They called him Silas—but that was merely the skin he wore. Beneath the name, beneath the calm demeanor, lurked Crow: a man forged in blood and secrecy. The Stormcrow had once sailed under a different captain, until murder rewrote its fate. Crow, cloaked in his alter ego, slipped aboard under the guise of loyalty, and slowly, like a tide rising in the dark, he earned their trust. When the time came, they handed him the helm.
Under his command, the ship became more than a vessel—it became a front. A company was born, thriving in the shadows, its roots tangled with the ambitions of Portus Stromberg, a man seeking sanctuary for his beloved and their children. Together, they built something that looked honest. But behind the curtain, Crow moved pieces on a darker board.
Then came the note.
It was unassuming, folded and sealed, but it carried the weight of a world. A whisper from Ar—his Home Stone. The place he had sworn to sever from his soul when he entered the caste of assassins. Yet the bond had never truly broken. It pulsed beneath his skin, a ghost of belonging.
And so, the Master of Masks began to weave a new disguise. A plan. A return.
As Silas, he roamed the ports, gathering whispers and favors. One day, aboard the Stormcrow, a young man named Trajan Cernus boarded—bound for Port Kar. He carried arrogance like a blade, and when denied what he believed was his right, he turned it on a girl. She was not his to command, not his to touch. Her Master had not given permission. But Trajan’s fury was blind.
Crow watched.
The girl died beneath his fists.
The owner of the girl demanded compensation. Silas offered resolution. He led Trajan to his quarters with a calm smile and quiet steps.
When the ship docked, Crow emerged alone.
The girl’s owner had paid well.
And the Stormcrow sailed on, its captain cloaked in silence, its secrets buried in the deep.
Crow was no stranger to transformation. In his relentless pursuit to return to Ar—the city etched into the marrow of his soul—he shed one skin to wear another. The death of Trajan Cernus was not an end, but a beginning. Crow claimed the young man’s possessions, his identity, and with the silent blessing of the enigmatic Priest Kings, began the delicate art of rebirth.
Time became his ally. He did not rush. He studied Trajan’s mannerisms, his knowledge, his ties to the House Cernus—the promise of power and legacy. Every detail was absorbed, every nuance rehearsed. Slowly, deliberately, the illusion took shape.
And then, the old mask had to die.
Silas—the alter ego that had served him well—was dismantled piece by piece, buried in whispers and forgotten ports. In his place rose Trajan Cernus, not the impulsive youth who had once boarded the Stormcrow, but a man reborn: composed, calculating, and cloaked in quiet menace.
When Crow finally stepped onto the stones of Ar once more, he did so not as a fugitive, but as a phantom returned. The city did not recognize him, but it would feel his presence. He was older now. Sharper. And far more dangerous than anyone dared suspect.
The note bore no seal, yet its weight was unmistakable. It came from Marlenus—the exiled Ubar of Glorious Ar. Once cast out in the wake of the city’s fall, he had waited, watched, and now, he called for return.
Crow read the message in silence, the ink whispering of unfinished business and buried loyalties. The time had come. The city stirred once more, and with it, the need for shadows to move.
Marlenus had chosen him.
Not as Crow. Not as Silas. But as Trajan Cernus—a name reborn from the ashes of a once-promising scion of a noble house. The real Trajan was gone, his legacy a blank canvas. And Crow, ever the master of masks, would paint it anew.
He had prepared for this moment with patience, not haste. The lessons learned in exile, the alliances forged in silence, the knowledge gathered in the dark—all of it had led to this. Ar would not recognize him, but it would feel his presence. He would not return as a servant, but as a force. A man of lineage, of power, and of purpose.
And beneath the calm exterior of Trajan Cernus, the assassin watched. Waiting for the city to blink.
Crows Murder 