The night had deepened, shadows pressing close against the wooden walls of the inn. Outside, the mournful call of an owl echoed through the stillness. Lucan sat in silence, his eyes fixed on Elira's back as she slept soundly, her breathing steady and untroubled.
He rose at last, boots whispering against the creaking floorboards as he moved closer. Elira stirred faintly, turning onto her side so that her face was revealed to him in the pale wash of moonlight.
Lucan's gaze, cold and unreadable, lingered on her features before drifting down to her hand—carefree, unguarded, resting loosely upon the blanket. His fingers hovered, reaching slowly, drawn by the feelings of familiar warmth and comfort he ones felt.
But then—
A sound. Footsteps. Too deliberate to be the casual tread of a guest. His instincts flared. His hand fell to the hilt of his blade, grip tightening.
He slipped from the room, every movement controlled, and followed the sound down the narrow hall. The door to the inn creaked as a figure cloaked in black slipped into the night. Lucan's eyes narrowed. Without hesitation, he pursued.
Outside, the air was sharp with the scent of damp earth. The man in black moved swiftly through the courtyard, but before Lucan could close the distance, shadows erupted from the alleys—assassins, blades gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
Steel clashed in the courtyard, sparks scattering into the night. The assassins came at Lucan in waves, their blades flashing in the pale moonlight. But he met them without hesitation. His sword cut through the dark like a predator's fang, every strike precise, merciless, and final.
One by one, the attackers fell. Their cries faded into silence until only Lucan remained standing, his chest rising and falling steadily, his blade dripping with the proof of his efficiency.
For a moment, the night was still. Then, from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, another figure emerged. A man cloaked in black, hood drawn low over his face. He had not fought with the others, but his presence carried a weight that made Lucan's instincts sharpen.
"Show yourself," Lucan demanded, his voice cold, his sword still raised. "Are you the one behind this?"
The hooded man laughed—a low, cunning sound that echoed unnaturally in the quiet. It was not the laugh of relief or gratitude, but of someone who had been waiting for this moment. The sound lingered before he fell silent, though the sly smile remained on his lips.
"You don't know me," the man said, his tone bitter yet laced with amusement. "But I know you, Lucan. The tyrant king. The butcher feared by all."
Lucan's eyes narrowed, suspicion hardening his stare. "Who are you?"
The man stepped closer, lowering his hood at last. His sharp features caught the moonlight, and his eyes burned with something more dangerous than hatred.
"You feel it, don't you?" the man said softly, almost taunting. "That pull between us. That force you cannot name. It is because I am not merely a man. I am the one who shaped you. The hand that wrote your triumphs and your torments."
Lucan's grip tightened on his sword, his eyes narrowing. "Speak plainly."
The man's smile deepened, sharp as a blade. "Call me Alec… a quill that bleeds ink." His voice carried a strange weight, as though the words themselves were carved into the night.
Before Lucan could move, Alec's form began to blur, dissolving into the air like smoke caught in the wind. His voice lingered, echoing unnaturally through the courtyard.
"Remember my name, for I am always around you. We will meet again… and again… until your story ends."
The last syllable faded, leaving only silence.
Lucan turned sharply, scanning the courtyard. Alec was gone. Not a trace of him remained. Even the assassins' bodies—strewn across the ground only moments before—had vanished. Only the dark stains of blood remained, soaking into the earth as if the corpses had never existed.
A chill ran through Lucan's spine, though his face betrayed nothing. He sheathed his sword slowly, his mind racing. Whoever this Alec was, he had power unlike anything Lucan had faced before. Power that bent reality itself.
The night pressed in heavier, the owl's call distant now, almost mocking. Lucan stood alone in the courtyard, surrounded by silence and blood, with the echo of Alec's words still whispering in his ears.
For the first time in years, Lucan felt the weight of something he could not cut down with steel—fate itself.
---------------
As the hounds pressed in, the moonlight flickered unnaturally—like a shadow had passed across it. The air grew colder, heavy with a presence that made the forest itself hold its breath. For a heartbeat, all was still.
The men's ragged breathing filled the silence, each exhale sharp with exhaustion. Their blades dripped with black ichor, but the carrion hounds kept coming—snarling, lunging, and rising again no matter how many times they were struck down.
