The night fell slowly, like ashes over the dead field.
The troop advanced through the forest, horses moving in silence between roots and heavy shadows.
Wet leaves beneath the hooves.
Controlled breaths.
Living tension.
No noise.
A low breeze slithered through the treetops, descending slow, almost careful — as if testing the dark before entering.
Then the wind changed.
The horses lifted their heads, uneasy.
Karna felt it before he saw it.
The gaze steady, body alert — not out of imagination.
Out of instinct.
"What did you find?" he asked, voice low, without turning.
There was no approach.
No sound.
There was presence.
Zeph was already there — standing on the horse, where before there had been only space and shadow.
Between one blink and the next, he appeared.
Absolute balance, calm breath, cutting eyes.
The companion beside him — the one holding the reins — didn't react.
No surprise.
A firm hand released the leather at the exact moment.
Coordination born of repetition.
Zeph returned to the saddle in a single, minimal movement.
"They're the Blackthrone assassins."
The forest seemed to hear — and retreat.
Karna kept his eyes on the darkness ahead.
"How many? And how long do we have?"
Zeph didn't look away from the black behind him — as if something there was breathing.
"Too many. And they might already be surrounding us."
No one spoke after that.
Between the trees, something waited to begin.
Karna didn't take his eyes off the dark.
His expression stayed calm — almost disdainful.
But when he spoke, his voice was firm, clean, measured.
"You have three minutes." No hesitation, no trace of emotion. "Find a way out."
Zeph didn't answer.
He just nodded — and silence filled the space between them again.
One second.
Then Karna's voice tore through the cold air:
"Isabela!"
She turned in a fluid motion, serene face, steady gaze.
A brief nod — a silent promise between two veterans.
Karna raised his bow, and his voice cut through the night like a blade:
"Falcon Claw formation!"
The sound spread in waves, running from horse to horse until it reached the last line of the rearguard.
"Mounted, close to the trees!" he shouted. "Use the shadows, the branches, the lines of trunks as cover!"
"Cavalry near the canopy — move like hooks!"
"Infantry through the center — steady, covering the advance and locking the ground!"
"Archers!" His voice was burning steel now. "Anything that moves — shadow, branch, leaf — shoot! Don't think twice!"
Isabella turned, raising her closed fist.
The archers answered as one — strings drawn, arrows ready, eyes fixed on the dark.
Karna lowered his bow slowly.
"Silence." The word came out low, cold. "The forest is our ally… and our enemy."
The wind slipped between the trunks, dragging the rustle of leaves like an ancient warning.
The shadows adjusted — and the Falcon Claw formed, sharp, precise, invisible beneath the veil of night.
Lyra watched from a distance.
The moonlight traced the edge of Karna's face — motionless, almost carved from stone.
She said nothing.
Only followed him with her eyes, in silence, as if trying to read what moved behind that calm.
The wind blew.
First a crack — then another.
Branches giving way, the rustle turning into noise.
Then they came — assassins sliding between trees, leaping from above, rising from the ground as if the forest itself spat them out.
"Contact!" someone shouted.
Arrows cut through the dark before the cry even ended.
Brief flashes — reflections, steel, blood.
Karna moved as if he'd been expecting every strike.
A spin, an arrow loosed without aiming, another body falling.
The dull thud of impact, the groan of strings — the Falcon Claw held, tooth for tooth.
The siege tightened.
From every side, shadows came — and died.
But the dark seemed endless.
The screams began slowly.
First one — short, muffled.
Then another.
And then dozens.
The sound of blades tearing flesh merged with the snapping of branches, the thunder of hooves, the metallic scent of blood.
The Falcon Claw was breaking.
The mounted were dragged from their saddles, throats cut before they could react.
Men fell in silence; others howled until the sound drowned in chaos.
Arrows crossed the air, but the assassins came faster.
And for every body that fell, three took its place.
The ground turned to mud.
Mud and blood.
And the wind, once an ally, now only carried the smell of death.
The field became hell.
Screams, steel, blood — all blended in a blind symphony.
As the Falcon Claw unraveled line by line — the sound of blades striking metal, flesh, and bone — the veterans still fought.
Lyra fired with surgical precision, each shot a brief flash — assassins dropping before they got close.
Isabela carved her way ahead like a furious rider, her blade tracing red arcs beneath the moon.
Karna was an unmoving shadow amid the chaos — and every time the bow sang, a death followed its song.
Zeph advanced among bodies, his eyes pulsing green.
