The Necromancer's Servant

The news of the death of Garcia, the Minister of War, did not cause too much of a stir because two even more shocking incidents happened on the same night.

The most horrifying assassination occurred at the residence of Prince Malcolm. That devout royal, known for his piety, was found in his bed with a branch impaled through his throat. This incident likely occurred first but was the last to be discovered. When the servants knocked on his door to deliver the news of Count Garcia's assassination, they found the prince already cold and lifeless in his bed. Blood had soaked the velvet bedding. This seasoned general, who had led tens of thousands on the battlefield and slain countless barbarians of Tatalia and wicked creatures of Nigen, died without a struggle or even a cry of pain. The guards at the door didn't hear a sound. The bedroom window was open, and the branch that pierced his throat had been casually broken off from a nearby tree.

In addition, there was General Cronis. As the commander of the border defense forces on the eastern front and Alrasia's most knowledgeable military figure regarding the Wild Highlands, he mysteriously drowned in a cesspit behind a tavern. The tavern was one the general frequented daily, and everyone there—the servers, the owner, and even the patrons—had known him for years. It hardly seemed like a premeditated trap or an act of murder. However, the general's legendary drinking capacity was as renowned as his command skills throughout Alrasia, making it implausible that he would drunkenly fall into a cesspit of his own accord.

A later examination by church clerics revealed traces of peculiar magical fluctuations in his blood, alongside a large amount of alcohol. It appeared he had been immobilized by strange magic and then drowned.

Alrasia plunged into chaos. With three high-ranking officials assassinated in one night, the Royal Knights combed the city day and night for suspicious individuals. Ministers became paranoid, rarely leaving their homes and surrounding themselves with guards. Amid such turmoil, minor incidents went unnoticed—such as the recent assaults on a few nobles, who claimed to have been robbed but provided vague details.

The tense atmosphere was most palpable in the royal palace, where the number of guards and mages had quintupled. At night, the guards remained on high alert, wary of assassins lurking in the shadows.

However, in the very heart of this fortified zone, there were no guards around Queen Catherine's chambers.

This wasn't due to oversight. The queen, distressed by the recent news and needing solitude, had ordered all guards to withdraw from her quarters.

In such an extraordinary time, such an extraordinary order was utterly baffling to everyone. No matter how the ministers and guards tried to dissuade her—even with the two elder commanders who had served the queen for many years pleading tearfully and tirelessly—the Queen remained resolute. She steadfastly dismissed the guards stationed around her bedchamber and forbade anyone from approaching.

Only the commander of the Royal Knights, General Oren, refrained from persuading her. When asked why, he simply replied, "Her Majesty always has her reasons. I trust her judgment."

Queen Catherine's chambers were undoubtedly the most elegant and opulent place in the kingdom. Though not overly large, every detail showcased meticulous care. The bed, carved from thousand-year-old sandalwood, the dressing table inlaid with marble and crystal, the luxurious furniture—even the patterns on the walls and floors, crafted from various rare materials—all epitomized elegance and grandeur. A dozen crystal magic lamps lit the room, making it as bright as day.

But what truly set the room apart was the scene unfolding within it.

Queen Catherine herself was, of course, the central figure. Even without her unparalleled status, her beauty and grace were enough to command reverence. Her intellect, demeanor, and poise were unmatched, making her a goddess in the eyes of mortals.

Yet now, sitting before her dressing table, a man was combing her hair.

If anyone had witnessed this scene, their shock would have been indescribable. But that shock would be preceded by awe. The man's appearance, demeanor, and elegance were a perfect match for the queen's. Anyone who saw them would believe they were the most perfect pair in existence.

The man's attire was simple, for someone of his stature needed no adornment. His every movement exuded sophistication and charm, and even his age reflected the pinnacle of masculine allure.

"If those assassins truly wanted to kill me, they wouldn't have startled everyone by first killing those men. Such a simple truth—why can't anyone see it? It's so frustrating," the queen said, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Her already sharp eyebrows furrowed, adding an edge to her radiant beauty.

"This world is full of fools," the man replied with a faint smile. His hands, slender and immaculate, moved an ivory comb through the queen's auburn curls. His motions were smooth and deliberate, as if savoring the sensation of her soft, silky hair.

Few in this world could enjoy such an intimate act. For him, it was a privilege, a joy reserved for no one else.

The queen sighed. "Having to deal with so many fools every day, to arrange and guide them, it's exhausting."

The man chuckled, continuing to comb her hair. "If not for the abundance of fools, how could you stand so high above them? The world may have too many fools, but it could never do without them."

"True. If everyone were like you, how could I govern this kingdom? One of you is quite enough," the queen said with a radiant smile. "It's just a pity I can't keep you here all to myself."

The man buried his face in her soft curls, inhaling deeply to savor her fragrance, then gently kissed her delicate neck. "Have you been angry with me for not visiting you lately?" he asked.

"No, I understand how busy you've been. Honestly, who isn't busy these days?" Catherine sighed again, leaning back into his embrace. "The storm is coming..."

"Is Celeste pressuring you again?"

"Yes. The Pope has issued a decree demanding I mobilize troops within a month. Meanwhile, Orford likely realizes war is inevitable, so they've assassinated three key military leaders who were both loyal to the church and critical to our forces. Hmph, they're bold enough to carry out such brazen killings within the capital," Catherine said, a hint of frost in her gaze. But she quickly sighed and leaned into the man's arms. "I'm truly afraid."

The man held her closer and said softly, "Oh? The Queen of Alrasia, ruler of countless heroes and warriors, is afraid?"