"This isn't good," Duke Rensic muttered, his eyes sweeping over the battered remnants of his company. "The hounds keep reviving. If this drags on, we'll be finished. They're not trying to kill us—they're keeping us out. Someone is behind this. Someone tied to the whirlpool that took Lucan."
Sir Alden's knuckles whitened on his sword hilt. His armor was dented, his cheek split, but his stance remained unbroken. "I agree, Your Grace. These beasts aren't acting on instinct. They're guarding something. We can't hold them forever—we need to decide."
Rensic's jaw tightened. Lucan was not just another comrade lost to the dark—he was his king, and more than that, his friend. The thought of Lucan trapped, perhaps fighting alone against whatever horror lay beyond the whirlpool, gnawed at him. To abandon him now would be treachery to crown and to brotherhood alike.
If they pressed forward, more men would fall. If they retreated, Lucan—and the truth—would be lost.
"Damn it!" Rensic spat, slamming his blade into the ground for balance as another tremor rippled through the earth.
The hounds froze, their glowing eyes snapping toward the treeline. A low hum rose from the earth, vibrating through the soil and into their bones. The shadows thickened, coiling like smoke, until a figure stepped forth.
He was tall, robed in garments stitched with shifting runes, his smile sharp and mocking. His presence bent the air itself, and even the carrion hounds slunk back, obedient to his will.
It was Alec. After appearing before Lucan, he had come directly to the group of Duke Rensic.
Rensic raised his sword, his voice steady though his arm trembled with fatigue. "Who are you?"
The stranger bowed with exaggerated grace, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Names are such fragile things. But if you must have one… call me Alec."
Sir Alden narrowed his eyes. "I've never heard of you."
Alec's grin widened. "Of course you haven't. None of you would. But your king has. I've already been to him."
The men stirred uneasily, exchanging glances. Rensic's heart lurched at the words, but he kept his blade raised. "You lie. His Majesty would not—"
"Oh, but he did," Alec interrupted, his tone playful, almost sing-song. "He killed me. Stripped me of everything. But death is not the end for one such as I. I returned. Regressed. Reborn. And now I will take from him what he once took from me."
The air grew colder, frost creeping along the roots. Alec's voice dropped, each word dripping with venom.
"You will not reach him. Not yet. Because I am not finished with him."
Sir Alden's eyes blazed with fury. "Where is my king? What have you done to him?"
Alec's grin widened, savoring the knight's desperation. He crouched slightly, running his hand along the head of a snarling hound as though it were a loyal pet.
"I've done nothing… nothing but twist his path. Every step he takes, I bend. Every breath, I poison. Slowly. Deliberately. I savor his suffering, stretching it thin, so that when the end comes, he will beg for it."
His gaze snapped back to them, sharp and cruel. "And you—you will not pass. If you insist on pressing forward, then you must pay in blood."
The hounds stirred, claws scraping bark and soil, their glowing eyes fixed on the men. Alec's grin grew wider, mischievous and merciless.
"You don't know me, Duke. But you will. You all will. For every step you take toward him, I will make you bleed."
The Carrion hounds multiplied, their numbers swelling until the forest floor seemed alive with them—triple what they had faced before. Alec had summoned them all, and they prowled between the trees, eyes glowing like sickly lanterns in the dark.
Rensic's hand clenched around his hilt, knuckles white, his teeth grinding as desperation gnawed at him. His men were battered, bloodied, and weary, yet their eyes still turned to him, waiting for his word.
Alec's grin widened, cruel and mocking. "Well then, Duke… what now? Decide. If you choose to retreat, I may let you crawl away with your lives. But if you insist on pressing forward…" He gestured lazily, and the hounds growled in unison, claws tearing at the roots and soil. "…then every one of these beasts will tear you apart together."
The forest grew unnaturally still, the wind dying in the branches above. Alden's voice was tight, urgent. "Your Grace… your command."
Rensic's heart thundered. His king—his friend—was somewhere beyond this cursed wood. To turn back was unthinkable. To advance might mean death.
His grip tightened on the sword. His men held their breath.
What would be his decision—retreat, or pursue?