CAIUS: Crown of Threads and Shadows

Old Bones had begun to worry.

Not about Caius’s strength; that was precisely the problem. The boy was becoming stronger every day, learning faster than most warriors Old Bones had trained in decades. His body was growing accustomed to pain, his movements were becoming more efficient, and his instincts were sharpening with every fight.

But the elder could see a weakness that the others overlooked. Caius was becoming strong within controlled conditions, and that control itself had become his greatest vulnerability.

The clan guards had pushed him, and the warlock had pushed him further. Yet every one of those battles still had boundaries. Someone was always watching, someone was always ready to intervene, and there were strict rules governing the fights to prevent an opponent from taking things too far.

The Trial of Fate would have none of that. An enemy would not stop simply because Caius made a mistake. If he hesitated, he would die. If his instincts failed, he would die. If he trusted the wrong opening, he would die. Old Bones had seen too many skilled warriors perish because they had never experienced the moment when an opponent truly wanted them dead. Strength was not enough, and skill was not enough; Caius needed to experience the kind of fight where survival was the only rule.

For several days, Old Bones searched for someone suitable. He considered the lower training grounds first. There were warriors there who could challenge Caius, but none were what he needed. They were disciplined soldiers, trained to obey commands and fight according to formations. Even the more experienced among them still carried the habits of warriors who expected their opponents to fight with honor.

Caius needed something entirely different. He needed someone who did not care about rules, someone who would attack when Caius was distracted, and someone who would exploit an injury instead of giving him time to recover. He needed a killer who would lie, retreat, ambush, and use whatever method was necessary to survive—someone who would murder him if given the slightest chance.

Old Bones eventually made his way toward the lower levels of the clan’s territory, where the air grew colder and the stone corridors became narrower. The dungeons were buried beneath the main halls, far from the chambers where the clan’s warriors trained and the nobles conducted their affairs. Few members of House Vel’drin came this deep unless they had a pressing reason, but Old Bones had one.

He passed several guards without speaking, and recognizing him instantly, they stepped aside. At the end of the corridor stood a heavy iron door, and beyond it lay the clan’s criminal records.

Old Bones entered the quiet room. Rows of stone shelves filled the chamber, holding sealed documents, interrogation records, execution orders, and reports gathered over decades. The clan kept detailed records of its enemies, traitors, assassins, mercenaries, and criminals. Old Bones moved slowly between them, scanning the names.

He was not looking for the strongest warrior, as strength was easy to find. He was looking for someone who understood the uglier side of combat, someone who knew that a fight did not begin when two opponents stood face to face, and someone who understood that the first advantage was often gained before the enemy even knew a fight had begun.

His fingers moved across several records before stopping on an old file whose seal had been broken years ago. Old Bones pulled it from the shelf and opened it.

The criminal had once belonged to a minor dark elf clan—an assassin named Rovan. Old Bones read through the reports, noting a long list of killings: warriors, merchants, travelers, servants, and even members of his own clan. Some had been legitimate targets while others had not; Rovan had killed for money, revenge, and according to one report, simply because someone had crossed him.

His own clan had eventually hunted him down. It had taken several seasoned warriors to capture him, and three of them had died before Rovan was finally subdued.

The original sentence had been execution, but the clan had instead placed him under a different classification: Unwanted Mission Asset. Old Bones paused at the words. Criminals with exceptional abilities were sometimes kept alive for missions that ordinary warriors could not survive. They were sent into places where the chance of returning was almost nonexistent, and if they survived, they were sent again and again until eventually they did not return.

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Old Bones’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. There he is.

He closed the file and walked deeper into the dungeon.

Rovan was being held several levels below. His cell was small, built from thick stone reinforced with metal bands, with a single mana crystal burning weakly above the entrance to cast a pale light across the floor.

A figure sat against the far wall. The dark elf looked thin from years of imprisonment, his long black hair unkempt, and several jagged scars crossing his face and neck. His wrists were bound by enchanted restraints designed to suppress his mana, yet when Old Bones approached the cell, the prisoner immediately opened his eyes. They were sharp, awake, and dangerous.

