Moonlight filtered through the ruined farmhouse roof, pale beams painting silver lines across the dirt floor. The embers of their campfire glowed faintly, casting flickering shadows on Ruvan's sleeping face.
But Ruvan wasn't asleep.
He lay curled under his threadbare cloak, staring at the dark rafters above. Each breath tasted of soot and old blood. He could still hear the bard's prophecy echoing in his mind:
The blade that saves is the blade that devours…
Beside him, Elion breathed softly, chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Kellan sat by the fire's edge, polishing his sword with slow, careful strokes. The mercenary hadn't spoken much since they buried the bandits that afternoon. His usually irreverent humour had been replaced by a taut silence.
Ruvan turned his face away, curling tighter. His arms ached from sparring, his legs bruised from repeated falls. But deeper than the pain was the gnawing hollow in his chest.
I killed a man today.
He hadn't done it out of rage. He hadn't done it out of vengeance. He'd done it because if he hadn't, the bandit would have split his skull open like firewood.
That terrified him more than anything – how easily he'd moved to survive.
The Silent Warning
Outside, the wind stirred the long grass. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted, its cry breaking the night's brittle silence. Kellan stiffened, pausing mid-polish. His eyes narrowed, gaze flicking to the shattered windows.
Ruvan saw the shift in his posture and sat up quietly, heart thudding in his chest.
Kellan held up a hand, signalling silence.
The owl hooted again. Then once more. Then fell silent.
Kellan rose, sliding his sword back into its sheath with barely a whisper of steel. He stepped to the doorframe, eyes scanning the moonlit fields beyond.
Ruvan reached for Solrend. The broken blade felt heavier tonight, its quiet hum a warning in his bones. Elion woke without a word, staff already in hand, faint golden sparks flickering around his knuckles.
"Stay here," Kellan mouthed.
He slipped outside, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows. Ruvan strained his ears, hearing only the whisper of grass. Then:
Crunch.
A footstep on gravel.
Crunch. Crunch.
More. Coming closer. Not Kellan.
Ruvan's breath caught. Panic rose in his throat, acid and sharp. His body screamed at him to run – to flee into the night, leave the healer and mercenary behind, and vanish into the forest's dark embrace.
They're after me anyway. If I run now, they'll chase me, not them. I can save them…
But the thought felt hollow, a coward's rationalisation wearing a hero's mask.
The Assassins Appear
Three figures emerged from the shadows beyond the broken fence. They moved with unnatural grace, clad in layered dark leathers that seemed to swallow moonlight. Curved blades gleamed at their waists. Their faces were hidden behind cloth veils, eyes narrow slits of pale focus.
They spread out in silence, one circling left, another right, the third advancing straight toward the farmhouse door.
Ruvan glanced at Elion. The healer met his gaze calmly, though a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.
"They are Shadowveils," Elion whispered. "Hired killers. Silent orders. Their mark does not live to see dawn."
Ruvan's hands shook. They're here for me. Because of Solrend.
The blade pulsed faintly at his back, its glow invisible beneath his cloak but thrumming like a trapped heart. He swallowed, sweat chilling his spine.
Elion rose slowly, planting his staff before him. Golden light spiralled up its length, illuminating his sharp features. The nearest assassin flinched at the sudden glow but did not pause.
A flash of steel. Elion jerked his staff sideways, deflecting a throwing knife with a burst of golden sparks. The knife clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The assassin charged.
Elion swept his staff in a low arc, threads of light coiling around the attacker's legs. The assassin stumbled, faltering mid-strike. But before Elion could bind him fully, the second killer lunged from the right.
Steel whistled through the air.
Ruvan didn't think. He drew Solrend and stepped forward, swinging clumsily but with desperate force. The broken blade sliced through the assassin's forearm, severing muscle and bone in a burst of blood.
The killer shrieked – the first sound any of them had made – and collapsed to his knees, clutching his ruined limb.
The third assassin, approaching from behind, kicked Ruvan hard between the shoulders. He crashed to the dirt, Solrend flying from his grip, skittering across the floor toward the fire.
The killer drew his blade, raising it high to finish him.
Kellan's Return
Steel flashed in the moonlight – and Kellan was there.
The mercenary's sword split the assassin's chest from collarbone to stomach in a single brutal slash. Blood sprayed across Kellan's leathers as he wrenched the blade free, turning instantly to the other two.
Elion had pinned one to the ground with golden bindings, the light burning into his flesh. The last assassin, still clutching his severed forearm, crawled toward the door, eyes wide with pain and terror.
Kellan kicked him onto his back and drove his sword through his throat. The killer spasmed once, then lay still.
Silence fell, broken only by Ruvan's ragged breaths.
The Aftermath
They dragged the bodies outside and searched them quickly. No identifying marks, no emblems of allegiance. Only clean, efficient tools of death – garrotes, daggers, throwing blades, poison vials.
"They were sent for you," Kellan said quietly, wiping blood from his sword with a torn scrap of cloak.
Ruvan nodded numbly, retrieving Solrend from where it lay by the fire. The blade's broken edge pulsed faintly, as though sated by the fresh blood it had tasted.
"I… I thought of running," Ruvan whispered, staring into the dying embers.
Kellan glanced at him. "Why didn't you?"
Ruvan shook his head. "Because… because I don't want to die alone."
Kellan chuckled softly. "Good enough reason as any."
Elion sat down heavily, staff across his knees. His golden magic faded, leaving him pale and exhausted. "They will not be the last. Whoever wants you dead will send more."
"Or something worse," Kellan added, sheathing his sword.
Ruvan hugged Solrend to his chest. The blade felt cold against his skin, its hum low and hungry.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "Why me? Why this blade? I'm nobody."
Elion met his gaze, eyes dark and sad. "Not anymore."
Fireside Resolve
They rebuilt the fire, though none of them slept the rest of the night. Kellan sat against the door, sword across his lap. Elion dozed lightly, waking at each whisper of wind. Ruvan sat by the embers, Solrend across his knees, staring into the shifting coals.
He thought of his master's forge burning. Of the little girl trapped under rubble. Of his village's screams. Of the prophecy's words:
For every life its light redeems, a thousand shadows wake…
He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
Then let them wake, he thought. If they want my death, they'll have to take it from me.
Above him, the moon drifted westward, fading into pale dawn. But the shadows remained, slithering just beyond the firelight, whispering promises of death and damnation with every passing hour.
And somewhere in that darkness, Ruvan felt something watching him. Waiting.