Chapter 183: Chapter : 183 : Assassins Of The Crown!

The room was sealed by stone and silence.

No windows. No banners. No scent of incense or oil. Only cold air, old stone, and a single source of lamp suspended high above—enough illumination to define edges, angles, and posture, but not enough to soften anything. Shadows clung to the walls like witnesses that had learned long ago not to speak.

At the center stood a circular pedestal of dark granite.

Sylen Silia stood upon it.

She was perfectly still.

She is 13 years old. She has small boobs and round hips.

A black blindfold wrapped around her eyes, not loosely, not ceremonially, but with purpose—stitched leather, fitted to the bridge of her nose and tied behind her head so it could not shift even a finger’s width. As she is blind.

Her short white hair framed it sharply, shaved close on one side, longer on the other, falling in clean strands that brushed her cheek. Her face was calm to the point of severity, lips relaxed, jaw neither clenched nor slack.

She breathed evenly.

Her body was clad in fitted black training garments—smooth, reinforced fabric that hugged muscle and joint alike, designed for precision rather than display.

The cleavage is formed by a deep, sharply tailored V-shaped opening in the black outfit.

Straps circled her arms and thighs. Gloves sheathed her hands. A short blade and a small bell rested at her hip, secured, unused.

She did not move.

Across from her, at the edge of the light, stood Eryndor Vale.

He wore pale, layered robes that looked almost torn from the world itself—white and ash-toned cloth draped and wrapped in overlapping lengths, weathered at the edges, bound at the waist by dark leather belts. A hood shadowed his face, though enough light caught his features to reveal sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and eyes that did not blink often.

Two blades rested behind him, crossed, hilts visible over his shoulders.

He observed her like a craftsman examining a weapon laid bare on a table.

At length, he spoke.

“Remove your clothes.”

His voice was calm. Flat. Neither command nor cruelty—only instruction.

“Yes, Master,” Sylen replied.

There was no hesitation. No change in tone. No emotion at all.

She reached first for the clasp at her collar, fingers steady. She loosened the fastenings. Fabric slid from her shoulders and fell at her feet. One layer, then another. Gloves removed, placed neatly beside the pedestal. Straps loosened. The blade unbuckled and set aside.

Each motion was precise, practiced, and unembarrassed.

When the final garment slipped away, she stood bare beneath the dim light.

Her posture did not change.

Feet shoulder-width apart. Spine aligned. Chin level. Shoulders relaxed but not loose.

Eryndor stepped closer.

He circled her once, boots soundless against stone.

“First form,” He said.

Sylen lifted her right knee until it aligned with her waist, thigh parallel to the floor. Her standing leg locked into the ground, foot angled forward. Her arms rose and began to move—forward and back in opposing arcs, slow and controlled, like the measured swing of a pendulum. Shoulders remained level. Elbows soft. Fingers extended but not rigid.

Eryndor moved in.

He placed two fingers at her hip.

“Pelvic tilt,” He said quietly. “Three degrees too far forward.”

He adjusted her with a subtle pressure.

“Corrected.”

His hand moved to her ribcage.

“Lateral expansion… adequate. Breathing steady. Shoulder elevation: zero.”

His fingers traced along her spine, stopping briefly between the shoulder blades.

“Scapular alignment at ninety-eight percent.”

He stepped back.

“Hm.”

Sylen lowered her leg and arms, returning to a neutral stance.

She did not ask questions.

“Second form,” He said.

She nodded once.

Her feet shifted apart. One foot turned outward. The other remained grounded, heel anchored. Her knees bent, one deeply, the other straightened, forming a wide, stable base. Her torso centered. Arms extended horizontally, palms facing down, shoulders stacked over hips.

Eryndor approached again.

He pressed lightly at her thigh.

“Knee angle: one hundred and ten degrees. Acceptable.”

His hand slid to her waist.

“Hip rotation… hold. Do not compensate.”

She adjusted without instruction.

“Better.”

He traced the line of her extended arm.

“Elbow extension at one hundred and seventy-five degrees. Fingers relaxed. Shoulder plane level.”

“Perfect,” He said, almost to himself.

She held the position without tremor.

“Third form.”

Sylen shifted smoothly, altering her stance while maintaining balance. One arm lifted overhead, angled diagonally, the other lowered, reaching in the opposite direction. Her torso lengthened, side body extended, ribs opening. Her weight redistributed carefully between her feet.

Eryndor’s hand followed the line of her side.

“Lateral bend at thirty-two degrees. Shoulder compression minimal.”

He adjusted her wrist.

“Angle the palm. There.”

His fingers paused at her lower back.

“Spinal curve within tolerance.”

“Good.”

She released the position at his silence, returning again to center.

“Fourth form.”

She stepped wider. One leg bent deeply while the other extended fully to the side, foot flat, toes forward. Her hips lowered, center of gravity dropping. One hand rested lightly near the bent knee; the other balanced her weight.

Eryndor crouched slightly to observe.

“Knee alignment stable. No inward collapse.”

He placed a hand beneath her thigh, lifting slightly.

“Depth at optimal range. Hip flexion at one hundred and twenty degrees.”

He stood.

