The announcement came at noon, carried through the halls of Titan's Fang like a declaration carved in stone.
Leon had known it was coming. He had felt it in the shifting glances, the lingering silence when he stepped into a room, the way his name was spoken too carefully, too deliberately, like it was fragile in the mouths of those who resented him.
"The council has confirmed that Leon Valtherin will take the mantle of guild master," the messengers announced. Their voices carried through the corridors, repeating the words again and again, ensuring no one missed them. "The official ceremony will take place at sundown in the grand hall."
Eighteen years old. A D-rank adventurer, barely above the lowest threshold, yet chosen to lead one of the most feared and respected guilds.
It wasn't supposed to happen.
Titan's Fang had been led by someone far greater. A man whose presence alone could silence a room, whose name carried weight across continents. His leadership had been absolute. His rule unquestioned. And then—he was gone.
No one expected him to take his own life.
No one understood why.
And now, Leon was expected to step into the void he left behind.
He had spent the hours before the ceremony alone, locked in his quarters, pacing the room with slow, measured steps, staring down at the written confirmation as if reading it over again would somehow make it feel real.
'They don't want this. They never wanted me here.'
It wasn't paranoia. It was truth. The council had announced their decision, but they hadn't embraced it. The older adventurers—those with ranks higher than his, those who had spent years carving their place within the guild's hierarchy—they had expected to be chosen. And yet, the weight of leadership had fallen upon him.
He should have felt honored. But all he felt was the quiet hum of unease beneath his skin.
The hours passed too quickly.
The sun dipped lower, brushing the sky with deep hues of orange and violet, and soon, the time for hesitation was over.
Leon left his quarters, stepping into the corridors that led to the grand hall.
The air was heavy.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't tension. It was something else—something far more dangerous.
The halls of Titan's Fang were oddly empty. Normally, adventurers would be preparing for missions, sharpening blades, discussing strategies. But tonight, they were elsewhere. They were waiting.
His footsteps echoed against the polished floors, each step measured, controlled, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows across the stone. He adjusted his coat, his fingers grazing against the edge of the fabric.
'This is just another mission.'
The thought was a lie, but he let himself believe it, just for a little while longer.
The closer he got to the grand hall, the slower his pace became.
And then, he reached the doors.
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then, he pushed them open.
The grand hall was full.
Hundreds of guild members stood in silent anticipation, their expressions too controlled, too neutral. Titan's Fang banners hung high, their sigils illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.
The council sat in their elevated seats, watching him with unreadable gazes.
And beside him—Calden.
His closest friend. His most trusted ally.
Leon stepped forward, taking his place at the center of the hall, standing beneath the weight of a hundred gazes, beneath the weight of expectation, of resentment, of doubt.
The elder at the center of the council chamber cleared his throat.
"Leon Valtherin," his voice was steady, practiced. "The council has convened to discuss your ascension to guild master. After careful deliberation…"
A pause.
A long, deliberate pause.
"We have decided you are unfit to lead Titan's Fang."
Silence.
Leon did not move. Did not blink.
And then—everything unraveled.
Pain.
It was sharp, sudden, unforgiving.
His body jolted forward, heat blooming through his ribs, burning from the inside out. His breath hitched, his knees trembling beneath him as he staggered, barely managing to stay upright.
His mind screamed at him to move, to fight, to react—but his limbs weren't listening.
His hand lifted, pressing against his side, fingers coming away slick with blood.
'What…?'
He turned his head.
Calden.
Holding the dagger.
Expression unreadable.
His closest friend. His most trusted ally.
Betrayal.
The world blurred for a moment.
Leon tried to speak, but no words came. His chest tightened, his breathing uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears.
His legs shook beneath him.
He tried to understand.
Tried to process.
Tried to make sense of something that refused to make sense.
'Not you.'
Calden had fought beside him. Had saved him. Had trusted him.
He shouldn't have been the one holding the dagger.
Leon sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to stay standing, forcing himself to ignore the warmth pooling beneath his fingers, forcing himself to stay conscious.
The council had not moved.
They had known.
They had allowed it.
His stomach twisted, his teeth clenched, his muscles screamed for him to fight. He forced his body to obey, forced himself to take one final step forward—toward Calden, toward the council, toward the truth that had been buried beneath their unreadable expressions.
But his strength betrayed him.
His knees buckled.
The floor came fast, stone cold against his skin, his body collapsing beneath the weight of the betrayal, beneath the weight of the blood seeping from his wound.
Footsteps.
Voices.
Low. Muffled. Detached.
"He fought well," someone murmured.
"He was never meant to last," another replied.
Calden did not speak.
Leon wanted to hate him.
Wanted to curse him.
Wanted to demand an explanation.
Wanted to ask why.
But his voice was failing, his body too weak, his vision tunneling into the inevitable darkness.
'I trusted you.'
His final thought.
And then—everything went dark.