"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

The sun barely crested over the horizon when Seraphis stepped through the guild doors. The air inside the assassin’s guild was thick with smoke, steel, and whispered conversations, the scent of oil from sharpened blades mixing with the usual dampness of the stone walls.

Sophie was at the front desk, lazily sipping a steaming cup of something that smelled suspiciously like spiked tea. She blinked sleepily when she saw Seraphis, then groaned.

“You’re back already? Gods, don’t you sleep?”

Seraphis smirked. “Sleep is for the weak.”

Sophie made an exaggerated gagging noise. “And here I thought you were human.”

Ignoring her, Seraphis leaned on the counter. “Got another job for me?”

Before Sophie could answer, the guild master’s door slammed open. Garrick, standing in the doorway, gave her an unreadable look before jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Inside. Now.”

Seraphis sighed, pushing off the counter. “That didn’t take long.”

The Job: A Count's Death

Garrick sat behind his scarred wooden desk, rolling a dagger between his fingers. He gestured toward the chair across from him, but Seraphis remained standing.

“Alright,” he said, setting the dagger down with a dull thunk. “Got something for you. A little different this time.”

Seraphis crossed her arms. “Go on.”

Garrick leaned forward. “There’s a corrupt count in a small mountain town to the north. Name’s Count Alric Vael. Filthy bastard’s been bleeding his people dry with insane taxes while snatching up land. But that’s not the worst of it.”

He tossed a sealed parchment onto the desk.

Seraphis picked it up, skimming the details.

Kidnappings. Torture. Disappearances.

The Count’s personal estate was a fortress in its own right, surrounded by thick snow-covered forests and guarded by a small army of mercenaries. The report detailed secret underground dungeons, where prisoners were allegedly kept for “entertainment.”

Seraphis’s expression darkened. “Charming.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Garrick said, eyes glinting. “The Count’s family—or what’s left of them—are all involved. His brother runs a network of smugglers and thieves that bring him fresh victims. His niece oversees the ‘entertainment’ side of things. They’re all filthy, and they all need to go.”

Seraphis narrowed her eyes. “And what’s the request?”

Garrick’s smirk turned sharp.

“The client doesn’t want it to look like an assassination,” he said. “They want it to look like infighting. Like the family turned on each other in a bloody power struggle.”

Seraphis let the words settle in the air. A massacre, disguised as a civil war.

Her lips curled into a smirk.

“Now that,” she said, “sounds like fun.”

Into the Snow

The journey to Count Vael’s estate took three days on horseback, through thick forests and snow-covered trails.

The town beneath the Count’s mansion was a miserable, gray thing. Houses leaned against each other, sagging from disrepair. Shadows moved behind shuttered windows, and the streets were eerily quiet.

Even the air smelled wrong—like rot and fear.

Seraphis dismounted outside a small abandoned church, tying her horse to a post.

She’d done her homework on the way.

• The Count stayed in his fortified mansion most of the time, growing fat off the suffering of his people.
• His brother, Dorian Vael, was currently in town, overseeing a shipment of “supplies” coming in from the south.
• His niece, Selene Vael, was still in the mansion, keeping herself entertained with whatever unfortunate souls were in the dungeons.

The first move was obvious.

She had to get Dorian to the estate.

And for that, she needed a little persuasion.

The Setup

Seraphis waited until nightfall.

Dorian Vael operated out of an old tavern, using it as a base for his smuggling operation. It was well-guarded—but not unbreakable.

Dressed in a simple dark cloak, she slipped through the side alley, moving like a ghost. Her fingers traced the edges of her metal playing cards, feeling their familiar cold weight.

Inside, she could hear raucous laughter and the clinking of mugs.

Perfect.

She scaled the wall in silence, slipping through an open second-floor window. The moment she was inside, she moved like a shadow, weaving through the darkened halls until she reached her target:

Dorian’s office.

She found him seated behind a massive mahogany desk, a half-empty bottle of fine wine at his side. He was counting coins, completely oblivious.

Seraphis stepped out of the shadows.

“Nice place you’ve got here.”

Dorian’s head snapped up, his hand reaching for a dagger—

Too slow.

Before he could react, one of her metal cards shot forward, slicing across his wrist. He yelped, clutching his bleeding hand.

Seraphis smirked. “Oops.”

“Who the hell—?”

She kicked his chair backward, sending him sprawling. Then she leaned down, pressing another card to his throat.

“I need you to take a little trip,” she whispered. “You’re going to the mansion. Now.”

Dorian’s breath was shaky. “Like hell I am.”

Seraphis pressed the blade deeper. “Oh, you misunderstand. That wasn’t a request.”

The Perfect Storm

By the time they reached the Vael estate, the pieces were in place.

Seraphis had "bound" Dorian, making it look like he’d been attacked by mercenaries. The moment he stepped inside the mansion, bloodied and desperate, he started screaming about a betrayal.

Selene Vael, ever paranoid, immediately accused him of working with outsiders.

The Count, already on edge from recent rebellious whispers, demanded answers.

Seraphis, hidden in the rafters, watched as arguments turned to shouting.

Then she made her move.

She whispered rumors into the guards’ ears, using her illusions to make it seem like Dorian’s men had turned traitor.

Then, when the first blade was drawn—

She cut the lights.

Chaos erupted.

Blades clashed in the dark. Guards turned on each other, caught in the frenzy of fear.

Seraphis moved like death itself, her cards flashing in the moonlight as she silently cut down anyone who tried to escape.

By the time the dust settled—

The entire Vael family was dead.

And it looked like they had killed each other.

The Aftermath

Seraphis stood in the middle of the carnage, surveying her handiwork.

Blood stained the marble floors. Bodies lay scattered, blades still clutched in their hands.

She smiled.

By morning, the town would find the slaughtered nobility and assume the family had torn itself apart over greed and betrayal.

A perfect crime.

She turned, disappearing into the snowy night.

Another job well done.