Chapter 12 — Daggers in the Dark
a week after auron's trial, it was finally time to depart for ashford royal academy.
The banners of House Arvel fluttered in the morning wind as their convoy departed. Wagons loaded with supplies creaked along the dirt road, merchants grumbling about the pace, while a retinue of steel-clad knights rode in flanking formation.
At the center of it all, two figures stood out Lucian Arvel, heir to the house, and at his side, the boy he had chosen to bring with him.
Auron.
The journey to the Ashford capital stretched like a serpent across rolling fields and shadowed forests. Sunlight flickered through the canopy, and the scent of horses and iron filled the air.
Lucian, always composed, nudged his horse closer until he rode at Auron's side. "You fight well," he said, his tone casual, though his eyes gleamed with sharp appraisal. "Too well for someone who claims to be nothing more than a survivor."
Auron kept his gaze fixed on the road. "Surviving teaches you enough."
Lucian chuckled. "You speak as though survival is simple. Most who claim that are long buried." He leaned in slightly. "I wonder are you strong because of what you've endured, or because of what you're hiding?"
The boy's jaw clenched. He did not answer.
"Mm. Silent as ever." Lucian let the tension hang, then exhaled, almost wistful. "You know, Auron, you remind me of a brother. Stubborn. Guarded. Always looking at the world as though it would bite him. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps it will."
Auron flicked a glance at him then, the faintest spark of something unreadable in his eyes. "Maybe you should stop being so wishful."
Lucian's smile widened—not offended, but intrigued. "And maybe one day, you'll be the one who chooses to have that wishful thinking."
The words lingered, heavy with possibility.
By the time dusk settled, the convoy rolled into the city of Caldrith,
a waystop along the imperial road. Its streets were narrow and crooked, its taverns alive with the smell of ale, smoke, and roasted meat. Yet beneath the chatter of merchants and the laughter of drunks, there was something… off.
The knights felt it first. Their hands lingered on sword hilts, their eyes scanning the balconies where shadows moved too quickly, too quietly.
Inside the tavern, the air was heavy. The hearth burned, yet the room seemed colder than the road outside. Auron sat at a corner table, back to the wall, watching. His instincts clawed at him. The way the barmaid avoided eye contact.
The way the patrons drank without speaking. The way footsteps creaked upstairs at uneven intervals.
Too quiet.Too measured.Like wolves circling a campfire.
Lucian broke the silence with a smile too broad to be natural. "Come, drink. Tomorrow we ride for the capital. Tonight, let's have warmth."
But his hand rested under the table, fingers tapping the pommel of his dagger.
Midnight.
The tavern had fallen still. Outside, the streets were empty, even the rats absent. Inside, the hearth's embers smoldered low.
That was when the window shattered.
A figure in black leather and cloth tumbled through, blades glinting like fangs. Another dropped from the rafters. Then three more poured in through the door, their movements sharp, practiced.
Assassins. a word auron hated to his core.
"Protect the heir!" a knight roared, drawing his sword
only for his cry to be cut short by a dagger sliding between his ribs.
The room exploded into chaos.
Lucian surged to his feet, blade flashing as he parried the first strike. Sparks flew, wood splintered. The assassins pressed hard, coordinated, moving like parts of the same machine. Their target was clear: Lucian.
But two peeled away, eyes fixed on Auron.
So I'm a target too.
They came at him from both sides, blades whispering through the dark.
Auron ducked, the first strike missing by a hair, and slammed his elbow into the attacker's throat.
The man gagged, stumbling back, but the second closed in, dagger slashing for Auron's stomach.
Instinct roared through him—feral, unchained. He grabbed a chair and smashed it into the assassin's head, splinters flying. Blood sprayed. The man fell, twitching.
The first came again, rage burning in his eyes. Auron caught the wrist mid-strike, twisted, and bit down on the man's ear with savage ferocity.
The assassin screamed, dropping his blade, and Auron finished him by driving the broken dagger through his throat.
He rose, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his breaths animal.
Knights clashed steel with assassins around him. The tavern's narrow halls became killing grounds, each corridor a choke point. Screams of steel, grunts of pain, the wet sound of flesh splitting.
Lucian fought like a tempest, his mana bullets a blur. But he was driven back toward the stairs, three assassins hammering at him in tandem.
"Damn you!" he roared, parrying one strike only to have another slice his arm. His blood streaked the banister.
Then one whispered, almost mockingly, "Your brothers send their regards, little lord."
Lucian froze for the briefest second. Rage flared in his eyes, but the hesitation nearly cost him ,one blade nicked his neck, drawing a thin crimson line.
It was Auron who barreled into the fray, slamming into the nearest assassin with raw, reckless force. Both crashed through a table, splintering wood.
Auron bit, clawed, drove a shard of timber into the man's chest until he stopped moving.
Lucian recovered, cutting the last two down in a storm of steel.
And then—silence.
The tavern was a ruin. Blood pooled across the floorboards, bodies strewn like broken dolls. The knights, though bloodied, stood victorious
Lucian stood among the carnage, his chest heaving, his blade dripping. His eyes burned not with triumph but with fury, betrayal gnawing at his heart.
"My own blood," he whispered. His knuckles whitened around his sword hilt. "They want me dead before I ever reach the Academy."
Auron wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, his gaze unreadable. "maybe the assassin was just trying to distract you, sow a seed of doubt in you mind "
Lucian turned to him sharply. "maybe..... but if he was sent by my brothers they will not stop. They will hunt me until one of us lies cold in the ground."
Auron's eyes flicked to the bodies littering the floor. "Then you already live the way I always have."
Lucian studied him, anger giving way to something darker. Mistrust. Perhaps even fear.
Auron's thoughts churned. He had seen cruelty among the Dire Wolves, men who treated him like less than an animal. Yet here, among nobles with silks and titles, daggers slipped more easily, cutting deeper, cloaked in smiles.
The civilized are no different, he realized. No—they are worse. At least wolves bare their teeth before they bite.
The fire in the hearth guttered low, shadows swallowing the room.
And in those shadows, both boys one heir to power, another a men on a mission but they both knew the road ahead was not lined with honor, but with daggers.