Rovan studied the old assassin through the bars. ”You are not a guard.”

”No.”

”You are not here to bring me another mission.”

”Not exactly.”

Rovan leaned his head against the stone wall. ”Then what do you want?”

Old Bones regarded him quietly. ”Do you want to be free?”

Something changed in Rovan’s expression as he slowly sat forward. ”What kind of task do you want me to do?”

Old Bones said nothing.

Rovan watched him carefully. ”Do you actually have the authority to set me free?”

”I do.” The answer came without hesitation.

Rovan remained silent for several moments. He had survived long enough to recognize dangerous people, and the old elf standing before him did not look like a jailer; he looked like someone who had spent his entire life hunting people.

Rovan’s mouth curved into a faint smile. ”Then tell me the task.”

Old Bones stepped closer to the bars and looked directly into Rovan’s eyes. ”Easy. You will kill a human boy.”

Rovan blinked. ”A human boy?”

”Yes.”

”Just a human boy?”

Old Bones nodded.

Rovan leaned back against the wall and laughed quietly. ”That is the task? I expected something worse.”

Old Bones’s expression did not change. ”Do not underestimate him.”

Rovan’s amusement faded, and he studied the old assassin again. ”If he is only a human boy, why do you need me?”

Old Bones’s eyes narrowed slightly. ”Because I do not want you to fight him like a warrior.”

That answer caught Rovan’s attention.

Old Bones continued. ”He is fourteen. Almost fifteen.”

Rovan stared at him. ”And you need an assassin to kill a child?”

”He is not an ordinary child,” Old Bones’s voice became colder. ”He is ruthless. He learns quickly and adapts quickly. He has already defeated warriors who believed themselves far superior to him.”

”How many?”

”Enough.” Old Bones stepped closer to the bars. ”You may kill him.”

Rovan’s eyes narrowed. ”You may?”

”You may also die.”

The amusement disappeared completely.

Old Bones continued calmly. ”I am giving you that warning because I want you to understand the nature of the task. If you underestimate him because he is human, you will die before you understand your mistake.”

Rovan looked down at his restrained hands. There was something unusual about this assignment; the old assassin was not boasting about his target, but rather warning him. That alone told Rovan the boy was dangerous.

”And if I succeed?”

”Freedom,” Old Bones paused. ”And more.”

Rovan looked up. ”More?”

”Several clans have already shown interest in seeing the boy dead. Sponsors are willing to pay heavily for his head. If you succeed, the rewards will be substantial.”

Rovan considered the offer. He had spent years inside these dungeons, used for missions the clan did not want associated with its own warriors. He had survived because he was useful, but usefulness had never meant freedom. Now an old assassin was offering him exactly that, and all he had to do was kill a human boy.

Rovan slowly stood up. ”Remove these restraints.”

Old Bones smiled. ”Then you accept?”

Rovan’s eyes hardened. ”I accept.”

Old Bones turned toward the corridor. ”Good.” He took several steps before stopping. ”Prepare yourself.”

Rovan frowned. ”For the boy?”

Old Bones glanced over his shoulder. ”For the possibility that the boy is preparing for you, too.”

Rovan said nothing as Old Bones walked away, the sound of his footsteps slowly disappearing into the corridor.

Behind him, Rovan remained standing inside the cell, staring after the old assassin. For the first time in years, the prisoner felt something he had almost forgotten: anticipation. Not fear, and not hope, but pure anticipation.

Somewhere above the dungeon, Old Bones was already thinking about the next stage of Caius’s training. He had spent years watching warriors prepare for battle; they trained their bodies, sharpened their weapons, and memorized techniques. But death did not care about preparation; it only cared about the mistake made at the wrong moment.

Old Bones intended to find every mistake Caius could possibly make before the Trial of Fate began. And if that meant putting a murderer in the boy’s path, then so be it.