"I know now what it means to live by the sword. My weapon is heavy, but my heart is heavier. The mournful wails of widows break the last shreds of resolve in my soul. Perhaps, I should die now, for I have lived a borrowed life."*
—Last words of Aratia the First, Sword God--
The crowing of a cock stirred him from slumber. Nimrod sat up slowly, an unusual calm settling over him, though a faint ache lingered. Through the open window beside his bed, he peered into the silent street below, still veiled in the dimness before dawn. The Sun Kingdom, ever reluctant to slumber, lay shrouded in quiet, yet his senses were alert.
A low growl escaped his lips as dark shapes coalesced within the faint shadows cast by a guttering street lamp. Instinctively, his hand flicked toward the twin daggers on the floor, and they leapt into his grip, silent and sure.
In a heartbeat, he was outside, standing defiantly before the shadowy figures gathering in the street. "Shadow brother…" rasped a voice, grinding like stones. A chill crossed his face as he held his ground, daggers poised. His heart stirred, caught between longing and revulsion.
"Master calls… come. We hunt," crooned the creature, its voice slicing the air like a blade. Nimrod clenched his jaw, refusing to speak. The twisted cries of his former brethren haunted his memory, and he feared his voice might sound too much like theirs.
With steely resolve, he uttered a single word: "Leave." The black-robed forms quivered in mocking laughter, their presence thickening like smoke in the empty street. Four wraiths—creatures corrupted by dark magic—faced him, though he sensed another hidden in the shadows. They never revealed all their hunters; it was a rule of the hunt to keep the true assassin out of sight.
As they glided closer, spectral and menacing, Nimrod tensed, every muscle coiled. He knew these wraiths—once men—felt neither fear nor pain. Their master, the dark wizard who had created and enslaved them, left no room for mercy.
Then he sensed it—a subtle chill at his back. An ambush. The lead wraith had waited for this moment. "Brother… Master calls… come…" The wraiths' voices twisted the air, and with a sudden, jagged movement, the attack began.
The lead wraith's hand twitched, signaling the others to strike. Blades flashed, slicing through the silence. Nimrod twisted, barely dodging a jagged dagger, though a searing cut opened across his shoulder. Teeth clenched, he spun, lashing out with both daggers. The blades struck two wraiths, wisps of dark smoke curling from their wounds. He knew they were the weakest—always his first targets. The force of his strikes hurled them backward, their inhuman shrieks shattering the silence as they crashed against the cracked timbers of a nearby house, momentarily incapacitated.
He spared them no thought; they would soon return, for wraiths did not die easily. As he turned to the remaining two, fatigue crept into his limbs, his breath growing thin. Then, with a flash too swift to track, the wraith on his right lunged, blade aimed at his heart.
Realizing his stance was exposed, Nimrod threw himself back, dodging just as the blade glanced off his arm. Smoke rose where his dagger found purchase in the wraith's side, yet its hollow eyes betrayed no pain.
Again, it advanced, driving him back step by step. The air thickened, freezing the scene in an unnatural stillness. No cries or alarms rose from the houses; only the wraiths' dark smoke seemed to move, curling toward him with a malevolent life of its own.
Then he felt it: a presence beyond sight, colder than the others. He turned, and from the shadows stepped a figure he knew well—a wraith, but not a true wraith. A twisted soul, yet somehow retaining a faint glimmer of what once was. Nimrod's heart chilled, and he whispered, "First Brother…"
The First Brother's eyes, dark as an abyss, settled on him, a flicker of recognition passing between them. Nimrod hesitated, memories of their past entwining with the grim reality before him. But as he faltered, the wraiths surged forward, their numbers closing in.
The First Brother did not strike but watched, as if testing Nimrod's resolve. Chaos engulfed him, steel clashing against shadows, limbs growing leaden, wounds opening like blackened brands. Dark fog wrapped around him, blinding and suffocating, pulling him down.
Just as he thought all hope was lost, a faint light pierced the smoke—the first glow of dawn. Its rays crept over the rooftops, scattering shadows and weakening the wraiths' hold on the street. One by one, they recoiled, their forms dissolving into plumes of dark smoke that twisted and writhed before vanishing.
The First Brother lingered a moment longer, his half-shadowed form caught between darkness and light. His gaze held Nimrod's, a wordless promise flickering in his darkened eyes. Then, as the sun rose fully, he too faded, leaving Nimrod alone in the silent street, blood seeping from his wounds. He breathed heavily, his resolve unbroken though pain racked his body.
He watched the last wisps of smoke vanish, vowing that one day he would end his former brethren—and their master. The silence lifted at last, faint murmurs stirring across the city as its people awoke. Far off, in an ancient hall, two old men gazed westward, sensing the strange stillness break.
One muttered, "Report this to the council. The wraiths have returned."