Chapter 317: The Man Behind The Mask 2
By dawn the following day, the banyan tree was nothing more than a silhouette receding in the mist, swallowed by the hills. Kasmeri rode in silence, his masked face turned toward the capital — Savadra — gleaming faintly in the morning light like a promise wrapped in poison.
They had approached from the west, where the merchant roads from Westalis merged with Savadra’s main road leading to the western gate, where sentries and guards patrolled. The Vengefuls had safehouses tucked into the underbelly of every city in the country, and in Savadra, their web ran deeper than the king would ever suspect.
They travelled as merchants and had prepared merchant clothes in advance. Their caravan consisted of several carriages.
As the sun finally broke free from the horizon, its radiant light bathed the landscape, revealing Savadra in all its resplendent glory.
The capital loomed before them, a bold testament to ambition and power, its brilliance nearly overwhelming. Each stone and spire sparkled like a jewel in the morning glow, exuding an aura of pride that seemed to challenge the very heavens.
The capital was a city of white marble and golden domes, girded by three concentric walls, each more fortified than the last. Spires pierced the sky like blades, and banners fluttered atop the palatial citadel — the emblem of the royal house: a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire.
Kasmeri stared at it, unblinking.
Molavi watched him, uncertain. "It’s been fifteen years," he said finally. "Are you sure you want to—?"
Kasmeri raised a hand.
"I never stopped wanting to."
His voice was like a blade drawn across old stone — rough, but sure. Behind the mask, his eyes smoldered like coals buried in ash. No tremble. No hesitation. Only the quiet roar of purpose.