Mar's men grinned like wolves.
They stepped toward Liari, boots thudding against bloodstained wood.
"Come here, girl," one of them growled. "Master Mar wants a word."
Liari flinched. Confusion flashed across her face, then quickly vanished, swallowed by something colder.
Nil muttered, "This isn't a good idea. Don't go."
She didn't move. Frozen.
Then—
"Liari."
Reob's voice. Soft. Almost kind.
He raised a hand and beckoned her forward—not with urgency, but something worse. Quiet obedience. Like a man offering a lamb to the butcher.
Liari turned to Nil. Her voice cracked.
"Uncle's there," she said, almost believing it. "I'll be... safe."
Nil's lips parted. No words came.
Beside him, Deon whispered, "If we're leaving... it has to be now."
Nil scoffed, bitter. "I've been saying that for hours. What stopped you?"
Liari's feet moved.
One step.
Then another.
She walked toward Mar.
And Mar stood.
His eyes crawled over her like hands—slow, greedy. His smile widened, but it wasn't a smile. It was hunger in human shape. A predator's grin on a man too calm to be sane. His hands twitched. The room shrank around him.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
He reached out—thick fingers slick with sweat—and pulled Liari close.
She flinched but didn't resist.
Her gaze locked to the floor, like looking up might break her.
Behind them, Reob bowed low. His voice trembled.
"My lord... the hall is ready. Everything as you desired."
Mar chuckled. A low, choking sound that stank of want.
"Good," he said, then barked, "Call them in."
The tavern door creaked open again—and they entered.
Twelve men. Armored. Uniformed. Not common thugs—Count's soldiers. Well-fed. Well-armed. Trained.
One of them grinned beneath his helmet. "Shall we begin the party, my lord?"
Reob laughed—too loud, too fast. The sound of a man skinning himself just to stay alive.
"This way," he rasped, leading them toward the back hall.
Liari walked beside Mar, stiff as a corpse, each step smaller than the last.
The soldiers followed.
One stayed behind—planted himself at the door like a gatekeeper to Hell.
Slam.
The door shut.
The sound echoed. Final. Like the sealing of a tomb.
And that was it.
They were gone.
⸻
Nil and Deon sat there—breathless. Helpless. Watching a nightmare they couldn't stop.
Nil's throat was dry. He muttered, "Should we... do something?"
Deon didn't look at him. "Shut up," he hissed. "Let's go. The longer I stay, the worse it gets."
Nil raised a brow, half a scoff. "What? You in love with her or something?"
Deon turned—slow and sharp—and stared.
His voice came out low. Flat.
"Her name's Liari."
A beat.
"Same as my daughter's."
Nil stared, wide-eyed.
There was something behind Deon's eyes—something splintered.
Not rage.
Not fear.
Something older. Heavier.
Grief that never found a grave.
He's breaking...
That girl isn't just a stranger to him.
She's a memory. A ghost. A name he still whispers in his sleep.
Nil swallowed hard.
"If we walk away now," he said softly, "you'll never stop seeing her. Not tonight. Not ten years from now. Every slammed door, every scream—she'll be there."
Deon didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Nil looked down. Then back up.
"I didn't come here to be a hero. I never wanted this. But I walked this far with you. And you didn't leave me behind."
He stepped closer.
"That has to count for something."
Deon's jaw clenched so hard it shook.
"I can take them," he said, voice raw, "If I hold back. If I don't lose control."
Nil met his eyes.
"Then don't cut me off again."
His voice was stripped bare—no smirk, no mask, no distance.
Just the silence of a man stepping into fire.
"Are you sure?"
A long breath passed between them.
Nil's voice dropped.
Not a question anymore.
"Are we doing this?"
Nil's throat tightened.
I don't even know her.
None of this is my problem.
That guy? I met him yesterday.
And the girl? She's not my sister. Not my lover. Not my responsibility.
But the count's son... things are about to get really bad.
His eyes flicked to the door.
I should leave. Keep going.
I've got miles to walk and the capital won't wait.
And I'm not strong enough to die here.
But then—
I said I'd stay.
