“Let me see if there’s something that pays well,” Illaria muttered to herself.
She stood before a wide wooden billboard crowded with parchment notices—contracts meant for Auren and Myrenn users alike. Most were familiar: requests to subdue rogue beasts, exterminate creatures that had wandered too close to settlements, or escort caravans through dangerous routes. A few involved mercenary work or private protection, but Illaria barely glanced at those. She needed quick coin. Enough to get her to the royal capital of the West—Nightsong.
Nightsong, she repeated inwardly, her lips curving in faint disdain. What a beautiful name for a city with such dark-hearted people.
After leaving the shop on the outskirts of Tyria, she had made her way into the heart of the city. There, she sold what little she still carried—remaining herbs, a few minor magical items—to afford a modest room and a few meals at a small inn. When she had returned from Kelzar, she had fully intended to go back South. Because of that, she hadn’t bothered collecting rare spiritual materials or stockpiling valuables—only what was necessary to survive the ranges.
But her plans had changed.
She would attend the Festival of Aris.
And she would kill her enemies there.
The festival would draw nobles, royalty, generals, and sworn kings from across the continent. Amid the chaos, the celebration, the crowds drunk on devotion and arrogance, infiltration would be easy. From there, reaching the royal palace would not be difficult. And once inside… she could end everything in one stroke.
That was why she had walked away earlier without killing King Usher.
Let him breathe a little longer.
No one knew she was alive. No one suspected she had returned. It was the perfect advantage. If word spread that she still lived, her enemies could fortify themselves, tighten security, and prepare countermeasures. She would lose the element of surprise—and she refused to hunt them one by one like prey that had time to run.
One strike. One massacre. An ending worthy of what they had done.
But there was a problem.
The Festival of Aris was held in Nightsong, the royal capital of the West—and Tyria lay miles away. Walking there would take at least a week. That was far too slow. Running nonstop could shorten the journey to two days, but that would drain her Auren heavily, leaving her depleted and vulnerable. Recovering from that kind of expenditure would require five to six hours of focused meditation and rest—time she could not afford to waste.
Illaria’s gaze returned to the job board.
If she wanted to reach Nightsong in time—and in fighting condition—she needed money.
Fast.
King Usher and his entourage were traveling on horseback—but horses in Tyria were not sold freely. Only those connected to noble families could purchase them. It made sense. Knights, messengers, and warriors required horses; common folk walked. To buy one legally, a buyer needed a letter bearing the seal of a recognized noble family, and even then, the transaction was rarely anonymous. Each noble house had fixed representatives who handled such matters, and stable owners almost always knew the faces of authorized buyers.
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Illaria dismissed the option immediately.
The next possibility was theft—but that, too, she rejected.
The West was unforgiving when it came to crimes like stealing livestock. Even if she succeeded, the punishment would fall not on her but on the innocent family maintaining the stable. They would be beaten, fined, or worse — Their daughters could be taken and sold, their lives ruined for a crime they had not committed.
Illaria clenched her jaw.
She knew what it meant to lose people you loved.
She would not become the reason another did.
That left only one option.
Transportation bombs.
They were magic-based devices designed for short-distance travel—no more than ten miles at a time. Crude, unreliable things, with a frustrating flaw: they couldn’t lock onto small or personal locations. Thinking of a specific house, shop, or street would cause the device to fail. One had to picture a large, generalized destination—an entire city. The bomb would then deposit the user somewhere random within its boundaries.
Illaria wasn’t impressed.
They were inefficient, imprecise, and inelegant — But they were usable. With that in mind, she had gone to a magic store in Tyria to purchase one, only to discover the real problem. They were expensive. Painfully expensive. She didn’t have enough coin to buy even a single device.
Once, when she had still been Princess of the South, the value of one of her earrings could have bought ten transportation bombs without effort. Now, she stood counting coins like a common mercenary, realizing that money—something she had never once worried about—was now her greatest obstacle.
And so here she was. Standing before the job board once again. Scanning parchment after parchment with growing urgency.
Until one notice caught her eye.
“Banshee of Venom. Last sighted in the River Ameys, approximately ten miles from the main city. The target must be killed or permanently removed. Reward: XXX. Issued by the First Noble House of the West.”
Illaria’s gaze lingered on the parchment. The notice had been posted nearly six months ago, and the reward was substantial—enough to buy at least thirty transportation bombs.
That made sense.
A Banshee of Venom was no ordinary beast. It was a superior-level spiritual snake, infamous for its lethal venom and near-impossible regeneration. Incredibly aggressive. Incredibly intelligent. Facing it without Auren was suicide, and even for trained spiritual users, survival was never guaranteed.
And yet—Illaria frowned. A Banshee of Venom did not belong here. It was not native to the South or the West. Its origin lay in the North, where the colder rivers and dense spiritual currents suited its nature. Seeing one this far south was unnatural.
Her chest tightened as memory surfaced unbidden. She had encountered a Banshee once before—seven and a half years ago, just before the War of Betrayal. Back when she had been here with him.
Marcus Neor.
Third royal prince of the North. The name alone made something twist uncomfortably inside her. She shut her eyes for a fraction of a second and forced the thought away.
“Calm down, Illaria,” she told herself sharply. “Don’t think about him.”
Her jaw hardened. “He’s your enemy now. Just another name on the list. Another person who will be dead by the end of next week.” The reminder only sharpened her resolve.
Last time, Marcus had been the one to kill—or at least defeat—the Banshee. He had been strong even then, a fellow Auren user with frightening control over nature’s energy. Which meant one thing. If she intended to face him during the Festival of Aris—if she truly planned to end him—then killing this beast was not optional.
It was proof.
Proof that she had surpassed him. Proof that she was ready.
Illaria tore the notice cleanly from the board.This hunt would fund her path to Nightsong. If fate had brought the same beast back into her life, then she would finish what had once been left incomplete.