He wasn't fighting — he was searching.
His gaze swept the forest, ears open to vibration, seeking an escape.
Every step was instinct; every breath, calculation.
And then he felt it — a different vibration, deep, coming.
Not movement.
Weight.
The kind of presence the ground feels before any eye can see.
"Sir!" he shouted, voice nearly swallowed by chaos.
Karna turned — soot, sweat, and blood staining his gaze.
But before he could answer, the world trembled.
The air changed — heavy, dense, almost solid.
And then it came: a metallic roar, deep and alive, cutting through the forest.
From the horizon, a dark wave of liquid iron surged forward, devouring everything in its path.
The trees bent.
The soil cracked.
Bodies were swallowed without resistance.
It was as if the metal itself had awakened.
Karna stood still for a moment, eyes locked on the black gleam.
And in the cold reflection of that gaze there was recognition —
an old memory.
"Abysmal Forge…" he murmured, barely a voice.
The iron roared, taking shape — growing, twisting, forming spikes that pierced everything.
The wave struck the line.
The sound was like thunder splitting the earth.
In an instant, the ground erupted in black blades — columns of living metal tearing air and flesh.
Men were lifted from the soil, impaled in the same strike that crushed their horses.
Armor contorted, pressed against its own flesh.
Screams merged with the blast, and the field turned into a sea of iron and blood.
The impact shook the earth.
Zeph felt the air ripped from his chest — then he reacted.
He leapt from his horse, planting his staff into the ground.
The sound echoed deep, a crack that vibrated through the soil like restrained thunder.
For an instant, everything stopped.
Then the wind roared.
It exploded outward, dense and cutting.
The ground split in shallow cracks; the living iron recoiled, its black shine distorted by the whirlwind rising like an invisible wall.
Dust rose, the air hummed with a muted roar, and assassins were hurled back — dragged by a force without shape, crushing everything around it.
Trees and stones, bodies twisting midair before slamming down.
For a moment, the whole field seemed to hold its breath.
The sound of the roaring wind dissolved into the distant echo of its own strike.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the attack stopped.
Silence fell over the field — dense, heavy, almost unreal.
But power demanded its price.
Zeph staggered, coughing blood, the staff trembling in his hands.
"T… there's an opening!" he shouted, voice breaking through the noise, split by pain. "It's… narrow, but it leads out!"
His eyes still burned in pale green, but his body trembled — drained, nearly spent, held up only by sheer refusal to fall.
Karna turned, eyes fixed ahead.
And then he saw — the impossible.
The sound of iron still echoed in the distance, mingling with the rustle of shattered trees.
The enemy that had come from behind now approached slowly from the front.
As if the dark itself had closed in on them.
Karna nodded, face impassive, the glow of living metal reflected in his eyes.
"Take them."
"And you?" Zeph asked, breathless.
"I stay." Karna's voice came steady, almost serene. "I'll buy us time."
Lyra, her face streaked with blood and soot, scanned the front line with steady eyes.
"He's right," she said between the metallic snaps. "We've already lost a third of ours."
Some soldiers, covered in ash and blood, began to rise, stumbling.
Karna raised his voice, firm, clear, cutting through the chaos.
"All who can still walk, follow Zeph!" he shouted. "Run east — and don't look back!"
The survivors hesitated for an instant — they looked at him, and the silence between them said everything.
Karna took a deep breath, and a faint smile crossed his face — tired, but alive.
He turned to the young ones still standing, bodies covered in blood and dust, eyes steady.
They'd reacted well — avoided fatal wounds — and now stood before him in silence, waiting for his command.
"You five…" he said, low, grave. "Use everything you've learned these eight months."
Karna's gaze hardened.
The bow was already in his hands.
"The night will test us." He lifted his chin, staring into the black ahead. "Let's see if it can endure."
Zeph entered the forest, limping, the staff resting on his shoulder.
Behind him, the four young ones followed, with the few soldiers still able to walk — staggering shadows between mist and blood.
Isabela emerged among the wreckage, her face marked by soot.
Karna looked at her — and for an instant, smiled.
"Thought you were dead."
She answered with a weary smile.
"And leave you with the best part?"
A few soldiers with grave wounds rose, gripping swords and spears in trembling hands.
Isabela looked at them and said, firm:
"You weren't the only one who trained them."
Lyra reloaded her pistols with steady hands.
"Don't drop your guard," she murmured.
The stillness broke — the sharp sound of metal vibrating filled the air, as if the blades themselves were calling the next attack.