Virellia. Jewel of the eastern continent. City of silver domes, gilded streets, and secrets so deep they bleed into the foundations.
Ash stood atop the opera house, arms stretched like a drunk god surveying his playground. The moon cast a soft glow on the streets, dancing through mist rising from cobblestone alleys. Below, the Grand Duchess's mansion throbbed with music and light, a beacon of decadence. Carriages pulled by automaton horses lined the boulevard. Laughter spilled from velvet-draped windows.
Ash didn't laugh. But he smiled—wide and careless.
"Tonight," he muttered to himself, flipping a coin he'd stolen from a prince two weeks ago, "we bring the house down. Metaphorically. Probably."
The radio in his ear crackled.
"Ash. You're not in position. Again."
"Technically," he whispered, "I am above it. Which is sort of better, don't you think?"
The voice on the other end—his handler, Elena—sighed with the weight of someone who'd aged ten years every time she spoke to him.
"You have eight minutes. Sevrine's ambassador is making the drop. If we miss this window, our intel dies with him."
Ash looked at the flickering ballroom far below.
"What's he wearing?"
"White mask. Navy uniform. Tall. Smug. Looks like he eats puppies for breakfast."
Ash grinned. "My kind of guy."
He dropped from the roof, coat catching the air, boots landing with a soft thud on the balcony below. There was no guard. Of course there wasn't. He'd poisoned the wine tray twenty minutes ago.
He slipped inside like a rumor.
---
The ballroom glittered with crystal and pretense. Gold chandeliers. Women in serpent gowns. Men in masks that hid nothing. It was a place built for illusion, and Ash belonged to it like a wolf in sheep's silk.
He walked like he owned the room.
"Good evening," he said to a nobleman near the champagne. "I'm a duke from a country that doesn't exist."
The noble blinked. "Pardon?"
"I'm also drunk," Ash added, stealing the man's glass and downing it. "Excuse me."
He saw the ambassador near the dais—tall, uniformed, posture so rigid it screamed military. He was speaking with Lady Corva, a known arms dealer with diamond teeth and a laugh that could curdle cream. Ash moved in.
"Pardon me," he said, bowing. "Ambassador, Lady Corva, may I steal him? Just for a moment."
Corva raised an eyebrow. "Who are you?"
"Someone who can get you off Virellia's blacklist," Ash said pleasantly.
Corva smiled, all diamonds. "You have five minutes."
Ash slipped an arm through the ambassador's.
"Walk with me, your Excellency."
"I don't know you," the man hissed under his breath.
"Not yet," Ash said, steering him away. "But you're going to remember me for the rest of your life."
---
In a quiet corridor lined with forgotten paintings, Ash stopped. He turned, gaze suddenly sharp.
"We know you're selling codes to Sevrine's war faction. Naval routes. Troop deployments. We even know about the vault in Blackspire."
The ambassador's face lost its color.
"You... you're one of them."
"A shadow?" Ash said cheerfully. "A ghost? A lie in a very nice coat? Take your pick."
He moved so fast it was barely visible. The dagger was at the man's throat before he could scream.
"Who else knows?" Ash asked softly. "Who else has the files?"
"I...I don't..."
Ash's smile faded.
"Wrong answer."
A quick flick—and the man collapsed.
Dead? No. Not yet. Just dosed with something that would make him wish he was. Ash knelt beside him.
"Here's the deal," he whispered. "You tell me where the drop is, I fake your death, and you get a one-way trip to exile. Keep lying, and I mail your head to your mistress with a love note."
The ambassador whimpered.
"Storage vault. Old church on Hollowmere. Tomorrow night."
Ash stood. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He pulled a vial from his coat and splashed it on the man's uniform. It smoked. Within seconds, the ambassador looked like a corpse drained of blood.
Fake death.
Ash hummed as he pulled the unconscious man into a cleaning closet.
"Someone will find you in the morning," he said cheerfully. "Or not. Either way, you won't remember any of this."
---
Later, back in his safehouse high above the city, Ash collapsed onto a pile of mismatched pillows.
Elena's voice snapped through the earpiece. "Did you kill him?"
"Nope."
