Three weeks had passed since Achilles Verentis returned to his homeland after spending nearly two decades defending the borders of Valeriand. The joy of returning home was quickly overshadowed by a growing unease. The duchy of Verentis—once a symbol of prosperity and nobility—was now a hollow echo of its former glory. Streets were littered with the homeless, children wandered barefoot and hungry, and merchants dared not speak of their hardships aloud.
Achilles had immediately sensed something was wrong. It was not just the state of the people, but their fearful glances and cold stares. Even within the capital town of his duchy, few recognized him. Time and hardship had changed them all. Achilles was no longer the young noble boy they once knew—he was a hardened war commander with a presence as heavy as steel.
But what truly disturbed him was the silence surrounding his family estate. No word from his father, Caldus, or his mother, Irelya. It had been over a year since their last letter. Achilles had dismissed the unease during the war, telling himself he would see them soon. But now that he was here, their absence loomed like a shadow over his soul.
That was why, two weeks earlier, he had dispatched his most trusted shadow operative, Skotos, to infiltrate and investigate the estate and those within. Skotos was not just any spy—he was raised from the darkest corners of the battlefield, trained in silence and subterfuge. He answered only to Achilles.
And finally, the report came.
In a concealed chamber beneath an abandoned church on the outskirts of the duchy, Achilles waited. The flicker of candlelight danced on the walls, revealing the lined tension on his face. Around him stood Kael, now his right hand and commander of the remaining elite border knights, and Captain Renar, the loyal sword of House Verentis.
The trapdoor creaked, and from the darkness emerged Skotos.
He moved like a shadow given form—silent, sure, lethal.
"Report," Achilles commanded.
Skotos knelt. "The estate has been seized. A faction within the court has secretly taken control of the Verentis lands under forged documentation. Your father and mother... they resisted. But they were imprisoned over a year ago."
Achilles's jaw clenched. Kael cursed under his breath, and Renar stepped forward. "Do we know where they are held?"
Skotos nodded. "The family has been kept beneath the estate itself. The prison cells used in the old days to detain war criminals. They've been silenced—no communication, no word. The steward, under the orders of the new 'acting duke,' has spread rumors that the Verentis line died at the border."
Achilles's eyes burned. "Who is the acting duke?"
Skotos's voice darkened. "Duke Maren of House Darestel. He was among those in the royal court who opposed your assignment to the border. With your absence, he declared the Verentis seat abandoned and claimed the lands under royal emergency rule."
"And the King allowed this?" Renar asked, shocked.
Skotos looked up, eyes hard. "The King is nothing more than a figurehead now. The council is divided, and House Darestel has deep influence. They've bought the silence of the crown."
Achilles stood, his aura suddenly flaring with quiet fury. "Then we take it back."
Kael nodded. "We've been preparing. The old knights of House Verentis still loyal to your name—they've been gathering. We've kept our presence quiet in the duchy, but they are ready."
"Skotos," Achilles said. "Spread word to every loyal blade. Tonight, we begin our return—not just to the estate, but to the heart of our name. We are taking back what was stolen."
Skotos bowed his head and vanished into the shadows.
Achilles turned to the others. "There will be blood. But we do not strike blindly. We strike with purpose. We rescue my family. We reclaim Verentis. And we remind the kingdom what it means to betray a soldier who gave everything."
A hushed silence filled the room. And then Kael stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest.
"For House Verentis."
Renar followed. "For Caldus and Irelya."
Achilles drew his blade, letting it gleam in the dim light. "Prepare the men. We ride at midnight."
And so, in the cloak of darkness, the Verentis knights began to move. Not as refugees. Not as fallen nobility. But as wolves reclaiming their den.
The time for blood had come.
The moon hung low and heavy in the night sky, cloaked by rolling clouds as if the heavens themselves braced for what was to come. From the dense forests flanking the eastern side of the Verentis estate, dark figures emerged like wraiths rising from the mist. They moved without sound—dozens of armored warriors, their insignia erased, their blades unsheathed, faces masked with the cold resolve of vengeance.
At their helm rode Achilles Verentis.
