A bird soared high above the treetops, its sharp eyes scanning the dense forest below. There was something predatory in its flight, a cold intelligence that sent a shiver through the trees. Its talons flexed as it circled slowly, watching a group of humans concealed beneath the forest's canopy. It sensed movement—a disturbance—and its keen instincts told it that food might soon be close at hand.

In the treetops, a squad of mercenaries lay hidden, each perched on different branches, silent as shadows. Their uniforms marked them as members of the same group—the infamous Thorn mercenaries. They had been waiting for hours, their muscles taut from both tension and stillness, and yet, no one dared to complain. These were seasoned killers, trained in patience and the art of waiting for the perfect moment to strike. From the ground, no one would have noticed them, even if they happened to glance up.

The forest around them was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of a bird. The anticipation hung thick in the air.

"We've been here forever," a short man muttered, just loud enough for his closest companions to hear. His voice, barely a whisper, still felt too loud for the heavy silence of the forest. A few of the others shifted slightly, opening their eyes and glancing toward the center where their leader stood. The man in the center—Prince Charming by all accounts—was as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the road below with unwavering focus.

The leader was an imposing figure, his skin smooth and unmarred like porcelain, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. His sharp, calculating eyes and perfectly arched brows only added to his regal demeanor. He hadn't moved for hours, but his presence was magnetic, commanding attention without a single word.

Without breaking his gaze, the leader slowly turned his head and locked eyes with the short man who had spoken. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his silence was oppressive.

The short man paled under the scrutiny, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "Umm... sorry, sir," he stammered, shrinking back slightly. The leader turned his gaze back to the road with a soft sigh, the sound barely audible, yet it was enough to make the short man's heart race with fear. His body tensed as if anticipating a punishment.

A figure in the back opened her eyes, her presence suddenly more tangible. A cold, calculating woman with sharp features and eyes that gleamed with malice. Without warning, she shimmered like a mirage, vanishing from sight only to reappear behind the short man in the blink of an eye.

The short man sensed something was wrong, his breath catching in his throat as a chill crept down his spine. He barely had time to turn before a hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his scream. He gasped as a blade, cold and silent, pierced his chest. The burning sensation of metal sliding through his flesh stole his breath, his eyes widening in panic. Blood dripped down the blade's tip, pooling at his feet as his life ebbed away.

Not again... The thought barely crossed his mind before darkness claimed him.

The assassin didn't let the body fall. Instead, she caught it with ease, her movements precise and practiced. A dark flame ignited at her fingertips, consuming the body in a slow, deliberate burn. The black fire was unnatural, devouring the corpse without leaving a trace, not even ashes. Around them, the others remained indifferent. A few chuckled quietly at the familiar sight, while others smiled but said nothing. To them, this was just another day on the job.

A man standing near the edge of the group shook his head with a small smile. "Tad always did have a knack for getting himself killed," he muttered to himself. He was a striking figure, his long dark hair tied into a bun, giving him an almost noble appearance. His sharp, feminine features were handsome, but not overly so. He had known Tad would meet this end eventually. The man had been courting death the moment he betrayed his vengeful ex, and now it had finally caught up with him.

The assassin glanced down at the charred skull in her hand, watching with mild curiosity as it disintegrated into nothing. Her cold eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and she returned to her position, melding into the shadows as if she had never moved.

A few hours passed in tense silence. The squad remained hidden among the trees, their senses heightened as they waited for their target. Finally, the faint sound of hoofbeats reached their ears, accompanied by the creak of wooden wheels and the occasional clink of metal. The target was nearing.

The leader's sharp eyes remained fixed on the road, where the outline of a caravan was beginning to emerge through the trees. His lips curled into a slight smile. Their target was almost within reach.

He turned his head ever so slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Our target is the Viscount's daughter. She'll be in the white carriage with gold accents. Remember, we don't need to fight to the death. Kill the girl and get out. Quickly."

The mercenaries nodded, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. They had been waiting for this moment for hours, and now the time had come. Swords were loosened in their scabbards, and weapons were readied. The tension was palpable, crackling like static in the air.

Emmett's heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of excitement and fear coursing through his veins. This was his first major mission with the Thorns mercenary group. He had been on smaller runs before—deliveries, scouting—but this was his first assassination. The stakes were high, and the captain herself had warned them that they might not make it out alive. And yet, Emmett had volunteered anyway. Why? Maybe it was because the captain was a beauty and had asked him directly. Maybe it was because he wanted to prove himself. Or maybe it was because he had a death wish.

The caravan came into view, the target's carriage gleaming in the dim light of the forest. It was a beautiful, ornate carriage, pure white with intricate gold designs etched along the sides. Through the open window, the silhouette of a young woman was visible—she looked relaxed, unaware of the danger closing in around her.

The leader raised his hand, signaling the attack.

In an instant, the mercenaries sprang into action. Like shadows, they leapt from the trees, descending upon the caravan with deadly precision. Emmett's breath caught in his throat as he fell, the wind rushing past him, making him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt in years. He flipped mid-air, drawing both swords as he somersaulted toward the ground. The thrill of the fall, the adrenaline coursing through his veins—it was intoxicating.

The guards below barely had time to react as thirty mercenaries rained down upon them like death incarnate. Emmett landed with a thud, his blades flashing in the dim light as he cut through two guards in one fluid motion. Blood sprayed across his face, warm and metallic, but he didn't slow down. He twisted, narrowly avoiding the swing of a sword aimed at his head, and sent a throwing knife into the throat of the nearest guard.

Chaos erupted around him. The mercenaries struck with precision, cutting down the guards with practiced ease. The sound of clashing steel and cries of pain filled the air, mingling with the frantic neighing of the horses and the creak of splintering wood.

The white carriage trembled as one of Emmett's comrades—a hulking man wielding a massive hammer—smashed into it with a single powerful blow. The wood shattered, sending debris flying in all directions. The young woman inside screamed, a high-pitched wail of terror as she was thrown from the wreckage, tumbling to the ground.

Guards rushed to her side, their faces pale with fear as they realized they were outnumbered. But their desperation didn't stop them. They threw themselves at the attackers, determined to protect the Viscount's daughter even at the cost of their own lives.

Emmett's eyes locked onto the target. She was on the ground, injured but still alive. This was his moment. He lunged forward, his swords at the ready, slicing through two more guards that stood in his way. But before he could reach her, a sharp pain exploded in his left shoulder. He gasped, stumbling back as he glanced down to see an arrow buried deep in his flesh.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Emmett snapped the arrow's shaft, casting a quick glance around. The archer was standing some distance away, already nocking another arrow. He cursed under his breath, ducking as the second arrow flew past his head, missing him by inches.

The target was close—so close he could almost taste victory. But before he could make his final move, another figure stepped into his path—a guard captain, his eyes burning with fury. The man raised his sword, preparing to strike.

Emmett barely had time to raise his own blades in defense.