A strange and mysterious breeze swirled around Leon, escaping from his mouth and nose. It carried with it the faint scent of an unknown fragrance, like smoke that seemed to evaporate from his very being. The lingering air was disturbed by a faint pulse of magic, dispersing before him. It felt almost like a breath from another realm, brushing his face before fading into the darkness.
The magic within him surged, stirring his mind from its slumber. A voice, soft yet commanding, echoed in his heart.
Wake up.
It was not spoken aloud, but the words reverberated deep within his soul, reaching the very core of his spirit. The sensation was jarring, and Leon's eyes shot open, his breath catching.
He was greeted by the darkened room, where only the faintest slivers of moonlight pierced through the gaps in the attic's old wooden roof. They cast eerie, narrow beams of light that danced across the floor, but before his foggy mind could fully grasp his surroundings, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The soft, warm glow of a candle was approaching, far too close for comfort.
His heart raced. Someone's here.
The soft creak of footsteps against the wooden floor echoed in the stillness of the night. It was faint, but in the deep quiet, each step seemed to hammer against his senses. Whoever it was, they were getting closer.
A thief? Leon thought, narrowing his eyes but keeping them only half open, pretending to still be asleep. His body tensed, every muscle coiled in anticipation, waiting for the right moment. He didn't move, didn't even breathe too heavily, carefully watching the figure as they drew near.
The intruder, emboldened by Leon's apparent slumber, reached out—a gloved hand inching towards the sword cradled in Leon's arms.
Now.
In an instant, Leon exploded into motion. His hand shot out like lightning, clamping down on the intruder's wrist with a grip of iron. With a fierce pull, he yanked the figure down, sending them crashing to the ground.
"What the—!" the intruder yelped in shock. The candlestick flew from his hand, snuffing out as it struck the floor, plunging them both into deeper darkness.
Leon didn't hesitate. With his free hand, he grabbed the intruder by the collar and twisted, pulling a move he had once seen the Ghoul Knights practice, a fluid ground technique. With a swift shift of his weight, he flipped the intruder onto his side, pinning him down hard, his knee pressed into the small of the man's back.
"Liam! Brandon! Get up!" Leon shouted, his voice sharp as he called for his companions. His eyes darted to where they were sleeping, but to his growing alarm, neither stirred. It was as if they were in an unnatural, deep slumber.
The man beneath him struggled wildly, thrashing against Leon's grip. "Damn it! How the hell are you still awake!?" he spat, his voice laced with disbelief.
Leon gritted his teeth, his strength alone barely enough to hold the man down. It was clear that this was no ordinary thief. Deciding not to waste any more energy wrestling him, Leon released his hold just long enough to snatch his sword from beside him. He stood, the cold steel gleaming faintly in the moonlight as he brought the blade to the intruder's throat.
Before the man could fully rise, Leon pressed the edge of the sword against his neck, the tip already cutting into his skin.
"Move again, and I'll take your head off," Leon growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The intruder froze, feeling the sharpness of the blade bite into his flesh. A thin line of blood trickled down his neck, staining the sword a dark crimson. His eyes widened in panic, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he realized the gravity of the situation. "Wait! Wait!" he gasped, his voice trembling. "It hurts; don't kill me! Please, don't kill me!"
Leon's grip on the sword tightened as he studied the man in the dim light. Something felt off. Slowly, Leon tilted his head, trying to make out the intruder's features. It was then, as the moonlight faintly illuminated the figure, that he noticed something odd.
The man wore a mask.
Leon pressed the cold edge of the sword against the intruder's throat, feeling the tension in the air as if the world had held its breath. With his free hand, he quickly reached down and yanked the dagger from the man's waist, tossing it aside. Then, without breaking his grip on the sword, he tore the cloth from the man's face.
Recognition dawned on Leon instantly, and his eyes narrowed. It was Boris, the young village thug who had tried to rob him just a few weeks before.
Leon's lips curled into a snarl. "You're braver than I thought," he spat, his voice dripping with anger. "Do you really want to gamble your life on my sword?"
Boris, trembling under the weight of the blade, didn't dare to move. His eyes darted nervously toward the two figures still lying motionless on the floor behind Leon. The sight of his unconscious companions filled Leon with a sudden, murderous rage.
"Liam!? Brandon!?" Leon shouted, his voice ringing through the attic. Still no response.
Fury boiled in Leon's veins, his patience quickly evaporating. He turned back to Boris, his gaze burning with hatred. Without a second thought, he drove his boot hard into Boris's stomach. The force sent the young thug sprawling, gasping for air as he clutched his abdomen, writhing in pain. His face twisted as he dry-heaved, bile rising in his throat.
"You worthless piece of trash," Leon growled, stalking toward him. He bent down, grabbing a fistful of Boris's hair with his left hand, jerking his head back. He pressed the sword harder against Boris's throat, the blade biting just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Leon's mind raced with anger. After all I've survived, after all the dangers I've faced, am I really about to be undone by this pathetic scum?
