Draven Bloodreaver, Varyn's ruthless commander, lounged on a hilltop, a smug grin stretching across his scarred face. Below, the chaos of battle unfolded like a grand spectacle meant solely for his entertainment. The clash of steel and the screams of the dying were nothing more than background noise to him, as he lazily swirled a goblet of wine in one hand, and with the other, toyed absently with the chains binding the two slave women kneeling at his feet.
Beside him, his weasel-like advisor, Sir Percival Thimblewort, hovered nervously. His hands fluttered as he fussed over Draven's comfort, offering refills of wine and speaking in a soft, obsequious tone that grated against the roar of battle.
"Master Draven, if I may say so," Thimblewort simpered, eyes darting nervously between the commander and the battlefield, "the troops seem to be performing splendidly. Quite a remarkable display of power, wouldn't you agree?"
Draven barely acknowledged him, his attention fixed on the carnage below, his lips curling into a predatory smile.
Draven took a long, slow drink from his goblet, his eyes narrowing as he watched the battlefield below. His smile twisted into something darker, more sinister, as if the bloodshed was a mere appetizer for his insatiable appetite for destruction.
"Tell me, Thimblewort," Draven drawled, his voice thick with cruelty and command, "how long until those fools of eldoria are wiped out? I grow tired of this... waiting."
Thimblewort, ever the nervous sycophant, wrung his hands and straightened his thin frame. He shot a glance at the battle, where Varyn's forces were clashing with the enemy.
"Well, Master Draven," he began, his voice a wavering mix of fear and servility, "it should not be much longer. Our forces are overwhelming them. A few hours, perhaps, and—"
Draven slammed his goblet down, cutting Thimblewort off with a sharp glare.
"A few hours?" he snarled, his words laced with venom. "I want it done now. These worms beneath us exist only for my amusement. I will not wait like some common fool while they drag their defeat along the ground."
He leaned forward, eyes burning with impatience, his grip tightening on the chains of the slave women at his side, causing them to flinch. "If we don't crush them soon, maybe I'll start with you, Thimblewort. How long until you are a broken, quivering mess at my feet?"
Thimblewort's face paled, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "Of course, Master Draven... right away... I'll see to it that they hasten their advance."
Draven chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "Good. See that you do."
Draven's laughter echoed in the night air, his hand lazily gripping a half-empty goblet. He reclined in his command tent, draped in the spoils of war, while two slave women stood chained nearby, their eyes downcast. Behind him, the campfires flickered, casting long shadows across the battlefield below.
A distant, faint disturbance began to ripple through the air—a subtle break in the usual sounds of war. Draven didn't notice it at first, swirling his drink with a smug smirk. Then the noise grew, a sharp metallic clash, followed by... silence.
Draven's brow furrowed, his grip tightening on the goblet. He turned to his quivering advisor, Thimblewort, who stood awkwardly by his side.
"What's that sound?" Draven barked, his voice laced with irritation.
Thimblewort, trembling, peeked outside the tent, but before he could answer, the commotion outside exploded. Shadows darted through the camp, moving with deadly precision. Soldiers dropped without a sound, their bodies falling like ragdolls, throats slit before they could raise an alarm.
Draven stood up suddenly, knocking over his goblet. The crimson wine spilled across the ground like blood. "What in the name of the gods...?"
It was too late. In the chaos, his elite guards fell one by one, the night swallowing them in silence. And then I emerged from the darkness—Lucan, my men trailing behind me like ghosts. Draven's eyes widened, terror creeping across his face. For the first time, the arrogance melted away, leaving behind raw fear.
Time seemed to slow. I could see every twitch in Draven's muscles as he stumbled back, hand reaching for his sword. His gaze locked onto mine, and I could feel the weight of his panic.
"Kill him!" Draven bellowed, but his words were empty. His guards were already dead, lifeless bodies littering the ground at my feet.
I closed the distance in an instant, my blade flashing in the moonlight. Draven barely had time to turn before my sword sliced through the air with lethal precision. His head flew from his body, rolling across the ground, leaving a streak of blood in its wake. His body crumpled to the dirt, lifeless and forgotten.
Behind me, Lyra moved like a shadow, her twin daggers glinting as they found the throats of Draven's remaining men. Rylan fought with ruthless efficiency, every strike calculated and deadly. The once-thriving command post had become a graveyard, blood soaking into the earth beneath our feet.
The last man standing was Thimblewort, frozen in terror, his face pale and slick with sweat. His eyes darted from me to Draven's severed head, now lying at my feet. I met his gaze, cold and unflinching.
"Go," I muttered, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Run. Tell them what happened here."
Thimblewort nodded frantically, stumbling over his feet as he fled, too terrified to look back.
Lyra appeared at my side, her face calm despite the blood staining her hands. "Lucan," she said in a low voice, "grab his head. We need to move. Fast."
I bent down, gripping Draven's head by the hair. His eyes were still wide, frozen in the moment of his death. With a sharp nod, I signaled to my squad, and we moved swiftly through the camp. We vanished into the trees, becoming one with the shadows.
As we navigated the dense forest, my heartbeat slowed, the thrill of victory coursing through my veins. We moved like predators, silent and unseen, slipping through the underbrush with practiced ease. The moonlight barely touched us, filtering through the canopy above.
Once we were far enough from the enemy camp, I motioned for us to stop. I turned to one of my scouts, his face smeared with mud, his eyes sharp and focused.
"Light the beacon," I whispered.
Without a word, the scout nodded and disappeared into the trees. Moments later, a distant glow flickered in the night sky. The beacon was lit—a signal to Gideon. The mission was complete.
I stood in the quiet of the forest, Draven's head still clutched in my hand. The night was heavy with the weight of what we had done. We had struck the heart of the enemy. But this war was far from over.
My men gathered around me, their faces illuminated by the faint glow of the beacon. Rylan glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "You really think this will be enough?" he asked, his voice low.
Lyra, wiping blood from her blade, looked over. "This is only the beginning."
I met their gazes, my grip tightening on the severed head. "No," I said quietly, eyes fixed on the distant battlefield. "This... is how we end it."