The jungle highlands of Verulia were thick with mist and the scent of damp earth. The rain had slowed, but the trees still wept from their branches, drops pattering against the stone path leading up to the vast manor of Lord Gova.

Somewhere beyond those thick walls, the fate Mi-Xanth had orchestrated was unfolding. Vol moved like a phantom between the trees, keeping his presence hidden as he approached the estate. Though young, he had slick black hair, two tight braids, and tan smooth skin. His body bore many black-inked tattoos and scars from untold years of war and fighting. A handsome face wore a cold expression, his dark eyes void of emotion. He carried two long, heavy scimitar-like blades, their weight no burden to his practiced hands, and wore little beyond a leather loincloth. He scaled trees with as much ease as men of civilization walked into a room, and he moved silently, a ghost of the jungle. The manor was a fortress as much as a home—high walls, thick gates, and watchful men who stood guard along its perimeter. But if Mi-Xanth had played his hand well, the bloodshed would already be within.

Gova and his rival, Lord Belzan, should be tearing each other apart. The King’s Razor was here only to confirm the deed. Slipping through the undergrowth, Vol reached the outer wall. The stone was wet with moss, but his hands found purchase, his body moving with the trained silence of a pit-born warrior. He hoisted himself up and peered over. The courtyard below was in chaos. Dead men littered the grounds, their bodies twisted in death, blood mixing with rain in dark pools. The guards had turned their spears on each other, and Vol could see that the deception had done its work—this was no battle against an invading force. This was a house devouring itself from within.

A lone figure stumbled across the stones—a nobleman in a ruined tunic, his hands soaked in red. Belzan. He was gasping, gripping his side where a blade had pierced him, his eyes wide with terror and rage. He had won—but only barely. Vol climbed onto the roof, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. From above, he watched as Belzan staggered, struggling to remain on his feet. The noble’s breath came in ragged gasps, his free hand clutching at the stone walls as he dragged himself forward. He turned his head frantically, scanning the battlefield for signs of life, for any remaining allies. There were none. The grand manor, once filled with laughter and scheming voices, now stood silent, its halls lined with corpses. Belzan stumbled past the remains of his household guard, his trembling fingers reaching out to a fallen man as if hoping to rouse him.

The corpse did not move. His breathing quickened, his steps faltering. His sword clattered to the ground as he braced himself against a toppled brazier, its embers long since drowned by the rain. He called out, his voice breaking, but no answer came. His allies, his conspirators, his soldiers—they were all gone. He was alone. From the shadows of the ruined courtyard, another figure emerged—one of the conspirators, a nobleman with his arm severed at the shoulder, the wound still gushing. He staggered forward, his mouth opening as if to scream, but the strength left him before a sound could escape. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, dead before his body hit the wet stone.

Belzan froze, his already broken composure shattering further. His gaze darted wildly, but there was no salvation, no escape. Vol allowed him to wander a few moments more, to let the weight of his failure settle. The noble slumped against a pillar, his strength failing, his body sinking toward the ground. He exhaled sharply, his eyes going glassy as the cold crept into his limbs.

Then Vol moved. Dropping soundlessly from the roof, he landed behind Belzan. The noble’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes darting toward the shadow looming over him. “You—” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. Vol drew his blade in a single fluid motion. “Mi-Xanth sends his regards.” The strike was quick, clean. Belzan fell, joining the corpses of his men.

Vol knelt, wiping his blade on the noble’s tunic before stepping back into the jungle. The Razor had confirmed the spymaster’s work—and ensured there would be no loose ends.