His grip on Boris's hair tightened. "What did you do to them? Why won't they wake up? I'll give you one chance to explain, before I lose my patience completely."
There was no mistaking the lethal intent in Leon's voice. His knuckles whitened as he clenched the hilt of the sword, prepared to deliver a death blow if the thug didn't answer to his satisfaction. Boris's eyes widened in terror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His pants were damp with fear as he struggled to form a coherent response.
"I-I didn't kill them! I swear! They just fainted!" Boris stammered, his voice shaking. "They're not dead! Please, please believe me!"
Leon's eyes darkened. "How do I wake them up?" he barked, pressing the sword deeper, drawing more blood.
Boris's voice cracked with panic. "It, it takes time! A quarter of an hour! Maybe two! That's all! The medicine isn't lethal, I swear it! Just give it a bit of time, and they'll wake up on their own! Please, don't kill me! Please, please!"
Leon's face twisted in disgust as Boris screamed in pain, the thug's cries filling the small room. He could feel the man trembling beneath his hand, the fear practically rolling off him in waves. For a moment, Leon considered ending it right then and there, just to silence him. But then, slowly, the anger that clouded his mind began to settle.
He took a deep breath, the murderous urge receding ever so slightly. "Fine," he said, his voice cold and detached. "I'll wait. But if they don't wake up, I promise you'll wish you were dead long before I'm through with you."
The look in Leon's eyes was that of a man already envisioning Boris's slow and painful demise. The thug, now shaking like a leaf in a storm, nodded frantically, his voice too broken to respond.
Internally, Boris cursed his luck. Why? Why didn't it work on him? He had bought the sleeping powder from a shady merchant, and it had worked flawlessly on the villagers he'd tested it on. But tonight, when it mattered most, it had failed. Why this boy, of all people?
Boris bit down on his lip as the blade dug deeper into his skin, praying for time to pass faster, for something anything, to break the unbearable tension.
From time to time, Leon called out to his unconscious companions again, his voice echoing through the stillness. Each time there was no answer, Boris's heart leaped in terror, and he would beg for mercy again, his words increasingly incoherent.
It wasn't until what felt like an eternity later, more than ten agonizing minutes, that Liam and Brandon finally stirred. Their groggy forms shifted, responding weakly to Leon's persistent calls, as they slowly, painfully, began to wake.
In the silvery moonlight, Liam and Brandon finally stirred, groggy but alive. As they blinked away their stupor, they took in the scene before them, Leon standing over a bloodied Boris, the thug trembling on the ground with a sword pressed to his neck. Startled, they scrambled out of their beds, weapons in hand, and quickly surrounded the two.
"What the hell happened?" Liam demanded, his eyes darting from Leon to the pathetic figure at his feet.
Seeing that his companions were unharmed, Leon allowed himself to relax, a wave of relief washing over him. He exhaled deeply. "He drugged you both and tried to steal our swords. Fortunately, I'm fine." He kicked Boris sharply, sending him sprawling, his explanation simple and to the point.
Though Leon's tone was calm, the weight of his words made Liam and Brandon shiver. Their faces hardened as they grasped just how close they'd come to being defenseless.
"Damn it, I nearly fell for this piece of trash's trick," Liam growled, rage bubbling to the surface. Without hesitation, he pressed the broken edge of his sword against the back of Boris's neck, his voice filled with venom. "Leon, I say we finish him right here. We'll be gone by daybreak anyway. Let's end this now."
Boris whimpered, his face contorting in terror as he collapsed fully on the ground, pleading incoherently, tears welling up in his eyes.
"Hold on, don't act on impulse," Brandon interjected, stepping forward and picking up Boris's discarded dagger. His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Killing him might feel satisfying, but it'll just leave more trouble in our wake. Why risk getting a bounty on our heads for the likes of him? He's not worth the effort."
Liam scowled, clearly not convinced. "What then? Just let him go? This bastard's been a thorn in our side for too long. Every part of me wants to chop him into pieces right now." His knuckles tightened around the hilt of his sword, his frustration evident.
Leon, however, had regained his composure. "Brandon's right. There's no need to risk more trouble, especially since you two are fine now." He sheathed his sword with a sigh, his muscles easing as the tension in the room began to dissipate.
Boris gasped for air, the fear momentarily lifting from his face as hope flickered in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he'd survive this night after all.
But Leon wasn't done. "That said," he continued, his voice dropping low, "we won't kill him, but that doesn't mean he gets off easy."
Liam's eyes lit up at Leon's words. "Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a wicked grin as he flexed his fingers. "Now that sounds like a plan."
Brandon silently moved to block the stairs, his intentions clear. No escape.
For the next hour, Boris's screams echoed throughout the third floor of the old windmill tower. The begging, the cries for mercy, they all fell on deaf ears as Leon, Liam, and Brandon took turns pummeling him, their fists and feet striking like relentless hammers. Boris's pleas grew weaker and weaker, his voice becoming a hoarse whisper as the blows kept coming.
