When she saw him again, all the shadows of her past came rushing back like a violent storm. Terror spread across her face, her lips trembling, tears streaming endlessly down her cheeks.
Her body shivered uncontrollably, and with a desperate instinct, she tried to hide herself behind the only shield she had—the figure standing before her.
But his heavy boots echoed as he stepped closer, each sound striking the floor like a hammer. His face carried a twisted delight, his eyes burning with cruel hunger.
In a sudden motion, his dark, hardened hand reached out and seized her delicate chin, forcing her face upward.
Pain tightened her features, and though she struggled to turn away, the iron grip held her helpless.
Her wide eyes told everything—fear flooding through every vein, silence choking her throat.
She wanted to speak, to beg, to deny, but no sound emerged. Only her quivering lips and trembling breath betrayed the storm within.
A cold, venomous whisper slipped from his lips, "Well, well… such courage, girl. To even think of running away?
Do you not know what happens to those who try?
Have you forgotten?
Or must I remind you?"
Her chest heaved, words trapped inside her.
She tried to murmur, "I didn't run," but terror silenced her voice completely.
He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, his foul breath touching her skin as his voice deepened with malicious joy.
"Have you forgotten what I did to your brother?
He was the only one who could have defeated me. And yet… that day, I played my move. He won… and still he lost."
As the words left him, his mouth curved into a devil's smile, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
Her chest collapsed inward as the memories surged—the sight of her brother's broken body, the echo of his cries, the weight of that day.
The past tore her apart, and she tried to fold herself inward, as if to hide from the world itself.
He drank in her fear, tightening the grip beneath her chin, preparing to speak again—when suddenly, his wrist was seized.
A hand gripped his arm with unyielding strength.
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the room. Every gaze turned to that hand, frozen in disbelief.
From the distance, even Anandrio leaned forward, eyes narrowing as she realized something had shifted.
He looked down—and saw the one who dared.
The grip was like iron, so firm that even he could not break free. Rage ignited in his eyes. With his other hand, he swiftly raised a small blood-stained blade and pressed it hard against his opponent's throat.
The blade kissed the skin, cold and sharp. Yet the eyes before him did not flinch. They met his gaze head-on, unblinking, calm yet burning with fearless fire.
Then came a voice, deep and steady, carrying the weight of thunder, "Remember this. No one lays a hand on her. Not while I stand here. If you try, I'll break you before you even draw breath."
The words thundered through the chamber, heavy and absolute, as though the walls themselves trembled beneath them.
His brow furrowed, disbelief flashing across his face. Anger twisted with astonishment; his lips trembled faintly, his jaw tightened. He had never expected such defiance, and the expression left him momentarily unmoored.
In a sudden motion, the hand released his wrist, throwing it aside. His skin burned red where the grip had been, and pain distorted his face.
A broken smile slithered back to his lips as he growled low, "Good… very good. After all these years, someone dares to catch my hand. But remember this—showing courage is easy. Living through its consequences… is not. I'll make sure you learn that lesson, one you'll never forget."
His voice dripped with threat, his eyes lit with bloodlust, and in that moment the room seemed to darken, weighed down by an invisible storm.
Even after those threatening words had been spoken, there was no reaction from him. He remained still, his body motionless, his face unshaken, and his eyes continued to gaze forward with the same steady and fearless intensity.
That gaze carried the weight of fire itself, without hesitation, without doubt, without even the faintest shadow of fear.
It was as though his eyes alone declared that nothing in this world could bend his spirit.
The man holding the blade could not tolerate such defiance. Anger twisted across his lips, his expression turning darker with every passing heartbeat.
In a swift, deliberate movement, he lifted the small dagger, stained with blood, away from the throat and raised it higher until it hovered directly before the fearless eyes staring back at him.
The sharp edge gleamed in the dim light, and for a moment it seemed as though the air itself might cut. Yet there was still no trace of fear, not even the smallest flinch.
Those calm, unwavering eyes were like an insult. The one holding the dagger grew even more furious. Suddenly, he swung his arms upward, bending them behind his head and raising them high as though to put on a performance.
He stood like that for a moment, pretending—mocking—as if fear itself had seized him. The soldiers around shifted uncomfortably, unable to tell whether this was madness or mockery.
Then, just as quickly, he brought the dagger back down before those same fearless eyes. The steel trembled in his hand, though not from fear—only from the rage boiling inside him.
The tip of the blade remained steady for several long moments. Silence filled the chamber, every heartbeat echoing against the stone walls. But even then, the face opposite him revealed no weakness. No fear. Nothing.
