Cedric moved with the measured grace of a seasoned swordsman, his blade cutting through the air in swift, silver arcs. The steel hissed like a serpent awakened, each stroke alive with his discipline and resolve. Yet against an adversary of the Eclipse Elite, such strokes found no purchase. Samuel, his obsidian cloak whispering at his heels, shifted with unearthly ease. His body was a phantom's—there one instant, dispersed the next.
"Tch," Samuel muttered, his tone laced with disdain, lips curving into a faintly amused sneer. "Too slow."
He pivoted effortlessly, his own blade swinging back with casual menace, striking not for blood but for mockery. In the next heartbeat, he was gone from Cedric's front, a blur of motion, and behind him before breath could be drawn. The steel's point hovered near Cedric's spine as the assassin murmured, voice cutting the silence like frost, "That was easier than I expected."
But Cedric's instincts flared; with a sudden twist of his shoulders, he parried the thrust at the last possible moment. The clash rang out—a pure, metallic cry that reverberated against the stones. Sparks danced between their blades, sharp fireflies born from violence. Cedric's teeth ground together, and his pulse thundered, yet his voice did not waver as he pressed forward.
Samuel leaned close, their locked swords trembling with force. "I could not let you off alive tonight. You must die—and so must your companion."
The words cut deeper than the blade itself. For a fleeting instant Cedric's blood turned to ice, for Samuel's phrasing betrayed a certainty: there were not one, but two of them in the night. His gaze flickered toward the carriage, toward the thought of Stellan waiting inside, trembling and brave in equal measure. Rage burned hot in Cedric's chest, and his grip on the hilt grew iron-hard.
"You think you can end me with such hands as yours?" Cedric snarled, voice low and fierce. His stance shifted, movements flowing like a dancer's, smooth precision honed by years of discipline.
Samuel's expression soured with disdain. "Hah! You think I could not?" He vanished and reappeared again, his form circling Cedric in a blur. The night itself seemed to coil about his figure, his cloak a shadow given form, his speed disorienting, bewildering. He spun around Cedric like a storm, his blade flashing in cruel arcs.
And then came the strike. Samuel's sword pierced through the haze of motion, biting into Cedric's arm with a clean and merciless cut. Cedric hissed sharply, a breath drawn through gritted teeth, but not a cry—never a cry. Pain was but a chain he refused to wear.
Samuel leapt away in a fluid bound, his cloak unfurling as he landed atop the carriage roof. There, framed by the ghostly glow of moonlight, he appeared less a man than a figure carved from obsidian and flame. The embroidery of silver and gold glimmered faintly along his cloak's edges, catching the light with a cold magnificence. He tilted his head, his smirk sharpened into mockery.
"I never thought you would be this slow," Samuel remarked, his tone almost conversational, as though the battle were no more than a parlor game. His voice carried down with cruel leisure, floating between jest and threat.
Cedric's glare rose to meet him, his eyes ignited with defiance. His arm burned, blood slick beneath the sleeve, but his sword was still steady, still defiant.
Samuel, however, was unhurried. His gaze shifted briefly to the moon, its pale crown illuminating the battlefield in silver. He sighed softly, as though this was all too simple, too plain to rouse true excitement. "It would be too easy to finish you now," he said, almost lazily. He angled his blade toward Cedric again but did not strike. "And where, pray, is the fun in that?"
For a moment, silence held—the kind that tightens the air, that coils about the chest until breath seems scarce. Cedric's mind was a furnace, weighing tactics, searching for the opening that had yet to appear. His adversary's arrogance was a shield as dangerous as his skill. Yet in that arrogance, Cedric felt the faintest sliver of opportunity.
"Fun," Cedric echoed, his tone hard as steel. He raised his sword again, the moonlight catching the edge until it gleamed like a drawn line of fire. "Then perhaps I shall be the one to provide it."
Samuel's smirk deepened, teeth flashing white against the shadows of his hood. His cloak stirred like the wings of some dark angel, poised for another descent. "Try, if you dare."
