THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Moonlight spilled through the glass roof panels of the abandoned warehouse, casting long shadows that danced across crates and forgotten geared machinery. Located in Valemir's decaying industrial district, the building had once manufactured textile dyes before cheaper competition from the eastern provinces had driven it to ruin. Now it served a different purpose—one that thrived in darkness and secrecy.

Six men worked with urgent efficiency, moving crates from a hidden cellar entrance to a waiting wagon. Their breath fogged in the cold night air that seeped through broken windows. These weren't common thieves but professionals—their movements practiced, their vigilance constant. Three carried short swords at their hips; two others had crossbows slung across their backs. The sixth, clearly their leader, wore an enchanted dagger whose blue runes pulsed faintly whenever anyone approached him.

"Hurry up," the leader hissed, checking a mechanical timepiece. "We have twenty minutes before the next guard patrol. And I don't want to be here when Kaz arrives."

"Kaz?" One of the sword-carriers paused, nearly dropping his end of a crate. "I thought we were selling to the Whispers tonight."

The leader shot him a venomous look. "Whispers send Kaz. Same thing. Just move the damn merchandise."

The merchandise in question wasn't ordinary contraband. One crate had been left partially open, revealing an unsettling collection of artifacts: glass vials containing swirling purple mist, books bound in materials that looked disturbingly like human skin, and weapons forged from metals that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the moonlight. Forbidden knowledge and dangerous tools—the kind that imperial authorities executed people for merely possessing.

"This is high-level stuff, Rook," muttered another man, peering nervously into a crate. "Whoever these Whispers are, they're not street peddlers."

Rook, the leader, slammed the crate shut. "That's why they're paying premium rates. And why you don't need to know anything more." He tapped his temple meaningfully. "Knowledge gets you killed in this business."

A harsh laugh escaped the youngest smuggler. "Rich coming from you. Half these artifacts mess with people's minds."

"Which is why we don't use the merchandise, idiot." Rook turned away, scanning the warehouse's upper walkways. "Terin should have reported in by now. Go check the north entrance."

The young smuggler nodded and disappeared into the shadows. Two minutes passed. Five. Ten.

"Where the hell is Varrin?" Rook demanded, his hand moving to his dagger. "He should have been back by now."

The remaining men exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, a weathered veteran with a scar bisecting his left eye, slowly uncrossed his arms. "Something's wrong."

"Keep loading," Rook ordered, but his voice had lost its edge of confidence. "Mason, check the east side. Kel, the walkways."

The scarred veteran—Mason—drew his sword and moved toward the eastern corridor. Kel, a thin man with nervous eyes, shouldered his crossbow and began climbing a rusted ladder to the upper catwalks.

"And me?" asked the last man standing beside Rook.

"You stay with the merchandise. I'll check the north entrance myself."

Rook hadn't taken three steps when a soft thud from above froze him in place. He looked up just as Kel's crossbow clattered down from the walkway, hitting the floor with a crash that echoed through the warehouse.

"Ambush!" Rook shouted, drawing his dagger. "Defense positions!"

But there was no one left to follow his orders. The last man standing guard over the crates made a choking sound, then collapsed without a visible attacker. Mason, who had nearly reached the eastern corridor, suddenly stiffened and fell forward, a slim throwing needle protruding from the back of his neck.

Rook backed against a column, dagger raised in a shaking hand. His eyes darted frantically around the warehouse, seeking enemies in every shadow. "Who's there?" he called, trying to sound commanding but achieving only a desperate quaver. "We have powerful friends! The Whispering Sect protects us!"

The silence that answered seemed to mock him. Then, barely audible, came the soft tap of footsteps—deliberate and unhurried. A figure emerged from the darkness, moving with liquid grace. Not running, not attacking, simply walking toward him with the casual confidence of a predator that knows its prey cannot escape.

"The Whispering Creed," a feminine voice repeated, rich with amusement. "How interesting that you would invoke that name."

The woman who stepped into the moonlight was a vision of elegant death. Her suit appeared to be made of flowing darkness itself, clinging to her well-built form before dissipating into shadow at the edges. The suit's high collar partially obscured her face, but her eyes reflected the moonlight with an unnerving dark sheen.

Rook stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and falling hard. His dagger skittered across the floor, its magical runes flickering wildly before going dark.

"Who are you?" he gasped, terror evident in his voice as he took in the woman's shadow-like attire and the deadly precision with which his men had been eliminated. "We... we haven't crossed any guild boundaries. We can pay—"

"I'm not interested in territory or money," the woman cut him off, her voice cool and precise. She circled him slowly, watching him crawl backward until he hit the wall. "Refer to us as Eden. Give me the details about your employers—now!"

