Ashes of the Forsaken

Kieran stood at the edge of the noble district, watching.

The towering manors and gleaming halls stretched before him, their white stone walls glowing beneath the soft light of enchanted lanterns.

The city slums were a world away from this place, a forgotten stain in the eyes of the aristocracy.

The people here lived above the filth, above the struggles of the common man.

But beneath all that wealth and power, they were afraid.

And after tonight—they would have good reason to be.

Kieran adjusted his cloak, stepping into the streets.

The hunt had begun.

He had spent the past few hours memorizing every detail of the parchment the Whisper Broker had given him.

It wasn't just a name.

It was a title. A symbol of power.

And it was tied to one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

Duke Calderon Veyne.

A noble of influence. A commander in the war council. A man whose voice dictated who lived and who died.

And the one who had ensured that Kieran would never walk this world again.

Except now—Kieran was walking straight into his domain.

The noble district was a different beast at night.

During the day, it was all grand displays of wealth—silken banners, armored knights standing at perfect attention, and carriages carrying lords and ladies through pristine marble streets.

But when the sun fell, so did the masks.

The real business of the nobility—the **whispers, the betrayals, the blood spilled behind closed doors—**that all happened in the dark.

Kieran blended in effortlessly, moving between the carriages and merchants who still lingered past dusk.

He wasn't an outsider here.

He had lived in this world once.

And now, he was stepping back into it—not as a noble, but as a ghost.

A shadow they had forgotten.

But soon, they would remember.

Duke Calderon's estate was an imposing structure, even among the opulence of the district.

Sprawling courtyards, high marble walls, golden torches that never seemed to burn out.

A symbol of untouchable authority.

But Kieran knew the truth.

Every fortress had a weakness.

And Kieran knew this one better than most.

Because once—**a lifetime ago—**he had walked these halls as an invited guest.

As someone the Duke had once trusted.

And then betrayed.

Kieran clenched his fists, his breath steady.

Tonight, he would step inside again.

Not through the front gates.

Not as a guest.

But as a reckoning.

Most noble estates had their own escape routes.

Kieran knew that better than anyone.

Because once, he had designed them.

His mind worked through the details—the corridors built beneath the estate, the old stone tunnels leading toward the servant quarters.

And most importantly—the places that were forgotten.

The dead space in the architecture, where no records existed.

A flaw in the very foundation.

One Kieran had discovered years ago.

And one that had never been sealed.

His lips curled slightly.

Some things never changed.

The outer guards were competent.

Not because they expected an attack, but because Duke Calderon surrounded himself with warriors who could kill without question.

Loyalty bought with gold.

But gold could only buy so much.

It couldn't buy vigilance against a ghost.

Kieran waited for the patrol to pass before slipping through the ivy-covered outer wall.

The stone beneath his fingers was cold, familiar.

He knew exactly where to press.

Where the mortar had loosened over time.

Where a single push would open a passage no one had walked in years.

He exhaled, pressed against the wall—

And the stone shifted.

The gap widened.

And Kieran stepped through.

The air inside was stale, untouched by time.

The passage was narrow, just large enough for one person to slip through.

It curved downward, leading through a forgotten section of the estate's foundations.

And just ahead—

A door.

Not locked.

Not trapped.

Because no one even remembered it existed.

Kieran smirked.

They had erased his name.

But they had never erased his work.

He placed a hand against the wood, pushed gently—

And stepped into the Duke's home.

The servants had long retired for the night.

The halls were quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that only existed in places where whispers held more power than swords.

Kieran moved without a sound, his steps carefully measured.

The estate hadn't changed much.

The same corridors lined with oil paintings of men who had ruled before, the same golden chandeliers, the same suffocating air of self-importance.

And at the end of the hall—

The Duke's private study.

Kieran's fingers brushed against the hilt of a dagger he had taken from one of the market's vendors.

He wasn't here to kill.

Not yet.

He was here to deliver a message.

To make the Duke understand.

Kieran had returned.

And this time—he was watching.

The Duke's study stood before him, bathed in dim candlelight.

Kieran could see the faint glow from beneath the heavy oak doors, a flickering reminder that his target was still awake.

Good.

That meant Calderon would be fully aware of what was about to happen.

Kieran exhaled slowly, steadying his heartbeat.

He had no weapons drawn.

No magic.

Just his presence.

Because tonight, his presence alone was the weapon.

