The Omega Assassin (Wolves of the Five Kingdoms #3)

Chapter One

The bird came just before first light.

Nero untied the scroll from its leg with fingers already calloused from dock work. Draul Eryken’s seal was unmistakable—smeared crimson ink, hastily pressed.

Storms have delayed me by a full moon. You’ll have to take care of it yourself.

Holy seven hells.

Nero stared at the message, chest burning with a familiar ache. He’d told Eryken he was done. That he’d buried that part of himself. But now, if the people crowned a new king, the last five years—their war, their dead, his dead—would mean nothing.

He rubbed his chest, absently chasing away the memory of Maya’s laughter. It slid in, unbidden and sharp, like broken glass under the skin. He couldn’t let that boy take the throne. He couldn't stay either.

Two years he’d scraped together for this—hoarding every coin, every favor, just to buy his way out. Passage to Cadmeera. The only ship was due today. Docked for three nights, then gone on the evening tide.

He crossed the barn’s dirt floor to the back corner, the straw crunching under his boots. From beneath the loose boards, he pulled out the waxed leather pouch. It hadn’t been touched in three years.

He should have burned it.

Instead, he unwrapped it slowly. Inside lay the bow—black, smooth, deadly—and ten arrows, perfectly fletched.

His fingers hovered over them.

He didn’t touch them.

Didn’t want to.

He wrapped them again and buried them deep behind the bricks.

By the time the sun was up, Nero was on the docks, shoulders straining under sacks of grain.

The messenger arrived at the docks mid-morning, wrapped in some half-rotted uniform from the old regime, his boots caked in dried mud. He looked out of place among the empty crates and quieter-than-usual port.

“By decree of the People’s Mayor,” the man announced, his voice loud and polished, “all men and women of eligible age are to present themselves at the palace gates three days hence, to be checked for the mark.”

Nero didn’t bother listening to the rest.

Malachai, the port’s merchant overlord and loudest complainer, stormed over and snatched the scroll. “Preposterous! We’ve another ship due in three days. I can’t spare hands for this madness!”

The messenger didn’t blink. “Failure to comply will result in the termination of your distribution contract. This matter is of utmost importance to the people.”

Malachai crumpled the parchment and threw it into the dirt. “Superstitious idiocy,” he spat. “Silver wolves. Painted marks. Probably just picked a pretty boy and dabbed some ink on his fur.”

After he stalked off, Nero bent and smoothed out the paper.

He read the decree easily—his late father—so particular with his ledgers—had made sure he could read even fancy palace script before he could tie a bootlace.

Everyone in Abergenny knew the legend of the Silver Wolf. The one who would rise to restore the land. A shifter with royal blood, black fur, and a white mark like a crown between the ears. A blessing. A prophecy. A lie.

Or maybe not.

Supposedly, two moons ago, a stable boy had shifted in front of a crowd. The mark had been there. The excitement had spread like fire.

But Nero had once walked the halls of the palace. He knew what Emperor Johannes had been—how many servant girls were treated like playthings. If the boy existed, he wasn’t royal. He was just collateral damage.

And the second part of the legend?

The silver shift wouldn’t manifest fully until the wolf met their mate—someone bearing the same crown-shaped mark on human skin.

Hence the summons.

And hence the forge-branded “birthmarks” Jerry was charging a day’s wages for.

Nero sighed. He’d be the only one without a mark tomorrow.

Good.

He had no intention of going.

The next dawn stank of burned fields. The eastern provinces were torching their crops now—blight, desperation, or both. More starving people eager for the priests to offer salvation.

At the docks, Malachai barked orders like a man possessed. Then came the list.

“New orders. Everyone named on the summons is required to report to the palace. Your name’s on it, Nero.”

Nero grunted, jaw tight.

Malachai shrugged. “You don’t go, they’ll drag you. People’s army is starting to look a lot like the royal one.”

Nero glanced at him. “Did you know the royals?”

A strange flicker crossed Malachai’s face. “No one really did. But Queen Elspeth… she understood trade. Protected the routes. Look at the harbor now. Two ships where there used to be thirty.”

The work that day was brutal. Malachai had vanished by mid-morning probably trying to drum up business, leaving his smirking nephew Gareth in charge.

“Well, well,” Gareth sneered. “Is it true, Your Majesty? Should we bow now, or wait until you're crowned?”

The older dockworkers chuckled, tired and brittle. Elias rolled his eyes. “Leave it, Gareth.”

“I give the orders.” Gareth jabbed a finger toward the salt barrels and Nero. “You. Move those. Alone.”

The work of three men, meant to break his back.

Nero didn’t argue. Just lowered his head and got to it.

By midday, his hands were split and raw.

“You look like shit,” Elias muttered, passing him a water skin. “Drink.”

Nero nodded his thanks, grateful for even that.

“Gareth’s off drinking. Said we’re done when the last barrels are moved. Come on, I’ll help.”

They worked in silence, then walked home together as the day cooled. They weren’t friends, their once close community had been ripped apart with war and betrayal. Friends was a luxury Nero could no longer afford.

“What’ll you do tomorrow?” Elias asked.

“Don’t know,” Nero said honestly.

“I hope you go.”

Nero frowned. “Why?”

“Because maybe we get lucky, and it's one of us. Imagine if the Silver Wolf bonded to Gareth.”

Nero didn’t reply. He turned toward the barn, the fields behind it now dead and blackened, the land his grandfather had taken pride in reduced to memory.

He sat on an old milking stool, unwrapped a stale hunk of bread, and re-read Eryken’s note.

I’m desperate. You can’t let some fool take a throne our brothers and sisters died to topple. Abergenny can't have another emperor. We’ve lost too much. You’ve lost too much. I’ll be there in just over a moon. I’ll take over. But he cannot be allowed to live. It’s the only way to stop this madness.

Nero let the parchment drop to the dirt. He knew what Eryken wanted. What it meant. What that bow was for.

To kill a boy. A boy whose only crime was being born.

He stared at the bricks in the corner. He'd vowed he was done, but his legs moved almost unbidden and he walked towards them.

He didn’t want to open it a second time. Wanted less to use his bow and arrows, but if the boy truly bore the mark—Nero might be the only one who knew how to kill a king.