The Emperor's Net

The captain ran until his lungs burned, the shadows of the alley chasing him even when no one followed. When he finally stumbled into the barracks, pale and shaking, his men fell silent at the sight of him.

“The… the Shadows…” he gasped, collapsing to his knees. “They’re here!”

Word spread like wildfire. By dawn, the whispers had reached the palace walls.

In the Imperial Court, ministers gathered once more, their voices overlapping in panic.

“This is impossible! A ghost cannot return from ash!”

“Then explain the corpses piling in the capital!”

“If the people believe the Shadows live, rebellion will fester. Fear is a sword sharper than steel.”

The Emperor sat at the Dragon Throne, his expression unreadable. Unlike the trembling officials, his voice was calm, deliberate.

“Fear is useful,” he said. “But uncontrolled fear is poison.”

He rose, his robes trailing across the polished floor.

“Summon the Iron Fangs,” he ordered.

Gasps filled the chamber. The Iron Fangs—the empire’s most ruthless hunters—were only deployed against enemies too dangerous for ordinary soldiers. To unleash them within the capital meant one thing: the Emperor believed the Shadows were truly alive.

Meanwhile, in a deserted temple at the city’s edge, the cloaked heir washed blood from their blade. Candlelight flickered across broken statues of forgotten gods, casting long shadows across the cracked floor.

A voice emerged from the darkness.

“You move like one of them.”

The heir turned swiftly, blade half-drawn—only to find an old man leaning on a cane, his eyes sharp and knowing. His robes were plain, but the way he stood betrayed discipline, like a warrior who had once walked among killers.

“Who are you?” the heir demanded.

The old man smiled faintly. “Once, I was nothing. Now, I am a watcher. And I have watched you since you entered the city.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“The world believes your clan dead. But the Emperor fears otherwise. He has set his hounds loose. If you remain, you will be cornered.”

The heir’s hand tightened on the hilt. “Then let them come.”

The old man’s smile faded. “Bravery and foolishness often wear the same mask. The empire has forgotten your clan’s ways, but if you mean to rise again, you will need more than shadows.”

He placed something on the altar—a scroll sealed with black wax, bearing the faint mark of a fang.

The heir’s eyes widened. That seal… only the elders of the Shadow Clan carried it.

“Where did you get this?”

The old man’s gaze grew distant. “From a ghost who refused to die. There are others like you—scattered, hidden, waiting. But time is thin. If you wish to claim your destiny, you must gather the remnants before the Emperor’s net closes.”

The heir stared at the seal, their pulse quickening. For years, they had believed themselves the last. But now…

Perhaps the Shadows truly were not dead.

Outside, a horn’s call split the night. Soldiers marched through the streets, iron boots striking in unison. The hunt had begun.

And in the silence of the ruined temple, the heir whispered once more, though this time the words carried resolve not just for themselves, but for a future yet unseen:

“The Shadows do not die. They wait.”

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