Villain's Last Chance

The night was silent. Too silent.

I sat at my desk, a single candle flickering beside me, casting shadows across the ink-stained letters I had yet to send. The words blurred together, my mind too restless to focus.

Something was wrong.

I had felt it all evening—the sensation of being watched, the whisper of something just beyond my reach. A tension that had settled in my bones and refused to leave.

And then I heard it.

A creak outside my window.

Slow. Deliberate.

I did not hesitate. I moved.

In a single motion, I extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness. My fingers found the small blade beneath my pillow—a precaution I had kept since childhood. A habit born from necessity.

I pressed my back against the wall, listening. Waiting.

Then—a shift. A shadow moving past the window.

I barely had time to react before the glass shattered, shards raining across the wooden floor, and a figure lunged inside.

My dagger was in my hand before I could think.

The intruder landed soundlessly, dark-cloaked and faceless beneath a hood. But I could see the glint of steel—the unmistakable shape of a dagger, curved and wicked.

No hesitation.

I moved first.

My blade struck toward their ribs, but they twisted, fast—too fast—dodging in a way that spoke of years of training. Not just an assassin. A Revenant.

The realization sent my heart pounding, but I had no time for fear. They came for me.

The Revenants did not leave survivors.

Our knives met in a blur of metal, their attack relentless. I countered. Parried. Moved. My body responded on instinct, my mind already calculating openings. I had to end this quickly.

The assassin struck high—I ducked, sliding beneath their arm and twisting my blade toward their exposed side. A mistake.

The moment my dagger met cloth, the assassin turned, grabbing my wrist and slamming me against the wall.

Pain exploded down my spine, but I didn't let go. I would not let go.

Their grip tightened too strong. Too controlled. They were toying with me.

A voice, low and cold, broke the silence.

"You should have stayed dead."

Rage. Cold, sharp rage.

I twisted my wrist, breaking their grip just enough to drive my knee into their ribs.

They staggered, but only for a second. Then, they vanished—pulling back, disappearing through the broken window in a blur of movement.

Gone.

I did not chase them. I was breathing hard, my heart slamming against my ribs. My fingers curled around my blade, refusing to let go.

I turned toward the window. Only a single thing remained.

A dagger.

Black steel. The Revenants' mark.

And carved into the hilt, just like Cairon's—a single word.

Deceiver.

Morning came too soon.

I had barely slept, my body thrumming with the aftershocks of the fight, my mind racing with what the message meant. Deceiver.

They had accused Cairon of betrayal. Now, they were accusing me.

Which meant…

They knew.

I clenched my jaw, staring at the blade still resting on my desk. The Revenants had made their move.

I had to make mine.

I dressed swiftly, donning a dark cloak to conceal the bruises already forming along my arms. I was no fool. There was only one place I could go for answers now.

And only one person who would give them to me.

Cairon Everhart.

---

The Everhart estate loomed like a fortress. Guards were doubled at the gates, tension thick in the air. They were expecting more attacks.

I moved through the halls with purpose, my steps unyielding. The moment I reached Cairon's study, I did not knock.

I pushed the door open.

He was there, standing near the window, his back to me. Waiting.

"You're late," he said, echoing Marek's words from the night before.

I stepped forward, tossing the Revenant's dagger onto his desk. It landed with a sharp thud.

"They came for me last night," I said, my voice even. "Tell me why."

Cairon turned, his eyes sharper than steel. For a moment, he simply looked at me. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the dagger, running his fingers along the engraved word.

Deceiver.

Something flickered in his expression.

"Interesting," he murmured.

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't play games with me, Cairon. They think I've betrayed them. I need to know why."

He exhaled, rolling the dagger between his fingers. Then, he met my gaze.

"They don't think you've betrayed them," he said quietly.

I frowned. "Then why—"

"They think you betrayed me."

The room went silent.

The words sank in, sharp as the blade itself.

I stared at him, my pulse slow, heavy. "What?"

Cairon set the dagger down. "The Revenants don't turn on people without reason. They don't waste resources on a single noblewoman unless they believe she is a threat."

My throat tightened. "And you think I am?"

A long pause. Then—a smirk.

"No," he said simply. "But they do."

Something dark and unreadable passed through his gaze. "You want answers, Elara? Then tell me—what exactly have you done to make the most powerful faction in the Empire mark you for death?"

A challenge.

A trap.

I held his stare, my pulse a steady drumbeat of danger.

I had not expected this.

I had expected to be the hunter.

But now, standing here, facing the man who should have been my enemy…

I realized I had become the hunted.

And Cairon Everhart might be the only one who could help me survive.