I said we're in this together.
If I walk now... what does that make me?
He exhaled, a breath sharp as glass.
Across from him, Deon didn't move.
His thoughts unraveled—quiet, brutal.
Why did I ask her name?
He clenched his jaw.
Liari.
It wasn't her—but it felt like her. My Liari.
The way you were taken from me...
I didn't scream. I couldn't even scream.
His fists curled. Knuckles white.
So what now?
Do I stand still again? Watch it happen a second time?
Is that who I am now?
The silence between them wasn't empty.
It was heavy.
Wrought with grief.
With guilt.
And the smallest spark of something else.
Resolve.
"Deon..." Nil's voice was low, almost uncertain. "Are we really doing this?
Deon didn't move. His voice came quiet. Cracked.
"We hide our faces. Move quiet. Think faster than them."
Nil brushed his chin, eyes narrowing.
"Mar's not just another bored noble. This whole thing stinks. I've passed through villages like this—nobles don't usually dip their hands this deep. Something's rotten."
Deon gave a tired nod. "Doesn't matter now. I wasn't watching Mar."
His voice thinned. "I was watching her."
Nil blinked. "Liari?"
Deon's gaze drifted.
"There's strength in her. You saw it too, didn't you? That mana—it's raw, but it's there. She could be... something."
Nil frowned, voice low.
"This isn't about power, is it?"
Deon didn't answer right away. When he did, his words came jagged.
"No. It's about not failing again."
Nil watched him closely.
"You didn't just hear her name," Nil murmured. "You flinched."
Deon's jaw clenched.
"I couldn't save mine," he whispered. "Maybe this time... maybe I don't have to stand still."
Silence fell again—thick, suffocating. But it wasn't empty.
Resolve stirred beneath it.
Nil exhaled slowly.
"All right. If we move, we move smart. We don't win a fight by charging in. We need a plan, and we need to stay unseen."
Deon's eyes sharpened. "We're ghosts until we strike."
Nil stroked his chin. "We've got no roots here. No allies. Let's wear the shadows, hide our faces. And if the things go south —" he grinned, dry and reckless, "—we head north."
Deon gave a small nod. The tension didn't break, but a quiet smile curled at the corner of his lips.
They moved.
At the far end of the room, the guard who'd been stationed at the back door — the one Mar used — was no longer guarding anything. He was slumped over a half-empty bottle, red-faced and loud, hurling curses at the kitchen staff like a tyrant too drunk to stand.
Nil approached, easy steps, hands open.
"Well, aren't you the diligent one?" Nil said smoothly. "The whole crew drinks and they leave you behind?"
The guard squinted through the haze. "Shut your damn mouth," he slurred. "I hate this. Should be back there with 'em... getting a drink... getting respect."
Nil poured a fresh cup of something cheap and strong, slid it across the table like a bribe in plain sight.
"Then why don't you say it?" he said, voice casual, friendly. "Just admit it—you want to be with them."
The guard's eyes narrowed. A slow, glassy death stare.
"You're an idiot," he spat. "Say that out loud, and Markin'll hang me by the tongue. Bastard hears everything."
Nil's mind clicked like a lock turning.
Markin. Not Mar. He's the one pulling the strings.
He nodded. "You're right. And what about Mar? Doesn't care either way?"
The guard laughed — a broken, bitter sound. "Mar? He's just a fat dog chewing on bones. Markin's the one who hunts."
Then he swayed forward — bottle slipping from his fingers — and collapsed against the table, unconscious.
Nil caught the edge of the glass before it hit the ground. His other hand slipped the tiny vial from his sleeve back into its place.
By the time Nil slipped the vial back into his sleeve, the guard was already snoring into the floorboards.
The tavern, however, was no longer still.
Customers were pouring in — minute by minute — the room swelling with noise, the sharp tang of ale, and the weight of too many eyes. Boots scraped the wood. Coins clinked. Laughter rang hollow.
Deon returned, slipping through the chaos like a knife through silk.
"Spoke to Glen," he muttered, folding his arms. "Behind that door's a hallway. Leads to a few storerooms, then a larger hall — wide enough for a feast, thick enough for a massacre."
