The morning of the fifth day of the twelfth month was born without warmth.
There were no birds, no wind — only a cold gleam spreading over the dead leaves, as if the light itself had been torn from the sun by force.
The North awakened in a mournful silence, and every breath seemed to echo in a world that had yet to decide whether to live... or freeze for good.
The path stretched before them, drowned by black pines rising like ancient sentinels, creaking under the weight of time.
The horizon — a distant, harsh line carved by the mountains — marked the limit. The end of the North.
Éreon rode ahead. The black cloak fell heavy across his back, moving only when the horse breathed, as if even the fabric knew this was a day that should not have awakened.
Every muscle in the prince's body seemed tense, ready to react to any shadow that dared to stir.
Beside him, Éon kept a steady rhythm, though there was a shadow beneath his eyes.
His fingers pressed against the saddle without realizing, his gaze sweeping every detail around them, searching for anything out of place.
For long minutes, only the muffled sound of hooves over hard ground broke the silence.
Until Éreon, without turning his head, spoke:
"The fifth day has already dawned." His voice came out low, as if unwilling to wake something sleeping among the trees. "We'll cross the border soon. And when we do, they'll come. They won't wait any longer."
Éon raised an eyebrow, not breaking the horse's stride.
"You speak as if it were inevitable. As if I had no choice." His tone was light — but his gaze was not. "I already told you. I'm fine."
Éreon let out a humorless laugh — a sharp cut through the white silence, making the hooves echo heavier through the valley.
"And I already told you that's just a comforting illusion." His eyes stayed forward, hard as ancient ice. "Sixteen centuries as the Prince of the Abyss. I know you're not fine, Éon."
The younger one tilted his head slightly — a brief smile, empty of joy.
"So you're ready to tell me what price you paid, then?"
Morning light sliced through the branches like sharpened blades, painting the ground in long, uneven shadows.
Éreon froze for an instant — so brief it could've been the horse breathing. But it wasn't.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
Éon's face hardened, and in his pupils something unnatural stirred, as if a shadow breathed behind the human gaze.
"About Érobo. I heard you talking to someone that night." The cold seemed to thicken around his words. "But besides us... there was no one else."
Branches cracked in the distance. It wasn't wind. It wasn't animal.
Something was watching.
Éreon's eyes stayed fixed ahead, motionless, but the tension in his shoulders and the tightening of his hands on the reins betrayed that he'd heard every syllable.
The silence said everything he didn't need to answer.
The gray sky seemed to sink lower, heavy, as if the world itself were holding its breath — waiting to see who would speak next, or who would fall first.
The border stood before them.
And the silence of the world was a threat.
The Northern border wasn't marked by signs or walls — only by a subtle change in the air, dense and soundless, that made the skin crawl and the stomach tighten.
The terrain opened into a narrow valley, flanked by black pines whose crowns seemed to swallow the faint morning light.
Sharp rocks rose like teeth, reminders that this land welcomed no one without demanding its price.
Éreon rode at the front, the dark mantle molded to his body, the reins steady in his hands.
Each step of the horse echoed through the valley like a restrained warning, reverberating against the skin like a silent vibration.
Beside him, Éon kept the pace — eyes fixed forward, hands steady on the saddle, alert to any change in the silence that hung over them.
Every breath was measured. Every muscle ready.
The wind — if there was any — did not dare to blow there.
Even the branches of the pines remained still, as if respecting the passage of those who dared cross beyond the North.
The horizon line drew closer, and with it, the known world ended — beyond it, nothing was certain, only omens.
The hooves tore the hard soil, and for an instant, the border was behind them, as if it had never existed, leaving only the silence... heavy, expectant, menacing.
Éreon cast a quick glance at Éon, his voice low and steady:
"I counted twelve... and you?"
Before Éon could respond, an arrow hissed through the air, grazing Éreon's face.
The horse flinched, but the prince's body shifted with lethal precision, not losing rhythm.
"Wrong," Éon replied, unshaken, as if death brushing past him were merely an inconvenience. "There are twenty."
Silence returned — heavy, broken only by the distant groan of pines bending under a wind that did not exist.
The Northern border was no longer a geographical limit. It had become a field of surveillance and imminent threat.
The scouts did not come alone — they emerged from the shadows, forming a tightening ring around the two princes.
Black garments, short spears and readied bows, faces covered with cloth; eyes cold as blades measured every move.
The mountains behind had turned to walls, the forest into a hook.
Now they were trapped in a circle that drew tighter with each pull of the reins.
Éreon did not change his posture; his body remained steady in the saddle, as if nothing could unbalance him.
He looked slowly through the ring of figures surrounding them — eyes trying to decipher an enigma and finding only calm.
"Before you rush toward almost certain death," he said, voice controlled, slicing the air like a steel wire, "as your prince, I ask only for a bit of sense. Surrender."