“Do not rush transitions,” he added.

“Yes, Master.”

“Fifth form.”

Sylen shifted to the floor with controlled descent. One leg extended forward, the other angled outward. Her hips eased back, torso inclined slightly forward to maintain balance. Hands rested on the stone beside her, fingers splayed for support.

Eryndor knelt.

“Hinge from the hips, not the spine.”

She adjusted immediately.

“There.”

His hand hovered near her inner thigh but did not touch.

“Angle at eighty-five degrees. Hold.”

She held.

“Acceptable.”

“Sixth form.”

She widened her legs further, sliding them outward along the stone until they formed a straight line. Her pelvis settled evenly. Spine upright. Hands resting lightly on her thighs.

Eryndor circled her again.

“Symmetry: precise.”

He pressed gently on one knee, then the other.

“Resistance equal. No imbalance.”

He straightened.

“Final form.”

Sylen inhaled once.

Then she extended further—legs opening beyond the straight line, body lowering until her hips met the stone fully. Her spine remained erect, shoulders aligned over pelvis, chin neutral.

Complete lateral extension.

Eryndor stopped in front of her.

He placed both hands lightly at her hips, then traced upward along the line of her torso, stopping at her shoulders.

“Full extension achieved,” He said. “No deviation.”

He stepped back.

“That is enough for today.”

Sylen exhaled and began to close her stance, movements slow and careful. She rose, retrieved her garments, and began dressing in the same methodical order she had undressed.

As she fastened the final strap, Eryndor spoke again.

“The Queen called today.”

Sylen paused briefly.

“The Queen?” She asked.

“Assassination work.”

She resumed dressing.

“I understand.”

“You may encounter your older sister there.”

Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second.

Then—

“Thank you, Master.”

The room returned to silence.

Eryndor did not turn away when the silence settled again.

Instead, he spoke quietly.

“You have not given me the full detail of your previous assassination.”

Sylen’s hands paused where she was tying the final strap of her gloves.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, carefully, she asked, “Is that your curiosity… or your orders?”

There was no rebuke in her voice. Only clarification.

Eryndor stepped closer, close enough that his shadow brushed the edge of the pedestal.

“Orders,” He replied.

Sylen inhaled.

“Yes, Master.”

She straightened, posture returning to training alignment even though the exercise had ended. Her hands folded loosely at her front.

“The target was as you told me, Lord Kaemir Thorne,” She began. “A merchant noble operating under royal sanction. Secretly funding border insurrections.”

Eryndor nodded once. He already knew the name and the deeds, as he is the one informed her.

“The estate was fortified,” She continued. “Outer wall patrols rotated every eight minutes. Inner guards every five.”

She paused.

“I neutralized forty guards.”

“Method?” Eryndor asked.

“Silent entry for the first twelve,” she answered. “Blades only. The remaining were alerted during the third rotation. I used speed instead of concealment.”

Her tone did not change as she spoke numbers, methods, outcomes.

“Forty confirmed,” She said. “None escaped.”

Eryndor folded his arms within his robes.

“And the target?”

“He was in the upper solar,” Sylen said. “Alone. He resisted. Poorly.”

Another pause—shorter this time, but noticeable.

“When I completed the kill,” She went on, “his family entered.”

Eryndor’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“Wife. Children. One male. One female.”

The room felt colder.

“They witnessed the act,” Sylen said. “They recognized me as the killer. The wife rushed toward me with a knife and told the kids to ran away.”

Her fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed.

“There was no alternative.”

Eryndor did not interrupt.

“They screamed,” She said.

She swallowed once.

“I eliminated the wife first. Then the daughter. The son last.”

Her voice remained even—but something beneath it strained, like steel drawn too tight.

“When it was finished,” She concluded, “I burned the solar to destroy records. I exited through the eastern roof. No pursuit.”

Silence followed.

Longer than before.

Eryndor exhaled slowly.

He stepped forward and raised one gloved hand, resting it gently on the crown of her head. His touch was firm, steady, unmistakably deliberate.

Sylen froze for half a breath—then allowed it.

“You followed your orders,” He said.

“Yes, Master.”

“You made no tactical errors.”

“Yes, Master.”

His thumb moved once, brushing through her short hair in a slow, grounding motion.

“You are not required to carry their weight,” He said quietly.

Sylen’s shoulders trembled—barely. So slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else.

“But they were not targets,” She said.

“They became liabilities,” Eryndor replied. “That distinction matters.”

She did not answer.

He continued, voice low.

“If you hesitate in moments like that, you die. Or worse—you fail, and others suffer later.”

“I understand,” She said.

His hand remained on her head.

“You did what an assassin of the crown must do,” He said. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”

A long breath escaped her.

“I will not punish you for efficiency,” Eryndor added. “Nor will I allow you to punish yourself.”

Sylen nodded once beneath his hand.

“Thank you, Master.”

He withdrew his hand and stepped back.

“Prepare,” He said. “The Queen’s work will be no lighter.”

Sylen straightened fully.

“I am ready.”

The room returned to stillness—but the shadows felt heavier than before.

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END OF Chapter : 183 : ASSASSINS OF THE CROWN!

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