By the time they were done, the village thug was little more than a broken, bruised heap. His body, limp and battered, was barely recognizable, and he lay on the floor gasping like a dying animal. The three of them, their fists raw and sore from the beating, dragged him to the edge of the mill. With a final push, they kicked Boris down the hillside, his body tumbling and rolling helplessly until it disappeared into the dark underbrush.
Leon watched with cold satisfaction as Boris's broken form vanished into the night. Clapping his hands together as if to dust them off, he smiled grimly. "That should do the trick."
Liam stretched his arms, wincing as he rolled his shoulders. "Feels good. Haven't had a workout like that in a while."
Brandon nodded in silent agreement as they made their way back inside. "Let's rest for a bit. Dawn's only a few hours away, and we'll need our strength."
This time, none of them felt the urge to lie down. Instead, they packed their blankets and rolled them up, leaning against the rough stone wall with their eyes half-closed, resting but remaining alert.
As Leon stared out into the night, he frowned, his thoughts swirling. He had made up his mind: once morning came, he would pay a visit to the old blacksmith and Olivia. They needed to know about the drug Boris had used, the village couldn't afford more thugs like him running around. He didn't have time or energy to deal with this menace himself, but the blacksmith and that fiery little lion, Olivia, would take care of it.
The sooner they left this mess behind, the better.
In the bushes at the foot of the hill, Boris lay crumpled like a discarded rag doll, unconscious for what felt like an eternity. The night's cold seeped into his very bones, wrapping around him like icy chains. Eventually, pain started to tug him back to consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he felt was agony, every inch of his body throbbed as though it had been used as a punching bag.
His face twisted into a grimace, but he managed to pull himself up despite the stabbing pain. Boris had been through this before. After all, growing up being beaten by Olivia since childhood had at least one benefit: he could endure.
The sky above was shrouded in dark clouds, blocking the moon's light and leaving Boris to curse his rotten luck in the pitch-black night. He stood there, shaking from pain and anger, teeth clenched in frustration.
What a disaster. The thought ran bitterly through his mind. This must be what it means to lose the rice while trying to steal the chicken. Not only had he failed to steal the sword, but he'd also taken a thorough beating for his trouble.
Instinctively, he reached for his waist, only to find his dagger missing. He must've lost it back at the windmill. Of course, there was no way he was going back for it now. Not after that.
"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!" Boris roared into the night, venting his helpless rage as he kicked the wet grass beneath his feet. Each kick sent splashes of dew flying, but it did nothing to ease the fury burning inside him.
He cursed everything he could think of, the three runaway slaves, Olivia, his own miserable fate. Every foul word he knew left his lips as he limped aimlessly along the path, every step a painful reminder of his failure.
After what felt like an eternity of stumbling and swearing, Boris finally paused, panting from the effort. The dark clouds had started to part, allowing the moon to peek through once again, casting a faint glow on the path ahead. It was then that he realized something was off.
He had been walking in the wrong direction.
Instead of heading back toward the village, he had wandered east, away from everything familiar. He hadn't even noticed until now, but the endless stretch of unfamiliar trees and brush was proof enough. Boris spat out a mouthful of blood and groaned in frustration.
Now what? He wanted to turn back, but just as he began to move, he froze. His ears caught something faint in the distance: the sound of horse hooves, many of them.
Boris quickly dropped to the ground, flattening himself against the bushes beside the road, his breath catching in his throat. His heart raced as the sound grew louder, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing in the still night air. Torches appeared over the horizon, flickering like fireflies, growing larger and more numerous as the riders approached.
A chill ran down Boris's spine. He dared to poke his head out ever so slightly from the bushes, his eyes widening at the sight before him.
A company of cavalrymen galloped down the dirt road, their torches casting flickering light across their armor. But it wasn't the speed or the number of them that made Boris's blood run cold; it was the unmistakable metallic sheen of the helmets they wore. Each helmet bore the face of a man, a grim symbol that gleamed in the firelight.
Boris knew exactly what that meant. The Kingdom of Kantadar.
The soldiers rode past, oblivious to Boris trembling in the shadows, but his mind raced. Panic and confusion fought for control as he recalled the ridiculous excuse he had made earlier when trying to cover up his assault on Leon and the others.
Could it be...? No, it couldn't. But the thought wouldn't leave him alone.
Those kids... they're not escaped slaves, are they? Could they actually be spies for Kantadar?
Boris felt his heart hammer in his chest. His mind spiraled. It couldn't be true, could it? But why else would soldiers from the Kingdom of Kantadar be so close?
He stayed frozen in place as the sound of the cavalry receded into the distance. His body ached, his mind swirled with paranoia and fear, and for the first time that night, Boris wished he hadn't been so eager to pick a fight with those boys.
As he lay there in the bushes, too terrified to move, one thing became crystal clear in his mind, whether they were spies or not, Boris wanted no part in whatever was coming next.