Nil knelt by the unconscious guard, peeling off the chest armor with quick, quiet hands. Deon watched, his voice dry.
"If I wore that, it'd look snug. On you? Passable."
Nil glanced up, amused. "So I'm bait again?"
Deon smirked — just a flicker. "You'll wear the armor. Cover your face. Walk in like you belong."
Nil's eyes narrowed. "And you?"
"I'll shout it. Loud enough for them all to hear. 'Intruder in the rear!'" He turned slightly, already thinking two moves ahead. "They'll turn toward me. Toward the noise. While they look one way, you slip in the other."
Nil's lips tightened. "That plan ends with you surrounded."
Deon's voice lowered. "i can manage"
Nil paused. His throat tightened. He didn't speak.
"You get in," Deon continued. "Look for the girl. If it turns sideways, run. Take her and bolt. You're fast."
Nil stared at the dented armor in his hands.
The weight of it.
The weight of what he was about to step into.
"You always stop my words," he muttered.
Deon's gaze didn't waver. "Because hesitation gets people killed."
For a moment, the tavern faded — the noise, the chaos, the pressure. It was just the two of them. One already bruised by ghosts. The other learning what it meant to stand for something.
Nil nodded once, sharp as a blade.
Then began strapping on the armor.
Nil adjusted the chestplate by the kitchen fire, iron creaking as he tightened the last strap.
"This thing's a size too big," he muttered. "I'll storm in, shout about an intruder. You hit them while they're looking the wrong way. We grab the girl, then disappear. No goodbyes."
The helmet slid into place with a soft click. His voice came out muffled, distant beneath the steel.
"Picking a fight with a noble..." He paused, jaw tightening behind the mask. "Could get me jailed. Or worse—dumped in the Dark Grey Forest with a broken compass."
He looked up—eyes sharp, grin gone.
"Let's make sure it's worth it."
Deon exhaled slowly, the weight of it heavy in his chest.
"Yeah... that's the plan." His voice was low. Tired. "You got another mask? I need to cover my face too."
Without a word, Glen handed him a plain black mask — no markings, just shadow.
"Here," he said.
Deon took it, turning it over in his hands.
Glen hesitated. Then stepped closer, voice cracking just enough to show the fear beneath.
"Please... just save Liari." His eyes searched Deon's. "She's just a girl. And I know what those monsters are capable of." He swallowed, voice tightening into a whisper.
"They'll tear the purity right out of her."
A silence fell between them — grim, sharp, real.
Deon's jaw clenched. He slid the mask over his face and said nothing.
Nil stared at the door — seven meters wide, eight tall. The wood was thick, iron-ribbed, ancient.
He placed a hand on the handle. Cold. Too cold. His fingers tightened, eyes narrowing.
"Think someone's guarding the other side?" he muttered, barely a breath.
Beside him, Deon let a thin pulse of mana bleed from his palm — just enough to trigger a response. Nothing.
He smirked. "They're not trained. Can't even sense this."
Nil's grip shifted. "Then we're lucky."
"Or someone wants us to think that."
The door loomed. Waiting.
Deon touched the back of Nil's armor — a silent signal.
Nil nodded.
Boom.
Mana exploded behind him. Nil launched like a fired round.
The door didn't open — it shattered. Wood cracked. Iron screamed. Nil tore through — a blur of steel and fury — landing hard in a crouch.
Ahead: a long hallway, draped in gold and purple, walls lined with old, heavy tapestries. Dust hung thick in the air — and something else.
Smoke.
Sweet. Violet. Alive. It crawled across the floor and curled up the walls like it belonged there more than they did.
Laughter leaked from the far doors. And music. But warped — too slow. Too twisted.
Nil moved.
And then—
Velvet curtains parted like funeral shrouds. A low golden light pulsed from within. The air reeked of perfume, rot, and something worse. Not death.
Indulgence.
Mar lounged on a throne of crushed velvet, pipe smoldering in one hand like a priest's censer.
And Liari—
sagged across his lap like a marionette with its strings cut. One strap of her dress had slipped down — a final insult to dignity. She didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just existed, and barely that.
