Author's Note: Thank you all for 31k views! I'm truly grateful for your support. Enjoy the chapter and stay tuned for what's next!
The late-afternoon light seeped through the canopy, staining the leaves in gold while the damp smell of fresh earth rose through the silent forest.
Between those bands, two motionless figures faced each other, a few steps apart.
Short breaths, taut muscles — the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if cradling every gesture, making the air heavy, almost suffocating.
Leaves and shadows fell silent, the wind stilled, waiting for the moment when silence would become a blade.
The young man bent his body, eyes fixed on the mask before him.
A snap of breaking twigs broke the balance — and that was enough.
The assassin moved, fast and precise — no provocation, no fear, only calculation.
The black blade sliced the air in a low arc, the dry sound of steel scoring space.
The young man dodged, his cloak opening like a living shadow, the motion fluid and exact.
The counterstrike came in the same breath — a spinning kick, quick, that struck the enemy's forearm and pushed him back half a step.
The wind passed between them — with it, the promise that only one would still be breathing when the sun went out.
The shadow spoke, voice muffled by the mask, hoarse and deep:
"Where did you learn that breathing technique?"
The young man smiled.
Slow.
Almost imperceptible.
He stepped forward and, with a sure motion, drew the staff strapped to his back.
Split in two, gleaming under the orange light of dusk. Matte, cold, dull silver, interrupted by polished lines that coiled like gusts of wind.
Under his fingers, the subtle relief of hawks carved with precision — wings spread, claws ready to strike, poised to spring from the weapon.
With a broad spin, almost like a silent salute, the staff cut the air with a metallic sound that felt like an omen.
The shadow moved.
Quick, crisp, gliding near the ground — blade in hand, aiming for the throat.
He intercepted the blow with the crossed staff, the impact ringing like a muffled thunder.
Sparks flew, and for a moment the whole world seemed to fit between the two weapons.
They stepped back half a pace.
The staff shone.
Two silver arcs sliced the air, rhythm turned into music.
The first strike hit the enemy's forearm, the second his shoulder — precise and contained, lethal enough to fell an ordinary man.
The shadow staggered, silent, merely adjusting, the blade now stained red.
Then the wind changed.
Four figures emerged from the twilight, identical masks, synchronized movements.
They circled the young man in silence, forming a ring.
The boy drew a deep breath.
Not of fear — of calculation.
His eyes scanned the surroundings, the sunset reflected on blades, the positions, the cadence of feet.
"Four," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not enough."
The answer came in steel.
The first attacked from the right, too fast for an ordinary glance.
He spun his body, the left staff parrying the blow while the right struck cleanly at the opponent's knee, which collapsed with a snap.
The second came from behind.
A short flick of the wrist — the staff spun like an extension of his arm, striking the temple and breaking the rhythm of the assault.
Two enemies advanced together, but the young man was ready.
He slid to the center of the circle with the fluidity of a predator, body in sync with every heartbeat.
Wielding his two staffs, he blocked the first blow with a quick twist of his right arm, diverting the blade aimed at him.
Before the enemy could regain balance, the left staff fell in a slicing blow to his flank, felling him to the ground with a muted crash.
Without losing the rhythm, the young man rotated, using the right staff to deliver a sweeping hook to the chin of the second assailant, sending him reeling back and down.
The last enemy stepped back a pace, hesitated — and that was enough.
He threw the right staff hard, hitting the staggered opponent and felling him.
The staff struck and, as an extension of his will, returned to his hand with a clean sound.
When the wind died, only he remained standing.
The sun faded slowly behind the mountains, and the fallen shadows looked like fragments of the evening itself.
Silence returned — dense, almost solid.
He steadied his breath, eyes sweeping the field ahead.
Then the air changed.
A subtle sound pierced it, like a blade scratching space on the diagonal.
He turned instinctively — but the blade was already on its path.
Steel skimmed the throat, cutting cloth.
The cloak opened in two, floating for a moment before falling onto the leaves.
The golden light of dusk touched his skin — pale, slightly ashen, as if the sun hesitated to touch him.
His green eyes had a cold gleam, almost turquoise, while ice-blond hair fell disheveled around his face.
The new shadow stood still before him.
Different from the others — the body smaller, but the weight of presence that of a predator.
The air around felt colder, the whole forest holding its breath.
The fallen shadows began to rise — broken bodies trying to regain position.
A blink of an eye.
That was all there was.
Before they completed the motion, something passed between them — too fast to be seen.
The sound came after.
A dry snap.
And then the ground stained red.
Heads rolled among the leaves, and blood spread in thin trails, reflecting the dying sun's golden shine.
Still with his back turned, the boy stopped, breathing hard.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze — and found the silent figure watching him intently.
