Chapter 20 : blood and diplomacy

She sat alone in the shadowed chamber, the letter folded carefully in her hands, and for a moment, the flickering candlelight seemed to pull memories from the depths of her mind.

As a child, she had learned quickly that trust was dangerous. The walls of her old home had been lined with whispers, and the people who were supposed to protect her often wielded cruelty instead. Betrayal was a language she had spoken before she even learned to read. Her father had vanished under mysterious circumstances, leaving nothing but a trail of rumors and a single, bloodstained locket. Her mother had retreated into silence, leaving her to navigate a world that was anything but safe.

It was that early life that had shaped her into what she had become: a shadow moving through political intrigue, a girl trained to observe, anticipate, and survive. Love and friendship were luxuries she could not afford; loyalty was a weapon, and fear was a tool she wielded as effectively as any dagger.

The wax seal in her hand was cold against her fingertips. This letter, disguised as a simple token of affection, carried more danger than any battlefield she had crossed. Instructions for spies, coded messages, political maneuvering—all hidden behind the pretense of romance. She recognized the cleverness, and the trap it represented.

She whispered to herself, a low murmur that sounded like both warning and confession:

“Nothing is ever simple… never was.”

Her gaze shifted to the door, imagining her superior waiting, always watching. Every step she took, every decision, was under scrutiny. The world had taught her to be cautious, to anticipate betrayal before it struck, and now that skill was tested again.

She pressed herself against the cold stone wall, letting the shadows swallow her as she thought through her plan. The target was high-ranking, careless enough to underestimate her, yet crucial enough to strike a decisive blow in this silent war. Her pulse steadied; every step had to be precise, every motion deliberate.

---

The corridors were empty, the air thick with the scent of candle smoke and polished stone. She moved silently, footsteps feather-light, eyes scanning every shadow.

Finally, she found her mark: a man laughing in ignorance, confident in his protection, unaware that death had already circled him. She raised her blade, the movement smooth, trained, inevitable.

But fate has its own cunning. A sharp whistle of wind. A subtle shift of the shadows. A figure she had not anticipated. A rival agent—or perhaps an ally turned traitor—emerged. The strike that was meant to end a life instead became the strike that ended hers.

As she fell, the world tilted and memories flashed faster: the locket her father left behind, the long nights of training alone, the cold determination that had defined her life. Her blood seeped into the floor, dark and defiant, as her eyes lifted to the ceiling one last time.

And then, with the last of her breath, she spoke, a declaration both defiant and resolute:

“This… is only the beginning… war… has been declared.”

The echo of her words lingered in the silent halls, carrying a promise of chaos, of retaliation, of a fire that would not be easily extinguished. Her body was gone, but the war she ignited had only just begun.

---

News of her death spread like wildfire. But it was not just her demise that shook the courts—it was what she had done before falling. The blade she wielded had found its mark: a high-ranking envoy from a neighboring kingdom, a man whose death could not be ignored.

---

In the grand hall of her own kingdom, the council erupted in chaos as messengers rushed in, bearing the grim news. The king’s face, usually a mask of control, darkened with fury and disbelief.

“She killed him? Our envoy?” the king growled, slamming a fist against the marble table. “This is an act of war! An insult to our crown, a provocation we cannot allow to go unanswered!”

The court whispered in tension, courtiers glancing nervously at one another. Some feared reprisal, others whispered about the rogue agent who had dared strike at the heart of diplomacy.

Outside, the streets of the capital buzzed with unease. Spies and couriers alike felt the tremor of political upheaval ripple through the air. Every kingdom in the region would now be on alert, preparing for the inevitable clash that her actions had ignited.

Meanwhile, in the shadowed alley where her body had been found, a single message was scrawled in ink and blood:

“War has begun. None are innocent. None are safe.”

It was her final act, her declaration from beyond the grave, a spark that would ignite a conflict spanning borders and armies alike.

The East Geneva's council convened swiftly, their outrage echoing through the corridors of power. Their envoy was dead, murdered by a figure tied to a rival crown. With each passing hour, the drums of war grew louder, the tension between kingdoms stretching toward a breaking point.

Her death had not ended her influence—it had transformed her into a symbol. A single agent had toppled the fragile balance of diplomacy, leaving the world to brace for the storm she had begun.