"I want to do something," a Frey soldier muttered, shifting uneasily as he adjusted the sword on his belt.
His companion glanced at him, irritation flickering in his eyes. "What do you—"
The words choked off abruptly. John emerged from the shadows behind them, silent and deadly.
The first soldier barely had time to blink before John's blade cut deep into his neck. Blood gushed in a sharp arc, and the man crumpled without a sound, his body collapsing like a sack of grain.
The second soldier froze for a heartbeat too long. Panic twisted his features as he opened his mouth to shout, but John moved faster. He plunged the blade into the man's throat with precision, silencing him with a wet gurgle. Blood poured down his chest as he collapsed, twitching on the cold ground before going still.
John wiped his blade on the soldier's tunic, his expression cold and unreadable. He glanced down at the bodies, his voice low and indifferent. "You wanted to do something," he muttered, stepping over them. "Now you don't have to."
He strode toward the wooden door at the end of the hallway, his footsteps eerily quiet against the stone floor. He stopped in front of it, pausing for a brief moment before raising his hand.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in," a voice called, rough and impatient.
John pushed the door open, slipping inside. The dimly lit room reeked of damp parchment and old sweat. A single candle flickered on the desk, illuminating the bald man hunched over a pile of documents.
"What happened?" the man asked without looking up, his tone sharp, as though he were scolding a servant.
"Nothing important," John said evenly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room. "I just need to know where you're keeping the gold."
The bald man—Walys Fenn, the steward of House Frey—froze, his pen hovering mid-air. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair, finally looking at John. His face twitched, his eyes flickering toward the door before snapping back to John.
"Who the hell are you?" Walys asked, trying to sound confident. But the tremor in his voice betrayed him, as did the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
John smirked, stepping closer. "Does it matter? I'm not here to chat."
Walys straightened, his tone hardening as he tried to reclaim control. "Do you even know where you are? This is House Frey. If you think—"
Thud.
A kunai shot past his head, embedding itself in the wooden wall behind him with a menacing vibration. Walys flinched, the bravado draining from his face.
John tilted his head, his voice calm but icy. "Where's the treasury?"
Walys swallowed hard, his hand inching toward the desk drawer. John's gaze dropped to the movement, and he sighed, stepping closer until he loomed over the man.
"Don't waste my time," John warned, his blade glinting in the candlelight. "Answer me."
Walys froze, his hand hovering above the desk drawer. He looked up at John, fear finally breaking through his carefully constructed mask.
"The treasury is in the western tower," he said quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Top floor, behind a locked door. The key is with... with Lord Forthen."
John arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You think I'm going to run around looking for keys?"
Specially when he is already dead. He thought
Walys stammered, "No, no, I—I have a spare. Please, it's here!" He yanked open a drawer, his trembling fingers fumbling for a ring of keys.
John's blade was at his throat before he could take another breath. The cold steel pressed against his skin, and he froze, the faintest whimper escaping his lips.
"Slowly," John said, his voice low and calm, but his eyes burned with warning.
Walys moved deliberately, pulling out the keys and holding them up like a peace offering. John snatched them from his hand and stepped back, sheathing his blade.
"See?" Walys said, forcing a nervous smile. "No trouble at all, right?"
John studied him for a moment, his gaze sharp and calculating. Then he turned toward the door.
Walys barely had time to breathe before John turned back, his movements calm and deliberate, like a predator deciding how to finish its prey.
"Wait, I told you what you wanted!" Walys stammered, his voice rising with panic. He pushed back in his chair, his hands trembling as he raised them in surrender. "I helped you! You don't need to—"
John didn't let him finish. In a single, fluid motion, he hurled the blade in his hand. The steel pierced Walys's throat, silencing him mid-sentence. Blood sprayed across the desk, staining the papers he had been so diligently working on just moments ago.
Walys gasped, his hands clawing at his neck as he gurgled and slumped forward, lifeless. His head hit the desk with a dull thud.
John stepped closer, pulling the blade free from the corpse. He wiped it clean on Walys's cloak, his expression cold and unaffected.
"Loose ends," John muttered to himself, sheathing the blade. He glanced at the desk, eyeing the blood-soaked documents. Maps, ledgers, lists of names—things that might be useful later. He gathered a few clean ones, folding them neatly before slipping them into his belt.
John turned to leave, pausing only to take one last look at the body. "Thanks for the keys," he said flatly, stepping out of the room without another glance.
John moved through the shadows like a wraith, his steps soundless on the stone floor. The tower ahead was barely lit, the faint flicker of torches casting long, uneven shadows across the cold walls.
He reached the base of the western tower, the keys jingling faintly in his hand. Walys's words echoed in his mind. Top floor, behind a locked door.
John ascended the spiral staircase, his grip on the hilt of his sword steady. Each step brought him closer to his goal—and closer to the heart of House Frey's wealth.
The faint murmur of voices drifted down from above. Guards.
He paused on the staircase, pressing himself against the wall as the voices grew louder. Two men were stationed at the top of the stairs, leaning lazily against their halberds.
"Can't believe they've got us guarding a pile of coins while the others get to drink," one of them muttered, his tone bitter.
The other chuckled. "Better than being sent to the frontlines. I'll take boredom over a blade in my gut any day."
John smirked faintly. Boredom's the least of your worries.
In a flash, he moved. The first guard barely had time to straighten before John's sword sliced through his midsection, the blade cutting cleanly through armor and flesh.
The second guard stumbled back, his mouth opening in a scream, but John grabbed him by the throat, slamming him against the wall. The man struggled, clawing at John's arm, but the grip was unyielding.
"Shh," John whispered, driving his blade into the guard's chest. The man's body went limp, sliding to the ground as John pulled the sword free.
The corridor ahead was silent once more.
John wiped the blood from his blade, his expression calm and methodical. He stepped over the bodies and approached the reinforced door at the end of the hall.
Pulling the ring of keys from his belt, he flipped through them until he found the one Walys had mentioned. It slid into the lock smoothly, and with a satisfying click, the door swung open.