And with that, he moved—swift, sudden, almost inhuman. The night was no longer still; it became a storm of steel and shadow, of sparks flaring against the heavens. Cedric's blade surged to meet him, each strike measured, each parry a testament of will against an enemy who seemed to dance with the very darkness.
The duel became its own language: the hiss of steel, the thud of boots against stone, the flutter of cloak's. It was battle made art, deadly but strangely beautiful, a contest of endurance and with as much as strength. And though blood already stained his sleeve, Cedric's spirit did not falter.
The moon bore witness, silent and silver.
Within the carriage, Stellan Grimshaw sat rigid, every muscle taut as the echoes of steel clashing against steel reverberated through the night air. His violet eyes flickered with unease, his slender hands trembling as they hovered over the door's latch. There was no longer any doubt—an Eclipse Elite assassin had descended upon them. The realization was enough to chill even the bravest marrow. Yet how could he, a sworn spy of Thornleigh's cause, remain huddled like a frightened child whilst Cedric bled and fought alone?
His resolve, fragile but real, surged within him. With a sharp, almost desperate breath, Stellan forced his hands to obey. He pushed the door open, its hinges groaning against the night. The cold air struck him as he stepped down, blade in hand, though his grip quivered faintly. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, and before him unfolded the battle—Cedric lunging, parrying, his golden hair matted with sweat, his stance precise but strained against an adversary who fought with dreadful leisure. Samuel moved as though born of the darkness, each strike deliberate yet mocking, his cloak flaring like the wings of some infernal bird.
Stellan's heart thundered, yet he pressed forward. He could not—would not—abandon Cedric to such a cruel fate.
"Cedric!" he cried, voice breaking against the din. The call startled Cedric enough that his head snapped toward him, and shock widened his eyes.
"Stellan!" Cedric barked, his tone sharp with fury and fear. "Stay back!"
But Stellan did not falter, though his knees ached with the desire to collapse. His blade was drawn, his trembling fingers tightening around the hilt. "If I stay hidden much longer, then what am I, a coward? Perhaps I cannot best him—but I may yet be of use to you!" His words rang out with a sincerity that burned even through his tremors.
Cedric's lips curled into a snarl, his gaze aflame. "Stay back, I said!" His voice cracked like thunder, but it was too late.
For Samuel, hearing this exchange, loosed a low whistle, the sound carrying across the battlefield with eerie delight.
His eyes glimmered from beneath his hood, intrigued by this fragile figure daring to stand beside Thornleigh's golden swordsman.
"Ah," he murmured, the sound nearly playful. "Look a candlelight come to burn itself out. How quaint."
With the swiftness of a striking hawk, Samuel turned his attention fully. One swift motion, and his boot struck Cedric squarely in the chest. The force was monstrous; Cedric was hurled backward, his body colliding with the rough trunk of a wide oak. The impact jarred the very earth. He coughed, scarlet spraying his lips, but though his chest heaved with agony, his gaze burned ever unyielding.
Yet Stellan's heart wrenched at the sight, his breath torn away. He nearly cried Cedric's name, the sound caught in his throat like a sob—but it froze as Samuel advanced upon him. The assassin's every step was deliberate, predatory, his blade glinting in the moonlight as though it craved blood.
Stellan's own sword felt suddenly too heavy, his limbs too fragile; still he raised it, violet eyes blazing with a courage at once fierce and terrified. The night had become a crucible, and he could no longer hide from its fire.
Samuel's shadow engulfed him—tall, oppressive, monstrous in its reach. Stellan's breath faltered, his violet eyes widening as that terrible figure advanced with unhurried grace, as though savoring every heartbeat of his fear. The assassin's height loomed like a cathedral's arch, casting Stellan in darkness.
His fingers clenched white upon the hilt of his blade; yet though his body cried to move, to strike, to flee—he was rooted to the stones as though bound by invisible chains. His lips parted, trembling, words catching in the hollow of his throat. At last, with a stuttered exhale, he forced them forth. "S-step… back." The syllables rang thin, lined with terror, but within them lay a fragile spark of defiance.
