As the night cloaked itself in darkness, about ten masked men ran through the streets of the capital. So far, their mission has been running smoothly. So far…
But not too far from them was Bitrus, the hero. Worse – he seemed to have noticed them as well.
"What do we do? Do we proceed as planned?" one of the men asked.
After a brief moment of silence, one of them responded, "I think the cloak is still active. He doesn't seem to have noticed us yet. Let us make haste."
But as they tried to run across a corner, Bitrus's gaze turned towards them, forcing them to retreat behind the covers of the dark.
"What was that just now? I said the cloak is still active," one of the masked men whispered once more."
"He just looked at me!" the one who had retreated exclaimed in a hushed voice, shrinking into the shadows as though the glance still clung to him.
"And without the cloak, he would have heard us now as well," the man replied. "Now, let us move," he continued as he made his way to lead the group from the front.
They walked in what appeared to be plain sights, except, no one could see them. But every now and then, Bitrus glanced in their direction, as if disturbed about something. They knew the cloak was active, but it wouldn't keep them hidden for long. Bitrus was already suspicious.
Just then, his gaze was fixed on their position too long for comfort, forcing them to take cover once more.
"I'm telling you. He can sense us!" the paranoid masked man whispered once more.
"I don't think he can, or he would have attacked already. He has only responded when we were out in the open. The moon is doing us a great disservice. Perhaps it would be better to move under the cloak of the night," another one responded.
"That defeats the purpose of the test. We're supposed to be undetectable," the leader responded.
"I know. But he can't sense us, but can see us barely, somehow. Let's not risk it. We'll try again," the man responded.
"Fine. We'll do just that," the man said at last, and a quiet wave of relief swept through the group.
But Bitrus's gaze was still fixed on their position. And then, he began to walk towards them as though he was certain of their presence. The men began to fidget.
"He knows!" one of them cried.
The leader breathed a heavy sigh. He knew what must be done. Some of them needed to make the sacrifice so others could escape.
Bitrus walked boldly towards the seeming threat. A reckless move it was, but he needed them to react. He needed them to know he was on to them. After all, how else would he uncover their exact position if they didn't notice that he noticed them?
"The three of us will attack him," he said, pointing to two others behind him. The rest of you will return. He can't see us properly or sense us. The few seconds we buy you should be enough," he added.
One of the men behind sank to the ground in defeat. He pulled off his mask, revealing prematurely grey hair and a face carved with scars far too many for someone so young. From his pack, he retrieved a pipe, lit it, and inhaled calmly—much to the disbelief of the others.
"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" the leader groaned.
"It's Bitrus, the hero," the young man replied flatly. "If he knows we're here, then there's no use. We're all dead. Might as well get in one last smoke," he said blandly.
He exhaled slowly. "I've met and fought a lot of people in my short life. I know when a battle is lost… or worse, futile."
The three men charged at Bitrus, their magic-imbued blades crackling with runes that shimmered like heated glass. The ground trembled beneath their synchronised steps, and for a moment, the air itself tightened with the sudden surge of power.
Bitrus reached calmly into his pocket and pulled out a single, ordinary-looking spoon. With a flick of his wrist, a sigil shimmered in the air, and the men froze mid-stride—suspended as though gravity had forgotten them.
Bitrus tilted the spoon as though adjusting the angle of a lantern. The men rotated with it, helpless, suspended before him like puppets with their strings seized.
"You came armed, prepared, and cloaked," he said calmly. "The least you can do is answer a simple question."
His gaze sharpened. "Who sent you?"
Their jaws clenched simultaneously. Not a word.
"You must know I'll ask only once."
Still, they stayed silent—eyes burning with defiance, but fear flickering behind the stubbornness.
Bitrus sighed, sounding almost disappointed.
"Your loyalty is admirable. Misguided, but admirable."
With another gentle twist of the spoon, the spell snapped sharply. A burst of condensed magic shot through them—silent, clean, final. Their bodies slumped to the ground without sound as the spell dissolved like smoke in the wind.
Bitrus didn't watch them fall.
He had already turned.
Ahead, the men ran in different directions. The guys stood still – bewildered, as Bitrus pulled men out of thin air. He lunged forward, sprinting after the nearest presence. Though he couldn't fully see them, the displacement in the air and the faint shimmer of their spells of the cloaking spell gave him more than enough to follow.
The first one made the mistake of turning back.
Bitrus caught the hesitation instantly. He stepped in, struck swiftly, and the man fell.
As his spell broke, Bitrus felt the cloaking enchantment ripple across his fingertips—like brushing against threads of cold static.
And then everything clicked.
"Oh," he murmured, almost amused. "So that's the pattern."
Now, the streets lit up for him—not with actual light, but with the magical after-trail each cloaked man left behind. Thin threads of energy, curling like faint smoke trails, marked their movements.
Bitrus followed the trails with ease.
One stepped behind a tree—Bitrus was already there.
Another darted left—Bitrus cut him off mid-stride.
A third leapt into the air—Bitrus tugged downward on an unseen thread, and the man crashed back into sight.
Each encounter ended swiftly, predictably.
The streets grew quiet again.
When the last echo of fleeing footsteps faded entirely, Bitrus dusted off his spoon, tucked it back into his pocket, and walked steadily toward the one man who hadn't run.
He still sat in the same spot—legs stretched out, mask discarded beside him, pipe dangling casually from his lips as though this had all been a mild inconvenience rather than a massacre. His grey hair caught the fading light, casting him in a strangely serene outline. He didn't look up until Bitrus's boots stopped a few paces away.
"You had plenty of time to run," Bitrus said, voice level. "Why didn't you?"
The man took a long drag, letting the smoke curl upward before answering.
"There was no use," he said in a tone that was neither scared nor brave—just tired. "I knew how this would end the moment you stepped forward."
He tapped the pipe's bowl lightly, scattering a few glowing embers.
"I've seen what men like you can do," he added. "Running would've been nothing but a longer road to the same place."
Bitrus studied him silently.
"You're young to speak like that," Bitrus said.
"I'm old where it counts," the man replied with a faint smirk. "Battlefields age you faster than years."
A quiet breeze stirred the leaves around them. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Bitrus asked, "Do you intend to resist?"
The man shrugged. "Why would I?"
He gestured vaguely toward his comrades. "You took out nine men in less than a minute. With a spoon. You think I'm foolish enough to try my luck after that?"
Bitrus's expression didn't change, but something softened in his gaze.
"You're the only one who sat still," he said. "That earns you a question."
The man raised a brow. "Go on."
"Why fight for someone who would send you to die like this?"
The man let out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. "Because in this world, hero, men like us don't get to choose who we fight for. Only how we face the end. At least I try to do that much."
"Very well," Bitrus said quietly. "Stand up."