The journey to Fort Valerius was a grim testament to the tightening noose Lord Valerius had cast across his lands. The snow, heavy and relentless, had turned the roads into treacherous drifts, but it also offered Kaelen an advantage: it masked his tracks. Patrols were indeed trebled, their torches cutting weak arcs in the blustering white, their shouts muffled by the wind. Kaelen moved between them like a whisper, a shadow among the swirling flakes, relying on the training that had become second nature.
He encountered two patrols in the first day, avoiding direct confrontation by melting into snow-laden thickets or burying himself beneath drifts, waiting for the heavily armed men to pass. Their faces were grim, their expressions wary. Gareth's death had shaken them. Valerius's fury was a palpable thing, pushing them into the biting cold on a futile hunt. Kaelen felt a grim satisfaction in their discomfort. Let them suffer a fraction of what he had endured.
Fort Valerius stood like a clenched fist at a strategic crossroads, a stout stone bastion designed to control traffic and deter brigands. Its walls were high, its watchtowers manned, and the constant movement of soldiers suggested a heightened state of alert. Ser Kaelen Blackwood, Kaelen knew, was a man who prized his comfort, despite his brutal reputation. He wouldn't be out on the harshest patrols if he could avoid it. He would be within the fort's sturdy walls.
Kaelen spent three days observing the fort from the snow-covered hills surrounding it. He mapped the guard rotations, identified supply routes, and noted the disposition of the sentries. The main gate was a death trap, heavily guarded. The northern wall, however, offered a sliver of opportunity. A section of the wall ran along a steep, ice-slicked incline, less frequently patrolled due to the difficulty of the terrain. Moreover, a recent rockslide had left a subtle scar on the stone, creating a series of uneven footholds, almost like crude steps.
The night he chose for infiltration was the coldest yet, the wind a mournful howl carrying fine needles of ice. Visibility was poor, a blessing for Kaelen. Dressed in thick, dark furs over his leather, he was practically invisible against the backdrop of the storm. He approached the northern wall under the cover of the blizzard, his movements silent, each step deliberate and precise.
The ascent was treacherous. The biting wind threatened to rip him from his precarious holds, and the ice made every grip uncertain. But Kaelen was driven by a force far stronger than the elements. He thought of his mother, her terror. He thought of Elara, her innocence stolen. Their faces, superimposed on the driving snow, were his anchors. He climbed, his muscles burning, his fingers growing numb, until he finally hooked a silent grapple over the parapet.
He hauled himself over the wall with barely a sound, landing lightly on the snow-covered walkway. The lone guard on this section was huddled in a small, sheltered alcove, trying to keep warm, his back to Kaelen. He wouldn't even have time to whimper. Kaelen's dagger was out, a blur of motion. A swift, silent thrust to the kidney, twisting the blade, severing the spinal cord. The guard dropped without a sound, a new shadow in the swirling white. Kaelen quickly dragged the body into the alcove, covering it with snow.
He moved along the battlements, a ghost within the fort. The interior courtyard was a hive of muted activity, soldiers moving between barracks and the mess hall. Kaelen avoided the open spaces, hugging the shadows of the buildings. He remembered Blackwood's quarters from his earlier observations: a small, sturdy tower on the eastern side, separate from the common barracks, denoting his higher rank and his penchant for privacy.
Reaching the tower, Kaelen found the entrance secured with a heavy wooden door. Not a problem for a silent, skilled hand. He produced a set of specialized lockpicks, thin as needles, from a hidden pouch. The tumblers clicked softly, almost inaudibly, yielding to his practiced touch. The door creaked open, just enough for him to slip inside.
The tower room was sparsely furnished, dominated by a large hearth where a fire crackled, casting dancing shadows. Blackwood was there, not in bed, but slumped in a chair before the fire, a half-eaten meal on a small table beside him, and a half-finished mug of ale. He was snoring, clearly having indulged too much in the fort's warmth and provisions, his guard completely down. His heavy plate armor was discarded carelessly in a corner.
Kaelen approached, his eyes fixed on the man. Ser Kaelen Blackwood. The sight of his face, the smug, brutal expression even in sleep, ignited the cold fury within Kaelen. He had imagined this moment countless times. He wanted this man to suffer, not just die.
He picked up a heavy, ornate hunting knife from Blackwood's table. He knelt beside the sleeping knight, then, with agonizing slowness, he pressed the cold blade against Blackwood's exposed neck. Blackwood stirred, his eyes fluttering open, clouded by ale and sleep. Confusion quickly gave way to a dawning, horrifying realization.
Blackwood's eyes snapped wide open, a gasp catching in his throat, but Kaelen's hand clamped over his mouth instantly, cutting off the sound. The knight thrashed, his body jolting with frantic energy, trying to escape the vise-like grip. But Kaelen was implacable, his strength absolute.
"You remember Elara's Point, Blackwood?" Kaelen whispered, his voice a raw, grating sound against the din of the storm outside. "You remember the screams? My mother. My sister."
Blackwood's eyes, filled with dawning horror, darted to Kaelen's face, searching, recognizing. The terror intensified, a frantic, animal fear. He understood. He remembered.
"I remember you," Kaelen continued, his voice flat, emotionless. "I remember the pleasure in your eyes as you burned our home. The laughter as you defiled what little dignity they had left."
Kaelen didn't go for the throat, not yet. This was about vengeance, not just death. He drove the hunting knife into Blackwood's shoulder, pinning him to the chair. Blackwood's muffled screams were gut-wrenching, choked by Kaelen's hand. Kaelen twisted the blade, slowly, methodically, eliciting further, agonizing cries. He was not merciful. He had not received mercy.
He wanted Blackwood to know, to feel every ounce of the pain he had inflicted. He leaned close, his white hair falling around his shadowed face, his eyes like twin abysses. "This is for every breath they didn't get to take. For every dream you shattered."
He plunged the knife again, into Blackwood's thigh, then again into his gut, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to inflict excruciating pain, to make him understand what it was like to be helpless, to be broken. Blackwood's body convulsed, his struggles weakening as blood flowed freely, soaking his tunic and chair.
Finally, when Kaelen deemed the torment sufficient, when Blackwood's eyes were clouded with agony and defeat, he dragged the knight's own discarded greatsword closer. With a final, chilling whisper, "Tell my family I sent you," Kaelen brought the heavy sword down, severing Blackwood's head with a brutal, single stroke.
The headless body slumped, a final gurgle escaping the severed neck. Kaelen stood over the carnage, breathing hard, the familiar scent of blood filling his nostrils. Another name scratched from the list. He dipped his fingers into the warm blood and, on the stone hearth above the roaring fire, he drew the broken lion rampant. Let them find it. Let Valerius rage.
Kaelen extinguished the lantern, plunging the room into shadow. He slipped out, closing the door behind him. The storm outside Fort Valerius continued its furious dance, ready to erase his tracks. He was the serpent in the stone, and the Valerius family was far from done paying their debt.