They had erased him.

They had buried his name.

And now, he would return it to them—whether they wanted it or not.

Kieran pushed the door open without knocking.

The study was vast—high ceilings, bookshelves stretching from floor to roof, a massive window overlooking the noble district.

And at the center, seated behind a polished mahogany desk—

Duke Calderon Veyne.

The man looked up, his quill stilling mid-stroke.

He did not startle.

He did not panic.

He simply watched Kieran with quiet calculation.

The candlelight flickered between them.

Then—

"I wondered when you'd come."

Kieran stepped forward, his boots silent against the marble floor.

"You don't look surprised," he said evenly.

Calderon leaned back in his chair, studying him.

"I had my suspicions," the Duke admitted. "There were whispers, rumors. A shadow moving through the slums, a dead man leaving footprints where none should be. But I had to be sure."

His lips curled slightly.

"And now, here you are."

Kieran's gaze did not waver.

"You killed me."

Calderon sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Not personally, no. But yes, I signed the order. Don't look so betrayed. It was necessary."

Necessary.

Kieran's fingers tightened.

They had ended his life and called it necessary.

The Duke continued, his voice calm, unreadable.

"You had become a threat, Kieran. You were always too dangerous, too clever for your own good. And then... you started asking the wrong questions."

He met Kieran's gaze.

"You knew this, didn't you?"

Kieran did.

He had always known.

But hearing it spoken so plainly still sent a slow, burning anger through his veins.

They hadn't erased him because he had fought them.

They had erased him because he had gotten too close.

And now—he was closer than ever.

Kieran moved to the desk, his steps slow, deliberate.

"You didn't just kill me," he said.

Calderon arched a brow.

"You erased me. You made sure there was nothing left of me—no name, no legacy, not even a footnote in history."

He exhaled sharply.

"But it didn't work, did it?"

For the first time, Calderon hesitated.

A flicker of something deep in his eyes.

Uncertainty.

Kieran leaned in slightly.

"You don't know how I came back."

Calderon's fingers tapped against the desk—a habit. A nervous tick.

He was trying to remain composed.

But Kieran saw through him.

"No," the Duke admitted. "I don't."

Good.

That meant they weren't in control.

That meant they hadn't planned for this.

Kieran smirked.

"Then I suppose I have the advantage."

Calderon exhaled, shifting in his chair.

"So, what happens now?"

Kieran tilted his head.

"That depends on you."

The Duke chuckled. "Oh? And what would you have me do? Fall to my knees? Beg for forgiveness?"

His voice was sharp, biting.

But Kieran didn't need him to beg.

Fear was not the goal.

Control was.

"You don't need to beg," Kieran said. "But you do need to listen."

He stepped back slightly, placing his hands behind his back—relaxed, composed.

Calderon watched him warily.

Kieran spoke carefully.

"You will keep your seat in the war council. You will keep playing the noble games you enjoy so much. You will act as if nothing has changed."

The Duke narrowed his eyes.

"And?"

Kieran's smile was sharp.

"And you will do exactly as I tell you."

The air between them shifted.

Calderon was many things—ruthless, cunning, dangerous.

But even he was not reckless.

He had already tried to erase Kieran once.

And now that Kieran stood before him—**very much alive—**he understood the message being given.

"You want me as an ally?" the Duke murmured.

Kieran shook his head.

"I want you as my pawn."

Silence.

A slow, calculating tension filled the room.

Then—

Calderon laughed.

Not loudly.

Not mockingly.

But genuinely.

"You always were an ambitious one," he mused. "Even in death."

Kieran said nothing.

Because he had already won.

Calderon had two choices.

Try to kill him again—and risk whatever had allowed him to return.

Or play along.

For now.

The Duke sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Fine. But tell me, what exactly do you want?"

Kieran's smile faded.

"The truth."

The amusement vanished from Calderon's expression.

Kieran leaned in, his voice quiet, but unshakable.

"You're going to tell me everything."

The candlelight flickered.

Outside, the city continued its slow, unaware descent into chaos.

But here, in the Duke's private study, history was shifting.

Calderon leaned back, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk once more.

Then, in a voice devoid of its earlier arrogance—

"Where do you want me to start?"

Kieran exhaled, his pulse steady.

"Start with the war."

The war they had erased.

The war he had once fought.

And the war he had lost.

Calderon nodded once.

And then—

He began to speak.