"Where is he?"
"In a closet. Unconscious. Smells like burned linen and regret."
A pause.
"You're insane."
Ash grinned. "I've been tested."
"You can't keep improvising like this."
"I don't improvise," Ash said, twirling a dagger. "I write symphonies of chaos. There's a difference."
---
Ash sat at the edge of the rooftop garden, legs swinging over the abyss like a child dangling from a treehouse. The cold metal of a miniature recorder pressed into his palm—a souvenir from the ambassador's pocket.
Below, the city pulsed with flickering streetlamps and mechanical carriages. Somewhere out there, war was brewing, a conspiracy rooted so deep even its architects had lost track of its shape.
"I wonder," Ash mused aloud, "do villains know they're villains? Or do they just think they're very ambitious patriots?"
"Ash," came Elena's voice through the earpiece. "Focus."
He winced, dramatically. "You never let me have any fun."
"You call this fun?"
"No," he said. "This is the prelude. The fun starts when people start dying dramatically."
There was a pause. "You really do need therapy."
Ash grinned. "I tried. Therapist asked too many questions. I panicked and proposed."
"Ash—"
He clicked the recorder on. A grainy voice sputtered to life.
> "Vault... Hollowmere... encoded map... the painting hides the key..."
Ash's grin widened as he leaned back against a cracked statue of some forgotten saint.
"Oh, you slippery little traitor."
---
The Next Morning – Intelligence Division Headquarters
The headquarters of the Virellian Intelligence Division looked like an abandoned library, buried beneath the oldest district of the capital. It was a place where silence was louder than screams, and secrets were shelved like ancient books—forgotten until needed.
Ash strolled through the main corridor, coat dragging behind him like a trailing shadow. Everyone pretended not to notice him. Those who did lowered their eyes.
He liked it that way.
Elena stood near the glass briefing room, arms crossed, eyes like steel traps. "You were supposed to retrieve the ambassador."
"I did," Ash said. "He's safe. Probably. He may think he's a duck right now, but that's not my fault."
"Where is he?"
"In a linen closet at the palace."
"You drugged him?"
"Better than killing him," Ash said, shrugging. "Look, I got this—" He tossed the recorder onto the table. "And this." A map. Hand-drawn. Sevrinian script etched along the edge.
Elena stared at him. "You ever do things by the book?"
Ash smiled. "I am the book. A tragic romance written in blood and bad decisions."
---
Hours Later – Ash's Apartment
His apartment was small, eccentric, and entirely a reflection of the chaos that lived inside him. Strings of old paper notes were pinned across the walls like a madman's conspiracy web. A tea kettle whistled softly from a crooked stove.
Ash lit a candle, even though the sun was still up. He never liked natural light. It made it harder to pretend.
He laid the map across his cluttered desk, tapping the strange symbols.
"Hollowmere vault, encoded coordinates, and... a painting?" he muttered. "What are you hiding, Excellency?"
Then he noticed something. The ink shimmered slightly in the dim candlelight. Not ordinary ink—reactive compound. A code hidden inside a code.
Ash blinked. "Clever. But not clever enough."
With a splash of lemon juice and heat from the candle's flame, the edges of the map darkened to reveal a new message.
> "He who opens the vault without the key shall see only death."
Ash laughed aloud.
"Perfect. Just the way I like it."
---
Later That Night – The Streets of Hollowmere
Hollowmere wasn't on most maps. It was the kind of district people pretended didn't exist. Narrow alleys. Drowned houses. The scent of mold and desperation.
Ash moved through it like silk on skin—no noise, no rush. Just purpose.
The old chapel marked on the map loomed ahead. Its stained glass windows were shattered, and vines crept across its stone facade like veins of decay.
He stepped inside.
The air was thick with dust and memory. Beneath the altar was a hatch.
"Here goes nothing," he whispered, drawing his dagger.
He pried it open. A narrow stairwell spiraled into the dark. At the bottom—cold air and silence. Then:
Click.
A soft sound. Not from him.
Someone was already there.
Ash didn't panic. He never did. Instead, he smiled.
"Ah," he said quietly. "Someone's come to kill me. How romantic."