"Of course. Lancelote and the temple knights tirelessly guard Magnus in his shining fortress, letting him scheme at his leisure. Fortunately, that old man Theodorus knows that if I were to die, Alrasia would plunge into chaos, rushing headlong into war with Orford. This would give the church a perfect excuse to take full control of the kingdom. That's the only reason he hasn't dared to touch me—yet," Catherine murmured, her worry deepening. "But just because they haven't dared doesn't mean they can't. When I asked Oren if he was confident in protecting me, do you know what he said? He said that if Orford's top general personally came for me, all he could guarantee was that he would die proving his loyalty. And he's supposed to be the finest swordsman in all of Alrasia."

"His honesty only proves his loyalty to you is beyond question," the man said with a nod.

"Loyalty is precious, but it doesn't solve the problem. Between the mighty Pope and these deadly assassins, I truly feel powerless as a queen," Catherine said, her tone tinged with sorrow. She leaned against him, no longer a queen but simply a woman.

The man smiled, kissed her forehead, and said softly, "Don't worry. As proof of my love and loyalty to my queen, neither that old Pope nor those savage beasts from the highlands will trouble you much longer. Soon, they'll all vanish like smoke."

His tone carried no menace or hostility, only calm assurance. Yet even Catherine seemed momentarily taken aback, looking up at him with disbelief.

He said no more, only smiled and kissed her lips. With a wave of his hand, all the lights in the room went out.

As thunder roared in the distance, it was swallowed by the overwhelming spring-like intimacy within the chamber.

Far away, atop a tall tower about a mile from the palace, a man silently watched as the lights in the queen's chambers extinguished. He coughed softly, then drained his glass of strong wine.

The wind grew fiercer. A blinding bolt of lightning tore the sky in two, shaking the tower with its might. The man shifted his gaze from the darkened chambers to the stormy heavens, murmuring, "A storm is coming..."

The thunder couldn't drown his low voice. Pale and sickly, the man was clad in leather armor with a longsword at his side. He was Oren, the commander of the Royal Knights and Alrasia's greatest swordsman.

Beside him, a middle-aged man in a mage's robe—bearing the sigil of the royal court—glanced toward the queen's chambers. "Her Majesty is still entertaining that guest, isn't she? Hmph, I don't like him. The last time I saw him, his magical aura felt... unpleasant."

"I don't like him either, but if the queen favors him, that's enough for me," Oren replied. Tossing his empty cup over the tower's edge, he listened as it disappeared into the howling wind below. "I trust her reasons. All we need to do is perform our duty and protect her."

The mage sighed and downed the rest of his wine. "Do you really think we can fend off those assassins just by sitting here drinking? Three generals slain in one night—I wouldn't be surprised if the Assassin's Guild has risen again…"

"The skill of the assassins is undoubtedly formidable, but the most critical aspect lies in their strategy and planning. Orford had already gathered extensive information about the three lords—their habits, their routines, and the places they frequented. That's the only way they could have assassinated all three in a single night. What's most alarming is their precise judgment of which targets would most impact the kingdom's military strength. These three were indeed pivotal figures. Orford has been biding its time, deliberately feigning weakness, and even though I've been vigilant, their sudden, calculated strike still caught us off guard," General Oren sighed, coughing lightly. "If I had my way, I'd rather Alrasia didn't have to face such an enemy…"

"Whether they're our enemies isn't up to us to decide…" The mage glanced out the window. The Queen's chambers were no longer visible, swallowed by the boundless night and the increasingly fierce winds that seemed ready to sweep everything away.

"If I could… I'd like to meet these assassins right now. It's a pity we searched all day and found nothing. I wonder if they'll leave by tomorrow."

The mage's eyes suddenly narrowed. "You mean the assassins are still in the royal city? After accomplishing their mission, why haven't they left? Could it be… they have another target?"

"I just hope it's someone who deserves it," Oren replied, lifting the bottle and draining the last dregs of wine. He coughed harshly, the sickly yellow hue of his face glowing faintly red in the darkness.

Another clap of thunder resounded, and finally, heavy raindrops began to fall, carried by the relentless wind.

Two or three miles from the royal palace stood the grand St. Peter's Cathedral, the largest and most important church under the faith in Alrasia. Bishop Aescher himself resided there.

Yet within the highest alcove of this towering, sacred structure, a wanted assassin was hiding in the shadows.

After the thunder faded, the sound of raindrops the size of beans drumming against the rooftop resembled the crackling of frying beans. Gradually, the noise of rain, wind, thunder, and lightning filled the world, drowning out all other sounds. Asa nodded to himself, murmuring softly, "What perfect weather."

Jessica appeared like a ghost, silent and soundless. She was dressed in black, her hair black, her skin dark, and her eyes a deep obsidian. Even without deliberately hiding, she was nearly impossible to spot in the darkness. Dark elves, with their natural talent for stealth and concealment, could rival any thief of any race, and their unique infrared vision made them exceptional scouts in the dark.

"Thirteen high priests and twenty elite swordsmen. Most of them are near the Bishop's chambers," Jessica whispered to Asa. "Their vigilance is high, and one of the guard captains is especially skilled—I was almost discovered."

Asa nodded. After three prominent military leaders had been assassinated the previous night, such heightened security was only natural.

But from another perspective, this also presented an opportunity. For assassins to dare remain hidden in the royal city after causing such an uproar, and to continue targeting even more significant figures, was something no one would expect.

"What about Aescher?" Asa asked.

"He's in his room, but it seems like he's waiting for someone."