At last, he broke the moment in a way no one expected. He did not strike, he did not wound, he did not kill.
Instead, he slowly, deliberately, rose from where he stood. He did not look at anyone as he turned, his heavy boots thundering against the ground, each step echoing through the room.
The gathered men and women froze, waiting for his decision. Then, as he walked toward the great throne at the end of the hall, his voice rang out, harsh and cold:
"Take those three. Lock them up again. Until I give another command, none of them must escape."
The soldiers stirred immediately at the order, their armor clattering as they moved to obey.
At that very moment, in one shadowed corner of the hall, Roddur stood still yet watchful. His sharp eyes scanned every angle of the room—the doors, the windows, the guards, the torches.
His mind worked swiftly, calculating. He was searching for a way out, seeking the weakness in the fortress that held them captive. Though he said nothing, the silent fire of determination burned brightly in his gaze.
Meanwhile, the master of the hall reached his throne. He lowered himself into the cold, towering seat, its carved metal echoing with a groan beneath his weight.
The sight of him on that throne filled the space with a heavy dread, but his eyes seemed lost elsewhere. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the iron arms, his face caught in deep thought.
"What did I just see in those eyes?" he wondered silently.
"Death has no meaning there. That gaze… it was like a vast ocean—endless, profound—where fear has drowned and never returned. Prison, torture, even the shadow of death… none of it matters to him. How can this be? How can a man cast away every trace of fear, as though he has already walked through death and left it far behind?"
His thoughts grew heavier, like a storm brewing within.
Across the room, Anandria watched intently. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, and she knew at once—he was unsettled.
Though he sat upon his throne, something within him faltered. The chamber itself grew tense, the silence pressing down like suffocating air, as though the whole world was holding its breath.
Then the silence was shattered.
The great wooden doors of the hall flew open, and a soldier stumbled inside. His armor rattled, his chest heaving violently as he gasped for breath.
His face was pale, drenched in sweat, eyes wild with terror. He staggered forward, his voice breaking between ragged gasps.
"Boss… Boss…" he panted, his hands flailing helplessly in the air as though to force the words out.
"It's… it's…" He choked on the next word, barely managing to breathe it out. "Attack…! Our den… has been attacked!"
A murmur ran through the hall, sharp and tense, like a current of electricity.
Anandrio's voice cut through the noise, sharp with disbelief and anger. "What nonsense is this? Speak clearly, you fool!"
The soldier doubled over, panting still, then straightened with desperate effort.
His voice shook, his body trembled, but the words finally escaped. "Boss… someone has attacked us. It's no rumor… it's real!"
Anandrio barked back instantly, her voice like a whip.
"Attacked?
Do you even hear yourself?
Who would dare?
Who would be mad enough to strike us here?"
But the soldier's face twisted in dread.
He shook his head again and again, his voice cracking, rising.
"No… no, Boss… it's true. He… he alone has cut down thirty of our men already!"
The words struck like thunder.
Shock rippled across the hall. Soldiers looked at each other, mouths open, eyes wide.
Disbelief poured out in a flood of whispers.
"Thirty men? Impossible!"
"No man alive could do such a thing…"
"Is he even human?"
The room erupted in restless movement, weapons clutched tighter, voices cracking with panic. The air thickened, heavy with tension, fear seeping into every corner.
On his throne, the warlord stirred at last. He had listened in silence at first, as though half-lost in his private storm of thought.
But now his eyes sharpened like blades. His back straightened, and the chamber seemed to shrink under his presence. A beast had awakened.
The soldier tried to finish his report, stammering.
"He's still out there… cutting through them, he—he won't stop—"
But the words were never finished.
From among the gathered men in the hall, one figure moved suddenly, faster than the eye could follow. A flash of steel, a wet tearing sound, and the messenger's voice was silenced forever.
His body was slashed apart before it could even hit the ground, his limbs severed, his blood spraying across stone and flesh alike.
The floor turned red in an instant, the stench of iron filling every breath.
Screams broke out. Soldiers stumbled backward, some dropping weapons, others clutching their mouths, unable to look. The once-solid hall became a room of terror.
Blood splattered across the walls, pooling on the floor in thick rivers. The silence of fear was broken only by gasps and cries, the sound of panic echoing off stone.
And through it all, Roddur stood motionless, his eyes fixed, his mind turning. He watched the chaos with cold clarity. He knew now—this was no ordinary night. The true storm had only just begun.