His hand was on her thigh.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He exhaled, slow and serpentine, a ribbon of smoke curling upward like a prayer to something vile.
Reob stood nearby, barely upright. He poured himself another drink with hands that couldn't stop shaking. His grin was cracked porcelain. Hollow. Dead.
Three guards turned at the noise. Blades whispered from sheaths.
The rest?
Too far gone.
Drowned in smoke and pleasure.
And from the shadows of a separate couch—something moved.
Barely.
A shift of silk. A glint of poison in two narrow, amethyst eyes.
Purple hair. Trimmed beard. Wine swirling lazily in one hand.
He didn't rise.
He didn't need to.
He watched.
And smiled.
Like he'd written this scene years ago and had been waiting for it to arrive.
—
Nil ran.
Boots thundered down velvet carpet. Heart punching his ribs. Not from fear—but from timing.
He turned the corner, shouting before breath caught up.
"INTRUDER!" he roared, voice ragged, perfect. "Back hall!"
Three guards snapped toward him, instincts hard-wired. Hands gripped hilts.
The nearest one saw panic in Nil's eyes and bolted without thinking.
The others followed.
Nil stumbled, hit the ground hard. A deliberate fall.
Two rushed over. "Who? Where?!"
Nil's voice broke in all the right places.
"He—he had a cloak. Glowing... something glowing."
"Stay," barked one. "We'll handle it."
They ran.
Nil rose slow. Not in relief. In calculation.
Every second bought was a knife placed.
—
Deon waited at the far end of the hall.
Still. Masked. Unflinching.
The first guard skidded into sight.
"You—!"
Steel flashed.
But Deon didn't flinch.
He stepped. One clean sidestep.
The sword missed.
And lightning answered.
A burst. Blinding. Raw.
Deon's fist slammed into the guard's chest.
Armor crumpled. Bone buckled.
The man flew—two meters back—into the wall with a crunch.
Before he could wheeze, Deon was there.
One upward kick.
Snapped spine. Sparks danced behind the guard's eyes.
He dropped.
Twitched once.
Then didn't.
—
Nil crept forward.
The hallway had grown wrong.
The air pressed in. Violet smoke bled from the cracks of the final door. Not incense. Not poison.
Something between both.
The door creaked open.
Four guards stepped out—if you could still call them that.
Eyes empty. Faces slack. They walked like marionettes without strings.
Zombies, Nil thought.
Not dead. Worse.
Hollow.
"Intruder!" he gasped, stumbling toward them. "Rear hall! He's cutting through the guards!"
Three passed him without a blink.
But the last stopped.
Sword halfway drawn.
Eyes locked on Nil.
"Why are you here?" he slurred.
"You should be fighting."
Nil dropped to a knee, panting.
"Master Mar... wanted me to warn—"
Crack.
Mana shrieked down the corridor.
A fork of lightning kissed the air. The guard flinched. Smoke curled off his helmet.
Nil didn't miss the moment.
"It's him!" he cried, pointing behind. "It's him!"
The guards turned.
And ran.
Deon moved. Not perfect. Fast enough. The blade caught his shoulder—not deep, but enough to burn. And then the air broke open with thunder...
Nil slid against the wall, holding the breath he hadn't taken.
One wrong blink and the lie would've shattered.
He reached the final threshold.
And stepped inside.
—
The room swallowed him.
Gold. Wine. Flesh. Smoke.
The air was syrup—thick, cloying, filled with wrongness.
He spun air around his nose and mouth, filtering what he could.
He dropped to his knees.
"Master Mar!" he shouted. "Intruder—!"
No one moved.
Mar sat slouched, pipe slipping from his fingers.
His other hand still clutched Liari's thigh.
She didn't stir.
Reob swayed, pouring another drink he wouldn't taste. Music played in the distance—harps bent into something cruel.
Nil raised his head.
They hadn't seen him.
They were too deep.
And now—so was he.
Then—hands.
Two guards seized him from behind. Iron grips. Jaws of a trap.