Clad in blackened steel trimmed with silver, his presence alone exuded dread. His eyes, sharp as daggers, were fixed on the gates of the estate—the home that once echoed with laughter and nobility, now reduced to a throne for usurpers.
"Hold until I give the signal," he whispered, voice low but commanding. Kael, Renar, and the rest of the elite knights flanked him. The hidden soldiers of House Verentis, scattered and waiting throughout the estate's perimeter, stood ready to strike.
Inside the estate, guards patrolled casually, unaware that death crept toward them. To them, the night was calm. A routine shift, guarding the home of the acting Duke—Duke Maren of House Marestel.
Then came the horn.
A guttural, ancient warhorn, blown from the edge of the forest. A sound not heard in the duchy for two decades.
And chaos descended.
Achilles and his men surged forward like a tidal wave of steel and fury. The front gate, once a symbol of nobility, was shattered under the force of an enchanted battering ram. Guards scrambled, confused.
"Revolutionaries!" one screamed. "Protect the duke!"
But this was no revolution.
This was judgment.
A spear flew through the air, piercing through a guard's throat before he could raise his shield. Another tried to flee, only for Kael to leap from his horse, slice through the man's leg, and impale him through the chest while he screamed.
"No mercy," Achilles said coldly, stepping forward.
Two more guards charged at him. With one motion, he ducked beneath a halberd swing, his blade flashing upward in a savage arc. The first man's head flew off in a clean beheading, blood spraying against the marble wall behind him. Achilles spun and drove his boot into the second's chest, shattering ribs before cleaving his skull in half with a vertical strike.
The estate grounds were now a battlefield.
Renar led a squad through the southern entrance, skewering panicked guards like pigs. "You let rats infest a lion's den," he muttered, driving his sword into a man's gut and twisting it before yanking it out, the blood painting the flagstones red.
Screams echoed.
Kael caught a fleeing guard by the collar, slammed him into a wall, and began stabbing him repeatedly in the gut until his hands were slick with blood. "You wore our crest. You spat on our name," he hissed.
From above, arrows rained down from the estate's balconies. But the Verentis shadows struck back. Skotos appeared behind the archers in silence, slicing through their spines, kicking one off the edge where he screamed until he hit the cobblestone courtyard with a crunch.
No warning was given. No quarter offered.
Inside the estate, the sounds of combat reverberated through the halls. Doors were kicked down. Servants who had betrayed the family were bound, gagged, or killed on the spot. Achilles moved like a phantom of vengeance, his steps precise, his aura suffocating.
A squad of elite estate guards—those handpicked by Duke Maren—formed a wall at the grand hall.
"Identify yourselves!" one barked, eyes wide as he saw the black-armored warriors.
"I am Achilles Verentis," the commander said, stepping into the light.
The guard faltered. "That's impossible. Achilles died at the border."
Achilles tilted his head slightly. "Then let the dead show you what wrath truly means."
He dashed forward.
The first guard raised his shield—Achilles shattered it with a two-handed swing. Bone cracked beneath his follow-up strike, and blood sprayed across the marble floor. A second guard lunged, only for Achilles to parry, grab the man's arm, and slice off his hand. The screams were short-lived. The blade came back around, cleaving through the jaw and up into the skull.
Within minutes, the elite guards lay in broken heaps.
The Verentis crest had returned to its halls—soaked in blood.
Renar and Kael caught up, dragging captured traitors and kneeling them before Achilles.
"What of the cells?" he asked.
Skotos appeared from the corridor. "Located. Guarded by six of Maren's men."
Achilles nodded. "Kill them. Free my parents."
Skotos disappeared again.
Soon, Irelya and Caldus Verentis would walk free. Soon, the estate would be purged.
But Achilles was not done.
He turned to the prisoners kneeling before him—those who served the enemy in his own home.
"Mercy is for the innocent," he said.
One man, trembling, tried to beg. "I… I had no choice—"
The commander didn't hesitate. With one swing, he sliced through the man's neck. The body slumped forward. The rest of the prisoners sobbed, but none dared speak.
Achilles turned to his men. "Leave no snake alive. We finish this before dawn."
And like a storm made flesh, the wolves of Verentis continued their purge.
The estate would remember this night for centuries.
A night of fire. A night of retribution. A night where House Verentis came home.