A soft, feminine laugh echoed from the shadows to her right. "Eden? That's what we're calling ourselves this week?"

"Shhh!" came another voice from the darkness above. "We're in the middle of an interrogation, Shay."

Seraphina sighed, her professional demeanor briefly cracking with annoyance. "Could you all behave like trained operatives rather than spoiled brats? Just for five minutes?"

The shadows fell silent again, though Rook could have sworn he heard a suppressed snicker from somewhere behind a stack of crates.

"They'll kill me," Rook whimpered, eyes darting around as he realized there were more of them hidden throughout the warehouse.

"No, they won't, I will!" Seraphina replied matter-of-factly, regaining her composure. "The only question is how painful the process will be."

She placed a booted foot directly on his chest, applying just enough pressure to make breathing difficult. "The artifacts you're smuggling bear remarkable similarities to items connected to a group called the Whispering Sect. Tell me about your contact."

"I don't know anything! We just move the goods!" Rook's eyes bulged as he grabbed futilely at her ankle. "We get paid half up front through dead drops. Never see the buyer's face!"

"Then who is Kaz?" Seraphina pressed harder, and Rook gasped for air.

"Middleman! Just a middleman! Brings the money, inspects the goods!"

Seraphina's head tilted slightly. "And where would I find this Kaz?"

"I don't know where he lives," Rook wheezed. "He contacts us! Please... can't breathe..."

Seraphina eased the pressure marginally. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Three weeks ago. Southwest of the capital. Warehouse Six."

"And tonight's meeting? How were you to recognize him?"

Rook's gaze darted desperately around the warehouse as if seeking escape. Finding none, he slumped in defeat. "Black cloak with silver thread. Carries a cane with a wolf's head. Vertical scar through his right eyebrow."

Seraphina nodded slightly. "Good. Was that so difficult?" She removed her foot from his chest, and Rook gulped air gratefully.

"Please," he begged, "I've told you everything. Let me go. I won't say anything."

Seraphina regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she raised her right hand, palm upward. Darkness swirled above it, coalescing into a serpentine form—an orobos steel snake, its metallic scales gleaming with unnatural luster as it wound around her arm.

"I believe you've told me what you know," she agreed. "Unfortunately, that's not everything I need to know."

The snake uncoiled from her arm with fluid grace, stretching toward Rook. He scrambled back, pressing himself against the wall.

"Wait! What else? I'll tell you anything!"

"The Whispering Creed," Seraphina said, watching the snake slither through the air toward him. "You mentioned them specifically. Tell me how you know that name."

The snake wrapped itself around Rook's neck, not squeezing yet but making its presence unmistakably felt. Its metal tongue flicked against his cheek, leaving a burning sensation.

"It was just a rumor!" Rook gasped, eyes wild with terror. "Something Kaz mentioned once when he was drunk! Said his employers were part of an ancient organization... the Whispering Creed. Said they had existed since before the First Emperor!"

"And did he mention what they want? Their purpose?"

"Something about... about finding the Eye of—"

A sudden whistle was the only warning. A thin line of red appeared across Rook's throat, cutting off his words. For a moment, he looked merely surprised. Then blood bubbled from the precise wound, and he slumped forward, dead before he hit the ground.

Seraphina's snake hissed, coiling back protectively around her arm as she spun to face the new threat. The warehouse had gone completely silent again, but this time the silence felt charged, hostile.

"Show yourself," she commanded, her voice betraying no fear despite the display of deadly precision she'd just witnessed.

The darkness seemed to deepen in one corner of the warehouse. A faint purple glow emanated from within it, similar to the artifacts in the smuggler's crates but far more potent. The air shimmered with something that wasn't quite heat—a distortion that made the eyes water and the mind recoil.

As Seraphina watched, the darkness parted like a curtain, and a figure stepped through.

Moonlight fell upon bandaged hands and a face shrouded in cosmic energy. Where features should have been visible, there was only a void filled with distant stars and swirling nebulae. The figure's cloak rippled with patterns that seemed to move independently of any breeze, resembling night-blooming flowers that opened and closed in hypnotic sequence.

Seraphina's orobos snake reared up, its metal body stretching to twice its previous length as it positioned itself between her and the newcomer. For the first time, a flicker of genuine concern crossed her face.

"Interesting," she murmured, though whether to herself or her unseen sisters, it wasn't clear. "This wasn't part of tonight's expected complications."