Samuel's mouth curved in a languid smirk, the gesture cruel as it was amused. "And if I do not?" His voice unfurled like velvet laced with poison, a sound meant to ensnare and mock in equal measure.
From the blood-stained earth where Cedric struggled to rise, Cedric's voice thundered like a storm breaking upon stone. "Damn you, Keep your filthy hands away from him!" His olive eyes blazed, his arm clutching his wounded side, each breath a knife drawn through his ribs. Yet even so, his command rang with steel.
But Samuel, heedless, advanced. His cloak shimmered where the silver and gold thread caught the moonlight, every fold whispering of authority and dread.
"I—I said… stay back!" Stellan cried, his voice cracking as though fractured under its own weight. His arm darted forward in a desperate thrust, but it faltered midway. Samuel's eyes—twin shards of obsidian lit with cruel mirth—caught his gaze. The shimmer within them froze Stellan in place, and in that instant, his blade slipped from his weakening grip, clattering to the stones like a bell tolling doom.
Gooseflesh broke across his skin as Samuel's face drew closer, the assassin's breath hot against his neck. Stellan's lungs seized; his pulse thundered so violently he thought it might tear his ribs apart. He tried to move, to resist, but his body betrayed him, bound in paralysis.
"Let him go!" Cedric roared again, rage devouring his composure. His body staggered forward, though every movement carved fire into his veins. Yet his desperation only fed Samuel's delight.
With a sudden, merciless grip, Samuel seized Stellan by the shoulders and shoved him hard against the carriage. The force stole the breath from Stellan's lungs; a strangled gasp escaped him as the world reeled. His tears, long suppressed, broke free, spilling down his cheeks like betrayed pearls.
Samuel lowered his mouth, the wicked smirk never leaving his face, and pressed his tongue along the curve of Stellan's jaw in deliberate mockery.
"Still same as before So fragile," he murmured, voice low enough to make Cedric's blood burn hotter.
"you!" Cedric's voice tore the night, raw with fury and despair. His gaze locked on them with a desperation beyond words. He clawed the earth, reaching for the blade that lay too far, teeth gritted until his jaw ached. "Release him, you bastard!"
Samuel bit, not to pierce flesh, but to mock, to claim, to torment. He lingered there, savoring Cedric's helpless rage as though it were the richest of wines. Then he turned, eyes glinting, to cast his words toward the knight. "You see, All it takes is a little pressure…and even the bravest falter. How splendidly he trembles for me."
"Enough!" Cedric's roar thundered, shaking with raw anguish. He lunged, half-crawling, half-dragging his broken body toward his blade. His blood painted the stones beneath him, yet his hand stretched still, his fingers clawing for the steel that would deliver retribution.
"Yes," he purred, watching Cedric's every frantic motion, "fight me, Fight me until your heart bursts. Only then shall you truly amuse me."
Samuel pressed closer, his presence suffocating, and with deliberate cruelty he slid his knee between Stellan's legs, caging him against the carriage wall. The movement was slow, intentional, indecent—performed both for pleasure, and for a weapon. His eyes, dark with amusement, flicked toward Cedric, watching for the spark of rage he knew would come.
Stellan stiffened, every nerve set aflame by humiliation, his breath ragged as the wooden panel bit into his back. His arm trembled uselessly at his side, strength fleeing from him as terror gripped him by the throat.
Cedric's fingers at last brushed the cold steel. His chest heaved, his vision blurred, but his grip tightened around the hilt with the fury of a man who would sooner die than witness further humiliation. He lifted his gaze, blood staining his lips, and in his eyes burned a fire that no wound, no cruelty, no assassin could extinguish.
"By God," he growled through clenched teeth, "if you touch him again, I swear your night shall end in fire and blood."
And for a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to pause, caught in the terrible promise of the knight's rage.