rested lightly on the trigger.

He adjusted his breath. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

In his scope, Owen leaned forward, laughing faintly at something Eliza said. The boy looked… human. Vulnerable.

The assassin’s finger tightened.

The sound of rain swallowed everything else.

The chapter closes here—not with a shot, but with silence so tense it’s almost deafening.