The camp still breathed the smoke of last night's fire when the first messenger arrived. His horse was slick with sweat, its eyes rolling white under the dim wash of morning. Arkan had been awake since before dawn, sharpening his blade in rhythm with the whisper of wind through pine. When the rider dismounted, cloak torn and voice ragged, everyone in the courtyard stilled.
"The convoy's retaliation," he gasped. "They found the bodies at the ford. A patrol rides south—Templars, twenty at least. They're questioning every village within three miles. Someone spoke."
Silence fell like frost. Even the birds seemed to pause. Idris's face hardened, his calm an armor that kept the younger recruits from unraveling. Malik muttered a curse beneath his breath, and Lian's hand went instinctively to the dagger at her thigh.
"Who?" Idris asked.
The messenger only shook his head. "Rumor says a merchant's boy—saw our trail, maybe. Or pretended to."
Arkan's stomach tightened. The boy from the convoy flashed in his mind—the pleading eyes, the trembling voice. He had ordered him spared. For mercy, yes—but mercy had a price, and the world was now collecting.
"Pack the essentials," Idris commanded. "We move before noon. Burn what cannot be carried."
The brothers scattered. Within minutes the camp transformed from home to ashes. Tents folded, maps rolled, fires doused. Every trace of their presence had to vanish into the soil. But beneath the calm surface, unease coiled.
Arkan found Malik by the stables, fastening straps to his saddle.
"You think it's the boy," Malik said quietly.
"I don't know."
"You do." Malik looked up, his eyes steady. "Don't let guilt blind you, brother. If he betrayed us, then we act. If not, we still act. Either way, you must decide."
Arkan's jaw clenched. Decision. That was the true blade of an assassin—sharper than steel, colder than mercy.
By noon, the brotherhood was already ghosting through the woods, leaving behind the skeleton of their old camp. Yunus scouted ahead, Lian flanked the column, and Saif brought up the rear with his usual silent vigilance. They moved along the ridge until the forest opened to a valley below—a thin thread of smoke rising from a village nestled among fields.
Idris halted the group. "That smoke," he said. "That's where the patrol is. We'll circle wide. No contact unless cornered."
But as they shifted to move, a shout rang from the trees. A young voice—high, desperate.
"Wait! Please!"
Every hand went to a weapon. From the thicket stumbled a boy, barefoot and bruised, clutching a torn satchel. His face was one Arkan knew too well—the driver from the convoy, the one he had spared.
Malik swore softly. "Well, mercy finds its way back, doesn't it?"
The boy dropped to his knees before Idris. "They took my family," he cried. "The Templars. They said I helped you. I tried to tell them nothing, but they… they burned our house. Please, I can lead you to where they camp tonight. You can save them!"
The forest held its breath.
Saif spat to the side. "A trap. It reeks of bait."
Lian's gaze softened. "Or truth. Look at him."
Yunus said nothing, but his hand hovered near his bow, ready for either mercy or death.
Idris turned to Arkan. "You spared him. His blood—or his truth—is yours to judge. Speak."
Arkan stepped forward, his mind a storm. Could it be true? Could the Templars be cruel enough to use the boy's pain as snare? Of course they could. And yet—the tremor in his voice, the blistered feet, the hollow look of someone who had lost more than safety.
He knelt, eye to eye with the boy. "If you're lying, I'll know," Arkan said softly. "And I'll end it quick. But if you're not—then lead us."
The boy nodded, tears streaking grime down his face. "I swear it. By my father's name."
Idris's silence was approval enough. The decision was made.
That night, they moved through the dark like rumor and smoke. The forest closed around them, heavy with the scent of moss and rain. Arkan could feel the boy's fear vibrating ahead of him like a thread pulled too tight.
When they reached the valley, the truth revealed itself in flickering firelight—Templar tents, a dozen strong, ringed by torches. And tied near the central post… villagers. Five of them. One woman crying softly through a gag.
Malik cursed again, quieter this time. "So it's not a lie."
But Arkan's eyes caught something else—a glint of steel in the trees opposite them. A watcher. Hidden too perfectly. The trap was layered. The Templars were expecting pursuit.
He turned slightly, whispered to Idris, "They know. We strike, we die."
The elder's jaw worked in thought. "Then we make them think they were right to prepare."
The plan shifted like water. Malik and Saif would feign attack from one side, draw the patrol's wrath. Lian and Yunus would free the captives in the chaos. Arkan and the boy would circle behind to sever the supply line—cut the wagons, destroy their stores.
When the first arrow flew, the night erupted. Flames leapt high, swords flashed, shouts tore the stillness. Malik's laughter, fierce and unhinged, echoed between trees. Arkan sprinted through the dark, the boy close behind.
They reached the supply wagons—stacked with powder, grain, and sealed crates marked with the Templar sigil. Arkan slashed open one lid and froze. Inside lay not food nor gold—but scrolls, hundreds of them, bound in red wax.
He tore one open. The script was Latin, the seal unmistakable: decrees from the Templar council, orders of movement, names of targets. Entire cities mapped out like veins of a living body.
"This isn't just a camp," Arkan whispered. "It's a command node."
The boy trembled beside him. "What do we do?"
Arkan's answer was simple. "We burn their words."
The fire spread fast. Flames swallowed parchment, smoke rose thick and black. Across the valley, chaos turned to confusion—Templars shouting, signals lost, coordination unraveling. In the madness, Lian's whistle cut through the din—the call to retreat.
Arkan grabbed the boy's wrist. "Run."
They vanished into the forest just as the wagons exploded, a roar that rolled through the valley like thunder from a god's throat.
By dawn, the brotherhood was miles away. The boy slept wrapped in Malik's cloak, and Idris watched the horizon with a grim, satisfied calm.
"You see?" the elder murmured. "Even mercy has a purpose, if wielded like a blade."
Arkan said nothing. His hands were black with soot, but his heart—his heart felt cleaner than it had in years.
Behind them, the valley still burned. Ahead, the path twisted deeper into the mountains. And though he could not yet see the shape of what awaited, Arkan knew one truth:
The war of shadows had only begun.