The Supreme World Conqueror

Chapter 45: The Shadow Blade

The arrival of Prince Strelm's envoy was announced with the kind of pomp and ceremony that felt hollow within Emberstone's walls. Don and his court received the delegation with a cool formality. Don saw the envoy for what it was: a velvet glove hiding a steel fist, a reconnaissance mission sent by Strelm to gauge the truth of the Archduke's power. The envoy's captain, a stern-faced noble named Lord Darion, watched everything with a calculating gaze, his questions probing the allegiances of Don's new queens and the strength of his combined forces.

That evening, a private council was held in Don's chambers. Only his queens—Caria, Callara, and Marell—and his closest confidants—Dvrik and Leinara—were present. The tension in the room was a palpable thing.

"The envoy is here to report on my strength," Don began, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "But more than that, he is a spy. His real mission is to uncover our weaknesses, sow discord, and find a chink in our armor for the Crown to exploit."

He looked at Leinara, who stood silent and watchful beside Dvrik, her raven hair a dark curtain around her face. "My intelligence on the Crown is too reliant on my aunt, Resiria. She operates in a treacherous web. We need our own blade at the throat of the serpent in Erydon."

He walked to a tactical map and pointed to the route the envoy would take on his return journey. "Lord Darion is more than a messenger. He is a high-ranking intelligence officer for Prince Strelm, a spymaster in his own right. If he reports our unity is unbreakable, Strelm will find a way to sow discord from afar. He cannot be allowed to make that report."

Leinara's gray-blue eyes met his, clear and unwavering. She knew what he was asking. It was a step beyond scouting and hunting. It was assassination.

"My lord," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I have hunters. Not murderers."

"You have warriors who move like phantoms," Don corrected, his voice resonating with a quiet authority that brooked no argument. "And it is time they learned to be the unseen architects of my will. The Crown would have seen my queens as bargaining chips, my lords as vassals. They now see a kingdom. A kingdom needs a shadow, a blade for the impossible strike. You are that blade, Leinara."

He reached out and took her hand, his thumb stroking the calluses on her palm, a gesture of profound trust and intimacy that sent a jolt of controlled power between them. "I am asking you to forge a new unit. To take your most loyal, most trusted hunters and train them in the lethal arts of silence and precision. You will be my personal assassin, the commander of my Black Blades."

Leinara's loyalty was a fierce, protective instinct. It had always been directed at Don, a private devotion that had now been given a name and a purpose. This was a dark road, but she would walk it for him without hesitation. This was the ultimate expression of her devotion, a way to protect his vision, his life, his queens, and his court from the shadows that would tear it all down.

"Give me the target, my lord," she replied, her voice now a low, dangerous whisper that promised utter ruthlessness.

---

The mission was executed with chilling perfection. Leinara chose three of her finest Shadow Hunters, men as disciplined and lethal as she was. She spent a week training them in the intricate dance of shadow-weaving, using her newly awakened powers to instruct them in a new kind of infiltration—one that used silence as a weapon and darkness as a cloak. She taught them to move through light and shadow as if they were one, to make no sound, and to leave no trace. For the first time, her hunters did not just follow her; they followed the subtle eddies of shadow she commanded, a terrifying extension of her will.

The target was a fortified inn, a stop on the road back to Erydon. The air inside was warm and thick with the smell of roasting meat and stale ale. Lord Darion retired to his private chamber, his retinue settling into rooms along the corridor. The inn's guards were professional, their posts set, their eyes vigilant. But they were looking for men, for movement, for sound. They were not looking for shadows.

Leinara and her Black Blades slipped through the walls of the inn as if they were made of mist. Using her nascent shadow-weaving ability, Leinara commanded the shadows in the hallways to deepen and stretch, cloaking her movements as she flowed past the guards. Her blades, now infused with a faint, chilling darkness, felt like extensions of her will. The guards felt nothing but a sudden, inexplicable chill as she passed.

She entered Lord Darion's room through the chimney flue, a silent phantom descending from the darkness. Darion was reading by the light of a single lantern, a confident, satisfied look on his face. He was planning his report to Prince Strelm.

Leinara moved like a breath of cold air. She placed a single, potent drop of poison—a compound created by Grand Magister Jhesarwan under the pretense of a cleansing tonic—into his wine goblet. The poison was untraceable, mimicking a sudden heart seizure. It would leave no evidence but a corpse.

As she prepared to leave, a whisper of a noise made her freeze. One of Darion's personal guards, a man with a sharp eye, was still awake, staring at the chimney. He hadn't seen her, but he felt the draft, the unnatural stillness. He drew his sword slowly, his face etched with suspicion.

Leinara did not hesitate. Her hand darted out, throwing a dagger infused with shadow. It flew with a soundless precision, a black blur that struck the guard's throat with a chilling finality. He fell without a cry, a silent testament to her lethal skill.

The rest of her team, following her silent cues, neutralized the other men with the same brutal efficiency. No alarms were raised. No struggle was heard. They left no evidence, no footprints, no sign of their presence. The only trace was a small, black-feathered bird—Leinara's personal mark—left on the windowsill of the chamber, a whisper in the wind that only Don would understand.

The next morning, news reached Emberstone that Lord Darion had died suddenly in the night from a massive heart attack. The report would be accepted, a plausible lie that concealed a chilling truth.

In his solar, Don received the quiet confirmation from Leinara's scout. He simply nodded, his face a mask of grim satisfaction. He looked at the map of Warsenbrenn, his gaze sweeping north to Erydon.

He had sent a message, not of roaring legions, but of a silent, unyielding threat that could strike anywhere, at any time. Prince Strelm had sent his eyes to Helimdor. Don had sent a blade into the heart of his network. The Shadow Blade had been forged, and the Archduke's reach now extended far beyond the unified south.