Axeman.
That was the name whispered by few and feared by many. The man beneath the travel-worn hood sat hunched on the driver’s bench of a battered carriage, its wheels creaking softly as it rolled through the tall, wind-swept grass plains a few miles shy of Nineveh. He looked like a simple carriage man, indistinguishable from the hundreds who traveled these roads—but that illusion was the first of many lies.
It had been a day since he’d left the shadowed streets of Nineveh. In just two more, the grand wedding at Intis would commence—a convergence of nobility, ambition, and power. His mission was clear: ensure that Duke Asher Ashbourne received the queen’s invitation card before that time.
Which meant he had only today.
As if sensing fate draw near, Axeman lifted his head. The sun blazed down, its unforgiving light casting stark shadows across his face. The scar—a deep, jagged slash that tore through the right side of his lips—caught the light, giving his smirk a cruel glint.
On the horizon, rising from the sea of green like a sacred relic, stood a white structure.
Proud. Imposing.
Mary Academy.
Axeman’s smirk widened, touched with something between amusement and menace. The crack of his reins split the air like a whip, and his horse obeyed, its hooves thundering against the earth as they surged forward.
“So… Black Rose died here?” he mused, the thought curling through his mind like smoke. “What a pity.”
His grin deepened—sharp, unsettling. The carriage devoured distance, growing ever closer to the bastion of marble and gold.
The Academy loomed larger with every passing second. Its towering white walls gleamed, sculpted from immaculate marble, pristine even under the harsh eye of the sun. The golden gates shimmered like fire, adorned with fine engravings of lilies and vines, while gardens bloomed in an explosion of color at the foot of the walls—lavender, roses, tulips, all meticulously arranged.
A dozen gardeners bustled among them, shielding themselves with wide-brimmed straw hats, their tools glinting as they pruned and tended with care.
But Axeman’s eyes drifted higher, past the flowers and goldenrods. He studied the spiraling towers beyond, the grand arches, the domes capped in emerald and sapphire glass. Each building was a testament to wealth, education, and security. A sanctuary of peace.
That illusion, too, was about to shatter.
“Halt!” barked one of the two city guards stationed before the gate. They stepped forward, steel-tipped spears in hand, expressions hardened into masks of authority. “We weren’t expecting any deliveries today. Who sent you?”
Axeman clicked his tongue. “Tsk. The future queen herself.”
From within his cloak, he drew a worn parchment and tossed it lazily into the air. As it rose, the runes etched across its surface lit up—first gold, then searing white. The scroll burst open with a sound like a thunderclap, its magic unraveling and expanding outward in a wave of force.
A translucent dome surged into existence around the entire academy. It shimmered with threads of runes and locked into place with a resonant hum—a barrier that not only sealed Mary Academy from within, but severed it from the world entirely. For now, it had vanished from every map, every road, every memory. No one in or out.
This was no common spell. It was Exalted-ranked—the kind of sorcery that kingdoms bled for, that shattered friendships and sparked wars between noble houses and mercenary legions. The kind of spell that cost more than gold; it cost lives.
A change swept through Axeman then.
His arms lengthened, bones twisting and reshaping with a sickening crunch. Twin-headed axes emerged where his forearms once were—white as bleached skulls, yet gleaming with an unnatural sheen. Bone forged stronger than saint-forged steel.
The guards barely had time to draw breath.
With a single blur of motion, Axeman swept his arms wide. The axes cleaved through flesh and steel like paper, sending both guards’ heads tumbling into the air. Blood sprayed in violent arcs, staining the cobbles and the flowers in sudden, shocking red.
The scent of iron hit the air like a slap.
Covered in the mist of their blood, Axeman rolled his neck with a satisfying pop. His eyes, a colorless storm of violence and delight, settled on the gardeners as they dropped their tools and fled, screaming.
He didn’t chase them. Not yet.
“I’ll deal with the rest of you later,” he muttered, stepping down from the carriage with the slow grace of a predator. His boots splashed in blood. “For now… it’s time to recreate a masterpiece.”
He turned his gaze toward the academy’s main tower, his expression alight with a twisted joy.
“The twenty-first ranked assassin in the world can’t possibly do worse than Black Rose,” he said, chuckling as he strode forward. “Even if she was near the bottom of the list.”
____
Inside a grand circular hall crowned by a lofty domed ceiling, sunlight filtered down from an oculus above, casting a warm glow upon polished marble floors and high-arched windows. This was where new students of Mary Academy would one day gather, where announcements would echo through the generations—where legacy would be shaped.
But today, the space was filled with grunts and the creak of strained rope.
A few dozen laborers strained to haul a colossal marble statue into place—25 feet tall, carved in exacting detail to honor Duke Asher Ashbourne. His likeness stood in full regalia, cape billowing behind him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The statue’s eyes seemed to watch the world with quiet command.
“Move it a little to the left,” Mary said, pointing toward the eastern edge of the hall. Her voice carried the confidence of command, but there was weariness too—three hours of adjustments had worn on everyone.
Around her stood a group of men and women, dressed in finer robes than the laborers—fellow instructors, friends she’d made during her years at Sacred Flame Academy. They had followed her here to help build something new, something enduring.
“Is it right there though?” asked one of them, a man with sharp cheekbones and a tired frown. “Feels like it ought to go right in the center.”
Mary exhaled softly, brushing loose strands of hair from her forehead. “These men have been dragging that block of marble all day. Let’s give them a break—and talk this out properly. Maybe over tea?” Her voice was light, but her eyes flicked toward the sweating workers, their fingers white-knuckled on the ropes.
And then—
A scream.
It tore through the heavy silence like a blade.
From beyond the great oak doors, a voice cried out—a desperate yell followed by the clang of steel hitting stone. The instructors froze, startled. A few stepped forward. Mary’s expression twisted with dread.
“My lady—run! Argh!!”
The voice was silenced in a heartbeat.
Then, with bone-chilling abruptness, an axe smashed through the thick wooden doors. It sank halfway in, embedding with a dull, brutal crunch. Blood smeared the blade and began to run down the door in slow, crimson rivulets. It dripped to the floor, fat droplets that splattered against white marble like falling tears.
For a moment, the room was silent. Stunned.
Then—thwip—the axe was yanked back. A heartbeat later, there was the soft, sickening thud of a body collapsing just outside. Something heavy and lifeless.
No one breathed.
Then, through the ragged hole in the splintered doors, an eye appeared.
Cold. Amused. Inevitable.
“Ah…” came a voice, smooth and dark, like silk sliding over broken glass.
“There you are, my golden-eyed prize.”