The scream that pierced the night wasn't mine, but it felt like it belonged to me.
I jerked upright from the cold forest floor, heart thundering as if it knew something I didn't. For one fractured second, I forgot where I was. Then came the stench of blood—thick, coppery, alive—and the glint of steel under moonlight.
Chaos had erupted.
Shadows danced wildly around the dying embers of our campfire, flickering across the trees like restless spirits. My eyes snapped to the source of the noise. My men—my loyal, brave guards—were already falling. One by one. Silently. Efficiently. Like lambs torn apart by wolves.
No. Not wolves.
Assassins.
There were six of them, moving in synchrony, like parts of a single body. They emerged from the trees like phantoms—blades in hand, hoods drawn low over faces I didn't recognize. But I didn't need to know their names. Their presence was enough.
They were here to kill me.
I rolled just as a curved dagger slashed through the space where my throat had been a breath before. My shoulder slammed against hard earth. Pain flared, but I ignored it and reached for the sword always sheathed beside me. My hand closed on air.
Gone.
I cursed myself. I'd let myself grow too comfortable. Too relaxed. I should've known better than to trust the quiet of the woods, the calm of a clear sky. Peace, for me, was always a prelude to blood.
I scrambled toward the nearest corpse—Larek, a quiet soldier with three daughters in the north. His blade was still clenched in his dead fingers. I whispered an apology and took it.
The first assassin came at me fast.
He was tall, cloaked, and silent. A blur of steel and shadow. Our blades met with a ringing crash that shook through my bones. He was good—better than most I'd faced—but not good enough.
I parried left, twisted, and drove the blade into his ribs.
His grunt was muffled. Not a scream. These men were trained to die quietly.
One down.
But then two more were on me.
I didn't even have time to think.
My body moved the way it had been trained—by blood, pain, and years of survival. The sword became an extension of my fury. I blocked, ducked, and kicked one of them in the chest hard enough to send him flying into a tree trunk with a satisfying crack.
The second assassin slashed at my face. I barely ducked in time. The blade grazed my cheek, drawing blood. It burned hot.
I turned the pain into rage.
With a roar, I drove my sword through his belly. He gasped—a wet, choking sound—and slid off my blade.
I panted, every breath sharp and cold.
The clearing was a graveyard now. My men—so many of them—lay scattered in the dark, blood pooling at their feet. Some still fought, but their numbers were few. So very few.
And then I saw him.
The last assassin stood beyond the firelight, watching me with eerie stillness. Unlike the others, he made no move. His cloak fluttered slightly, revealing the insignia stitched into its inner lining.
A black serpent curled around a sun.
I knew that mark.
Not of a nation. Not of a guild. It was personal.
Bespoke.
Commissioned.
That assassin hadn't come on behalf of the shadows. He'd come on behalf of someone powerful. Someone close.
My blood ran cold.
I stepped toward him, and he vanished.
Just like that—melted into the dark. Gone. No sound. No trace.
I wanted to chase. I needed to know who had sent him.
But I collapsed to my knees instead, all strength draining from me in one awful moment. My legs trembled from the effort of staying upright.
Around me, only five of my men still stood.
Five… out of thirty-two.
Five.
I pressed my palm to my cut cheek. Blood smeared under my fingers. The pain felt distant—insignificant compared to what coiled inside my chest.
Fear.
Not for myself.
For what awaited me in the castle.
If they could reach me out here, far from the palace walls, in the open wild where I'd once felt alive… then what could they do inside the cold marble of Delyra's heart?
What would I return to?
A heavy silence pressed around us.
I turned to the surviving men. They were battered, bloodied, and bone-weary, but their eyes were still on me. Not in fear—but faith. They'd followed me because they believed in me. And I had led them into a massacre.
I would not cry.
I stood.
"We move," I said, voice cracked and low. "We bury the dead quickly. We ride before dawn. I won't let their blood be wasted in silence."
They nodded.
No one spoke.