Nora trudged back toward the city, her lamplight carving a frail path through the gathering dark. The road's familiarity did nothing to soften the bite of the wind or the thickening shadows between skeletal trees. The two men trailed just behind, their eyes fixed on her as dead leaves swirled around her lantern like moths drawn to a flame.
The wind picked up, sharp and cold. It tore through her cloak, chilling her to the bone. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath puffing in small clouds. The spiraling of the dead leaves grew more frantic.
She quickened her pace, her boots crunching on the frozen ground with each steady yet tense step. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, overpowering the sound of the rustling leaves. The shadows stretched farther across the path, their clawed edges curling ominously toward her feet.
Every gap in the bushes looked like glaring eyes watching her every step. Every rustle in the leaves sounded like snarling monsters closing in. Her legs locked. She paused, scanning the shadow.
Then it struck. A sudden gust of wind howled through the trees, whipping her hair across her face. The lantern jolted in her grasp, and she stumbled as her boot caught on an exposed root. Losing her balance, the lantern slipped from her fingers.
Time slowed. She watched helplessly as the lamp tumbled through the air and struck the ground—Clink. The light flickered once, then died. Darkness surged forward like a rushing current, swallowing the path, swallowing her whole.
The wind howled louder, a cold shriek that drowned out the pounding of her heart. She seized up—paralyzed.
Something moved. A shape blacker than the surrounding dark dashed for her. It had no form, no sound—just movement. Nora gasped, the scream snagging in her throat. The shape vanished before it reached her, dissolving into nothing. She spun in place, frantic eyes searching the gloom. There was nothing. No sound. No trace of the shape that had come for her.
Her knees struck the ground, sending a jolt up her paralyzed legs. The pain barely registered. She swiped her hands through the brittle leaves, fingers digging into the frozen dirt. Blindly, she groped for the lamp, her breaths shallow and quick. Each second stretched long, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Her face burned with anger and panic. She cursed the woman who birthed her under shallow breaths, condemning the woman's filthy attributes and her own tainted blood.
Now, the Dawn had cast her out like a discarded rag doll, left to rot in bandit country, mocked and scorned. To live among the dirt and the destitute—a fate fitting for that woman and her bastard.
The lamp's metal ridges finally bit into her palms after 30 breaths that took forever. She clutched its frame, and shaky fingers found the mana crystal at its center. With trembling hands, she channeled her mana, reigniting the flame.
Light bloomed, soft and flickering. She exhaled. The darkness recoiled. She brushed dirt from her knees and skirt, then stood up—too quickly, her vision blurred. Her legs quivered beneath her, but she forced herself forward. The city gates loomed just ahead. She ran, holding the lamb like a talisman, never glancing back at the void where shadows had teeth.
Not far from where Nora had stumbled, a figure slumped against a gnarled oak trunk, dark blood soaking through his tunic. One man leveled his sword at the figure's throat.
"Who paid you?" The man's blade glinted in the moonlight.
The figure coughed—then a hollow laugh escaped his lips. "Hrng-hrng-hah. Do mercenaries now lecture assassins about tradecraft?"
The man didn't react to the scorn. He reached forward and grabbed the assassin's collar. With one swift motion, he yanked him upright. The movement forced a grunt of pain from the wounded man's lips, but he didn't cry out.
"Good. At least your tongue is straight. Which legion?" Moonlight caught the assassin's bared teeth as he smiled. For three heartbeats, there was silence.
"Legion? Hrng-hrng-hah. If I tell you, you'll soil yourself."
The man's eyes narrowed. His gaze shifted to the dagger on the ground. Its hilt bore an etching—a faint, almost imperceptible symbol. The mark of the lowest rank. A rung.
"The Assassin Guild has thirteen legions," the man said slowly. "Given the location, the closest legions would be the 9th and 13th. Now, which of those would make me soil? And you're no more than a scrap. Left behind. They didn't even send someone worthy."
The assassin stiffened. Pride flared briefly in his bloodshot eyes. "You've bested me, but my squad won't fail. We've tracked her for weeks. The strike is coming soon—" He spat—"You can't stop it."
"Weeks? Yet here you are alone." The man's voice sharpened. "Where's this squad of yours?"
The assassin's gaze flickered, hunting for an escape. "They're coming. You can't shield her forever."
"Shielding her from you? No. From the guild. A 'Taker Squad' moves as one—strikes only high-profile targets. You're just a Tracker. Your job is to watch—to wait for the Taker?"
The man's grin turned to mockery. "Yet, you exposed yourself. You're either an idiot, or there never was a squad at all."
The assassin's gaze flicked upward toward the trees. Another shadow sat above—a silent figure perched on a branch. Watching. Waiting.
The man's blade pressed closer to the assassin's neck. "Run," he said. "Tell this 'squad' of yours she's guarded—by more than shadows."
He flicked the sword. A gash opened on the assassin's arm—a warning, not a kill. The assassin scrambled backward, clutching the wound. His eyes darted between the trees and the man before him. The man didn't move. Hope sparked in his eyes for a fleeting moment as he reached for the wood.
SLASH—Thud-Thud…thud. His head rolled on the ground. His legs kicked helplessly, still making their escape.
Above, the figure in the tree dissolved. Its form unraveled like smoke, vanishing into the shadow. The man wiped his sword clean against the assassin's tunic. His expression didn't shift. He turned toward the city.