He jerked his head around—
And locked eyes with him.
The man in the shadows. Wine in hand. Amethyst eyes gleaming.
He knew.
He raised his glass. Smiled.
And said nothing.
The smoke curled. The harp twisted.
Then—
Mar stirred.
As if yanked by invisible strings, his head snapped up. His pipe fell. His grin spread slow.
Like a wound opening.
"Mmm..." Mar's lips curled slow. "One dog leaves the yard... and I didn't call for him. Why... are you here?"
"You were meant to be barking at the rear door. Not whining at mine."
The guards held Nil tighter.
Nil dropped to one knee, head bowed low beneath the weight of his own lie.
"My lord," he said, voice tight. "I was doing as I was told... but an intruder—tall, cloaked—struck me down and forced his way inside."
Across the room, Mar didn't blink.
His hand twitched on Liari's thigh.
Her eyes were half-lidded now, flickering. Trying. Failing.
Mar's gaze drifted lazily toward her. Not in concern—but possession. His thick fingers dug deeper into her skin, as if clutching a toy someone might take.
"Markin," Mar rasped, the name bubbling out like spoiled wine. "Handle that."
Then he lifted the pipe to his mouth and inhaled. A long, rattling breath. The smoke—a deep, shimmering violet—poured into him. His pupils dilated. His grin slackened.
And from the far couch... he stood.
The man in the shadows.
Amethyst hair spilled across his shoulders like liquid dusk. A glint of silver winked from his cufflinks. His eyes—those infamous eyes—were bright, calm, merciless.
Nil turned toward him. A slow pivot. The weight in his chest said what his mind wouldn't.
That's him.
Markin.
He moved like a thought. Silent. Exact.
Nil bowed deeper.
'I'm sorry, Lord Markin. I—'
'No need,' Markin said, soft as silk.
He stepped forward, arm extended.
'Nil, right?'
The air stopped.
Nil hadn't said his name.
Not once.
Nil's eyes went wide.
He hadn't told him.
Hadn't whispered it.
Hadn't even thought it out loud.
The guards' grip tightened. Steel fingers dug into his arms like manacles.
But Nil didn't freeze.
He moved.
One twist. One jerk.
The guards flew backward, crashing into the golden columns behind them with a scream of metal.
Nil ripped the chestplate from his torso, flung it aside with a clang, and charged.
Markin's expression barely shifted—just the faint curl of a smile as Nil's fist connected.
Crack.
Bone met bone. The sound rang out like a war drum.
Markin flew—lifted clean off his feet—crashed into the velvet couch. A goblet spilled. Wine bloomed across the silk like blood.
Nil didn't wait.
He turned. Locked eyes on Mar.
The fat lord barely had time to blink before Nil was on him—fist cocked, rage pouring out of him like a flood.
But Reob moved.
He threw himself between them, arms wide—sacrifice in motion.
Nil's punch landed.
Reob's head snapped back. He slammed into Mar, and the two of them hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and spilled pipe smoke.
Mar groaned. Blood smeared his cheek.
Liari slipped from his lap. Slowly. Like a doll tipped from a shelf.
She landed on the couch in a sprawl of silk and limp limbs. Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes fluttered, half-closed.
A thread of drool slid from her lips.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't see.
Just breathed. Barely.
Nil stood over her, chest heaving, fists clenched.
Across the room, Markin rose—slow, elegant. He wiped blood from his lip, smiling.
The nearest guard struck.
A perfect slash—fast, clean—right across Nil's head.
The blade hit steel.
CLANG.
His helmet rocked. Sparks flew. He staggered, caught the edge with both hands—held it on.
No. Not now. Not my face.
His thoughts slammed into each other, tangled in panic.
If they see me—if they already know—how?
But there was no time to ask. Only to move.
Wind swirled around his legs.
And Nil launched.
Upward—higher than any man should leap. Glass shattered below him. Trays clattered. The room reeled.
He twisted midair. Drew his dagger with a whisper of steel.
Then came down.
Blade-first.
CRACK.
The dagger punched through the guard's forehead—metal parting flesh, bone, thought. The body didn't even drop. It just folded, like a marionette cut from its strings.
