Blood dripped from his sword, sliding in slow, deliberate drops along the blade before splashing onto the snow-covered ground.
It stained the pure white crimson.
He stood atop a small mound of corpses—three bodies at most, already stiffening in the bitter cold. Blood soaked into the hem of his coat, but he paid it no mind.
His breath escaped his mouth in slow, controlled plumes, white against the dull grey sky.
Another mission completed.
Another predictable outcome.
He wiped the blade clean with a sharp flick and slid it back into the waiting scabbard.
His movements were efficient, almost mechanical.
But his eyes—sharp, pale, and unblinking—scanned the field with ruthless precision.
The enemy forces were growing.
The patterns were shifting.
It was not the usual roving brigands or desperate deserters this time. No—the air reeked of something far more organized.
More deliberate.
Was the Ashen Coil moving again?
The thought narrowed his gaze into a cold slit.
The Ashen Coil—an elusive, insidious network that whispered through the underbelly of the realm—had long been suspected of plotting against the old Crown. Ruthless, cunning, and untraceable.
If they were active again... trouble would not be far behind.
He frowned, a rare crack in his composure.
It seemed he would have to keep a closer watch on them.
A low gust of wind stirred the bloody snow at his feet.
He turned without another glance, vanishing into the treeline like a shadow.
Unseen.
Unknown.
The battlefield lay silent behind him—only the blood remained to whisper of his passing.