A tall elven warrior ducked low below the guard's blade, plunging his short dagger into the man's side in one motion. Another elf crept behind two guards, his bow carried away by the winding hallways of the castle. They were gone now; he would draw his twin knives instead, fading away into the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight.
Blade upon blade rang out, but the hits came quickly, and often final. One guard raised his shield to defend against an unknown attack, only for black-fletched arrows to strike, two to be precise, fire from no one knew where struck him in the throat and throat and he fell where he stood.
Outside in the shadows of the stables two figures rushed about. Nalia had focused her eyes, drawn them shallow and cold, and raised her hand as her mana stirred about in the air. The old butler quickly brought his horse era few paces forward, a parchment upon the trembling fingers in his hands gripped tightly.
Power surged and cracked lustily through the air. And the earth the horse was on bucked and reared amongst the roots and stones that fought to bind it to place. The horse screamed with panic and chaos, while the old butler fell to great tumbling crash sub moment before with a thrust from that same earth.
When the butler's vision cleared, he lifted his head only to find Arwin standing above, sword steadily pointed at the butler's throat.
The old man swallowed with struggle, as the parchment still gripped heavy within his freshly creased hands.
The water mage inside the mansion; upon sensing the surge of anxiety outside, went rigid with apprehension. His gaze flicked to the window, catching a last glance at a knight who collapsed outside with an arrow through his neck.
"My lord, they are here," he said urgently as he turned towards the Baron.
The Baron's face went pale, and he coughed carefully, "The secret door...we must-"
The water mage opened his mouth to speak," They know-"
He grasped the false wall panel. A click resonated in the poorly lit space as the door opened and swung inwards. But just as the Baron went to step through, two shapes locked gazes with him - cloaked figures with cold, dead stares.
They thrust the Baron inside, closing the wall door behind them with a resounding thud.
The Baron stumbled forward, and reached for the hilt of his sword, "You fools! You don't know what you're doing! I am a vassal of Marquis Duskwatch; I am a Noble of Ruthenia-"
In an instant, the first figure, tall and slender, raised a staff that was old and marked with unknown runes, unaware of the barron's anticipatory words. The air trembled, and every wooden thing in the room, all the amazing wooden carvings—the beautiful shelves, the fragile statuaries—floated up in the air as if weightless.
The water mage's eyes bulged as he summoned his mana in an ever-growing vortex. However, before he could react, the floating wood slammed into his face with a wet pop, leaving him more or less senseless on the floor.
Meanwhile, the second figure moved without hesitation. He disarmed the Baron of the panicking swing of his sword with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, leaving the blade clattering to the floor.
With almost delicate precision, he pushed the Baron back against his seat. The cold steel beneath his cloak glinted slightly in the light of the lamp.
"You… you can't… do you know who I am? The kingdom will never stand for it—"
The first figure tilted his head slightly. He stayed calm, and that was terrifying. It didn't matter to him what the Baron was called, or what imaginary authority he thought he held.
The Baron licked his lips, eyes darting around the room. "I… I am a vassal of Duskwatch—of the highest order—"
The door slowly opened behind him.
A soft tread. A man entered—the form of an old man, whose movements were careful and dignified, despite the limp in his step. His hair had thinned and silvered and was swept back from his forehead; and his face was carved with the patterns of an entire lifetime's well-planned scheming—they may have been shallow, they may have been deep, but there were distinct lines of positioning on his face—sharp cheekbones and a jutting nose, a mouth that proclaimed both power and patience.
His eyes however... were cold as winter, and knowing—dark, dark shadows obscured the rest of his visage.
He wore a long black cloak, outlined in dark red, and a single glove covered a hand resting easily on a plain wooden cane. When he spoke his voice was a rasp, quiet and patient, but each word carried the hardness of an iron promise.
"How is the Baron?" he said, his voice a slow rasp like a dying ember. "Has the forest been gracious to you... friend?"
The words caught in the Baron's throat as he swallowed. That voice—that low but calm and soft but utterly merciless voice—carried everything he had feared.