Nil didn't wait. Didn't breathe.
He was already moving.
Straight toward her.
Liari.
Still limp. Still ruined.
His heart screamed for her.
But—
Reob.
The broken man stumbled forward. Arms out. Between them again.
Nil flinched. Half a heartbeat. Half a second.
He could kill him. He should.
But the hesitation hung—Why? Why does this man keep stepping between us?
Reob's eyes were wide. Not empty.
Begging.
Not for mercy.
And behind them, sprawled on velvet like a god of rot—
Markin watched.
He hadn't stood. Hadn't blinked.
Just sipped his half-warm beer, lazy eyes following the blood.
A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.
Mar shrieked as blood dripped from his nose and lips, his words tumbling like spit from a broken jaw.
"Kill him!" he howled, voice thick with pain and terror. "What are you doing?! Kill him now! Markin, gods damn you—why are you just sitting there?!"
Across the room, Markin didn't flinch.
He sat like stone, legs crossed, glass in hand, the violet wine inside catching the firelight like blood on silk. A smile—not wide, not kind—rested beneath his trimmed beard. Not amusement. Not contempt. Something colder. Older.
"Take Lord Mar and the girl," he said, voice soft enough to still the air, "to another room."
The command didn't echo.
It didn't have to.
Two soldiers moved—mechanical, obedient, faceless. One grabbed Mar by the arm, dragging his bulk across the floor like meat. The other reached for Liari, still unconscious, her arm hanging limp from the velvet couch like a snapped marionette.
Nil didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
His dagger still dripped. The guard he'd killed lay sprawled behind him, eyes glassy, a crimson tunnel carved into his skull. His blood pooled beneath Markin's shoes.
Reob stood in front of him now—arms out, trembling. A man with nothing left to offer but his body.
And Markin—that monster—just watched. Still seated. Still sipping. Like the violence hadn't touched him. Like it never would.
"You ruined a perfectly good evening, Nil," Markin murmured. "And the wine was exquisite. Imported. A shame."
Nil's mind spun.
Options twisted in his skull like broken blades.
Kill Reob.Somehow take the girl. Run.
Or wait. Escape. Protect your face. Your name.Leave the people you met just yesterday.
The door slammed behind them.
Nil stood alone.
Liari and Mar were gone—dragged off like cargo. Reob stood between him and the carnage, a trembling wall of flesh and fear.
And Deon?
Nowhere.
Nil's breath came ragged. The adrenaline was acid in his veins.
Where are you, Deon? I... I should run. Fuck, I should run. Why did I ever think this would end any way but blood?
Then it began.
Two guards closed in, blades already humming with mana. Not like the others. These were real fighters.
They didn't scream. They didn't hesitate. They came at Nil from both sides, a pincer of steel and light.
Nil moved.
A slide. A twist. Just barely.
He felt one blade clip air near his throat—too close. His coat tore open, thread hissing like a cut snake.
Markin stood.
Not to fight.
To watch.
He unsheathed his blade without looking at Nil, then calmly took a silk scarf from the table and began polishing the steel.
Nil's eyes burned.
Enough.
He whirled on the nearest guard and lunged—
—but the man struck first.
The blade slammed into Nil's shoulder. Pain erupted. But then—
Flame.
Red. Violent. Alive.
It burst from Nil's palm like an answer to every sin in the room.
BOOM.
The fireball consumed the guard. His scream didn't last long. The armor blackened, then melted, fusing into his flesh. His skull cooked like meat in a sealed oven.
Nil turned to the second guard.
No hesitation. No mercy.
He raised his sword, mana surging through the steel—thicker, sharper, wilder than it had ever been. Like the blade wanted blood.
The strike came down.
Once.
That was all it took.
The enemy's blade shattered. His chest split open. Armor, bone, soul—cleaved.
The body hit the ground in two different languages.
Nil didn't stop.
Nil moved like a weapon loosed from time.
Water spun around him in a blur, glinting silver-blue. His blade thrummed—sharp with purpose, heavy with fury. One clean arc. One righteous kill. That's all it would take.