A man in a tattered cloak — an archer by stance, bearing the scars of one who'd danced with death — raised his voice and smiled without humor.
"Surrender isn't in our trade. We're trained killers," he muttered with restrained pride, "almost as strong as the Black Knights of the North."
Éreon raised an eyebrow, a cutting smile gliding across his lips like a shadow.
"Then..." he replied, cold and sure, never rushing the words, "you'll almost succeed in defeating us."
A distant crack tore through the silence. A rain of arrows cut the sky, loosed toward Éreon and Éon.
Éreon's eyes burned violet. Shadowed filaments crawled along his forearms and fingers, the air around him vibrating with a magnetic distortion, as if space itself fractured. He murmured, barely moving:
"Trahere."
The arrows froze inches from them. With a subtle, unyielding motion, the prince turned each one back toward its owner.
A cold smile curved his lips; lowering his hands, he let death fall upon the assassins.
Some dropped lifeless. Others leapt aside, seeking refuge among the black pines.
A shiver ran through Éreon's body — discomfort and concentration merging into one.
His muscles still pulsed with the energy unleashed.
Each breath came heavy, cutting the air.
Éon noticed, and without hesitation, leapt from the horse, landing firm on the ground.
The air thickened — dense, oppressive; each breath felt like tearing the lungs apart.
Silence fell upon the valley, crushing every sound, every movement. Even the rustle of leaves seemed afraid to speak.
"That breathing technique... I only saw it at the orphanage." Éon paused, scanning the terrain. "I wondered," he continued, voice low and sharp, heavy with curiosity and caution, "if there were any other survivors."
A voice answered, echoing through the valley — deep, steady, reverberating against every stone and branch:
"Supervisor Alpha. You've changed. If not for the katana... I wouldn't have recognized you."
Éon stepped forward, his hand resting on the Totsuka.
His gaze was fixed, resolute, carrying authority — every muscle in his leg and torso ready to react within fractions of a second.
"I've been tracking the survivors," he said, voice calm but weighted, each syllable deliberate. "After the orphanage attack, I heard some escaped. I followed every possible lead..."
"But I see you've become mercenary killers?" Éon countered, each word calculated, the tension in his shoulders unbroken, his awareness sharp.
"We weren't trained for this," the voice replied — low, cutting.
"But make no mistake," it returned, laced with challenge and irony, "we serve no one. We are the Blackthorn; pay us, and we do the work."
"Stand down. That's my final warning." Éon's hand tightened slightly on the Totsuka's hilt.
A deadly silence fell across the valley. Then, the voice hissed — closer now, cold:
"Hahahah... I see you've become more talkative. And Phoebrus?"
Éon didn't answer. His eyes swept every corner, every branch that shifted imperceptibly.
The shadows mirrored his unease, twisting faintly, reflecting his emotion.
"It's... a delicate subject," the voice went on, hesitant, heavy. "You even tore down brothels chasing for information..."
Éreon sensed the shift in air and, with a firm gesture, cut the conversation short — his gaze burning with intensity.
"Enough. This conversation has gone on long enough."
Dark filaments surged along Éreon's arms and fingers.
The air around him throbbed, heavy, pulsing with restrained energy.
Every branch, every stone, seemed to feel the pressure.
An invisible impulse rippled across the ground, ready to explode.
He whispered again — low, but loaded with authority and power:
"Trahere."
In an instant, energy burst from the prince's body. A cutting wind erupted, tearing leaves, lifting dust and stone.
Branches splintered, trunks cracked. Small creatures fled in silence, crushed beneath the devastating surge.
The ground trembled, echoing like thunder. Everything within two kilometers around Éreon and Éon was annihilated.
Trees uprooted, fissures opening in the soil, energy sweeping the air, distorting the gray morning light.
Éon lowered his gaze slightly, tracing the path of destruction.
His fingers still rested on the Totsuka, ready to react — but his attention lingered on what remained of the valley.
"They were tracking me," he said, his voice a mix of surprise and caution.
Éreon kept his eyes fixed ahead — hands faintly trembling, posture firm, almost intimidating.
"Yes. And it seems they have a peculiar skill." He paused, studying every shadow, every trace. "Did you notice?"
Éon frowned, precise, attentive.
"Yes... they vanished before being struck."
Éreon nodded — tense, nearly unreadable.
"Do you think it was Phoebrus?" Éon asked, doubt held but clear in his eyes.
"No." The answer came short, direct — freezing the air around them. "And that's what worries me. They followed us in silence."
A heavy pause — the kind that comes before storms.
Then Éreon allowed a cold, ironic, almost dark smile to surface.
"I thought they might be allies of the Marquis, since I provoked him... but it seems we've earned ourselves another friend."
Éon studied the horizon, eyes narrowed — alert to every shift.
Even amid the devastation, something didn't fit: the calm of their pursuers, the silence before each strike... and the suffocating sense that the true threat had yet to reveal itself.