The wind rustled the figure's torn cloak, while the shadow's blade in front of him dripped blood.
With a fluid movement, he joined the staffs into a single steel instrument.
The metallic click echoed in the silence, a clear, precise sound, like the end of a sacred ritual.
"You are dangerous." He smiled, almost provocative. "Too dangerous."
For a moment the air seemed to tremble.
Then came the chill — a creeping cold along the skin, coming from the west, dense, instinctive.
Eyes moved, as if searching for something not yet revealed.
The figure before him noticed, tilting the head slightly, the mask reflecting the pale glow of the setting sun.
The gesture was minimal, almost curious — but there was scorn contained there.
"So you are the problem..." he said, full of contempt.
"The leader sent those pathetic assassins and none of them brought down a boy so... ordinary?"
The sound of neck bones cracking echoed — dry, firm, almost ritual.
A slow, controlled motion, like one waking his own hunting instinct.
"Good... at least I got rid of the trash."
After all — the eyes behind the mask fixed on the young man — the Blackthrone do not tolerate weakness.
The wind blew again, scattering blood across the leaves.
The boy stepped back half a pace, his gaze fixed on the masked figure.
The wind around began to shift — first a whisper, then a held roar, as if the forest itself breathed with him.
He spun the staff once, metal cutting the air in a perfect arc.
Leaves rose, whirling in spirals around him, like a dance guided by his command.
The second spin came slower — a precise, almost ritual gesture.
Then he drove the staff into the ground.
The impact echoed like muffled thunder.
The soil vibrated, and a whirlwind rose around him, columns of dust and wind climbing, lifting leaves into the sky in golden and red spirals.
The energy spread through the forest — a silent pulse, felt for miles.
The army advancing to the east.
Ranks cut across the field, and dusk stained the armor with copper reflections.
Lyra lifted her gaze.
"What is that...?" she murmured, seeing the distant whirlwind shining among the trees.
Karna, at the front of the troops, looked too.
His eyes narrowed.
"A warning... from Zeph."
Lyra turned to him, her tone uneasy:
"And what sort of warning is that?"
Karna did not answer immediately.
The wind carried the distant echo of steel, and his expression became grave.
"A warning that death approaches."
He turned to the troops and raised his voice:
"Night will fall soon! An enemy has appeared on our flank — do not stop!"
Lyra glanced over her shoulder.
"And the foot soldiers? And the boy?"
Karna inhaled, steady.
"Do not worry. They are not that weak. We must leave the forest before night settles."
The sound of boots filled the field again, and the wind took with it the last remnant of the whirlwind — as if Zeph himself had unraveled into the air.
The assassin, seeing that Zeph had vanished, sheathed his blade.
Blood spat on the ground, glinting in the last rays of dusk. Then he rested the weapon on his back, the scabbard fitted with perfection.
He knelt, in a contained bow.
Moments after the tree shadows, a figure emerged, walking with absolute calm.
A single golden gleam split the shadows — an eye that burned like hot metal. The presence was effortlessly authoritative, as if the air itself obeyed him.
"Explain yourself, Phantom Blade," he said, voice firm, reverent and heavy, echoing like a sentence.
The shadow spoke, dry and controlled, like a thread of cutting ice:
"The boy fled. He seems to possess some kind of sensory ability. I believe our enemies already know we are here."
The man with golden eyes leaned in slowly, examining the bodies strewn on the ground — each fallen shadow, each interrupted gesture, like a promise of death.
"What does this mean?" the question came heavy, sharp as the blade that had reaped those lives.
"By the laws of the Blackthrone assassins," replied the Blade, the voice cold, too cold for a human. "Weakness is unforgivable. I followed orders. I cut the contamination."
The commander stayed still, closed his eyes as if to swallow the weight of the world.
Silence fell, heavy and oppressive.
When he opened his eyes, hundreds of assassins were already kneeling before him, shadows aligned in the gloom.
"So it shall be," he decreed, each word a death sentence. "When night falls, kill all who dare to strike back."
His hand rose, a brief, absolute gesture that sliced the air like a silent blow.
"However," the voice dropped, venomous as a viper, "leave the girl alive."
A firm step sounded in the clearing as his eyes swept the shadow of those listening.
"She is the path. The thread that will guide us to the Prince of the Abyss."
The orders fell like daggers into the dark, accepted without hesitation.
The shadows dispersed, flowing like a black tide through the trees, ready to turn night into an implacable tribunal.
The man with golden eyes remained, motionless, staring at the trace of the whirlwind Zeph had left behind — the last message carried by the wind, cold and lethal.
Silence reclaimed the field, dense and oppressive.
The sentence moved in the shadows: seek, hunt, capture — punish, without mercy.