He saw Markin's throat.
He swung.
The air wailed.
And Markin smiled.
Then—
Stillness.
Not hesitation. Not fear.
His limbs halted mid-motion. His mana sputtered. His breath hitched in his lungs and didn't return.
It wasn't a spell.
It felt deeper. Wronger. Like the world around him blinked — and he blinked with it.
His blade hung, trembling inches from its mark.
Markin hadn't moved.
Nil's fingers twitched.
The smile on Markin's face flickered.
Only slightly.
Just enough.
And then—
SLAM.
The floor hit like a god's backhand. Wood cracked. Ribs groaned. Blood sprayed from Nil's mouth.
Markin sipped his wine.
Watching.
Almost curious.
Nil didn't understand why he'd frozen.
His swing had been perfect. His footing sure. His mana alive.
So why?
His body screamed back into motion.
"I must've tripped."
That lie was enough.
He surged upright—no hesitation, no breath wasted. His blade cut toward Markin in a blur of silver fury.
Markin rose with him.
Their swords met with a clash that shattered the silence. Steel kissed steel—then bit.
But then—
Snap.
A weight coiled around Nil's leg.
Too late to dodge.
His balance tore sideways—
CLANG.
Markin's blade struck true. Not flesh. Not bone.
The helmet.
It ripped free, spinning into the dark.
Exposed.
Nil landed hard and skidded back, knees bent, sword raised.
But the room had changed.
The air froze.
Every gaze turned to him.
A quiet tension clawed at the edge of Nil's mind.
His brows bent low, casting shadows over his hollow, expressionless face. His heartbeat slowed—like those last moments before a predator pounced.
Before another thought could surface, Markin lunged, his blade gleaming in the early light.
Shit.
Nil sprang backward, boots scraping on broken cobblestone, widening the gap between them—just enough space to think. But something gripped his ankle—cold, sudden.
A guard.
"—Tch!" Nil gritted his teeth, twisting sharply.
Markin was already upon him.
A flash of steel—Nil swung his sword up just in time, deflecting the blow with a jarring clang. Sparks scattered like angry fireflies. But Markin wasted no breath—his boot cracked into Nil's face like a hammer.
Nil's body shot backwards—three full meters—before smashing into the velvet paneled wall. Pain bloomed along his spine.
"Fuck... fuck..." Nil's thoughts spun in wild spirals. They've seen my face. No way to run without killing them now. Or maybe I run—but Deon... where the fuck is Deon—?!
He spat blood. Forced himself upright, wobbling on legs like brittle sticks.
Markin strode forward, slow as dusk, blade dragging against the velvet-carpeted wood — steel blade whispered across velvet—wrong, soft, like silk cut with razors.. "Such a shame..." Markin murmured, dragging the blade across marble , steel hissing like breath. "I rather liked this place."
Suddenly—movement.
One of the guards bolted at him from the side—low, fast—like a wild boar gone rabid.
Nil twisted—barely.
The guard missed by inches, stumbling past—but Nil caught a sickly waft of purple smoke leaking from the man's open mouth. His veins pulsed dark beneath skin. Something was wrong.
Nil's instincts snapped into focus.
His heel spun out—a brutal kick cracked into the guard's temple, sending him sprawling to the dirt. Before the man could moan, Nil leapt, driving his knee down—then a flurry of vicious punches, cracking bone—crack crack crack—until the guard's jaw hung loose, blood pooling like spilled wine.
Nil's chest heaved.
His eyes darted—something gleamed on the ground nearby.
His dagger.
Lodged deep in the skull of a corpse.
Except—
The corpse moved.
Nil's gut wrenched cold. He knew that face. That wound. He'd carved it himself..
The man—the very same guard he'd killed minutes ago by driving that dagger through his forehead—twitched. Purple mist hissed from his lips. Milky eyes stared blankly as the corpse reached for the blade buried in its own skull.
Nil staggered back.
Dead men don't move..
The corpse's grin split wide — teeth slick, gums rotted — as a sound gurgled from its ruined throat. A wet, bubbling whisper
"...Nil..."