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The wind howled like a banshee through the crumbling ruins of the ancient city, whipping at the tattered cloak of the figure crouched on the parapet. His face, hidden in shadow, was etched with the weariness of a lifetime spent in darkness. He was known only as the Silent Blade, a whisper of a man, a legend forged in blood and silence.<br><br>He had been summoned here by the fading whisper of a dying king, a king betrayed by his own brother. The king's dying plea, carried on the wind, was for vengeance, for the brother's hand to be stained crimson.<br><br>The Silent Blade had taken the king's request as his own. He was a man without a past, a shadow without a name, his purpose solely defined by the fleeting desires of the dying. He had seen countless kings rise and fall, their ambitions and betrayals fueling the flames of his own silent war.<br><br>He studied the sprawling city below, its opulent palaces now crumbling monuments to a fallen dynasty. The king's brother, a man of cunning and ambition, had seized power, his grip on the city as tight as the iron bars that now caged the king's dying breath.<br>
