The early morning mist clung to the jagged rocks of the Stone Shard Ridge, curling through the trees like ghostly tendrils. The light was dim, muted by the thick clouds that gathered overhead, promising rain. Dorian ascended the ridge slowly, his steps deliberate as he navigated the uneven terrain.
The faint echoes of the previous night's encounter still played in his mind—the satisfying sound of flesh meeting steel, the broken cries of his victims, the rush of power that came from asserting dominance. The surviving adventurers would spread the story, their terror infecting everyone they met. That fear would grow, like a fire devouring dry wood.
Dorian's grin was sharp as a knife.
"Soon, Renia," he murmured, his voice low. "Soon you'll hear my name again. And this time, you won't be able to ignore it."
The climb became steeper as he pushed further into the ridge. The once-verdant forest gave way to barren stone and sparse patches of stubborn grass. The wind howled through the narrow passes, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and death.
Ahead, Dorian spotted signs of recent battle: the carcass of a monstrous wolf-like creature sprawled across the path, its body riddled with scorch marks and jagged wounds. Its eyes were frozen wide in terror, its teeth bared in a final snarl.
"Renia's work," Dorian muttered, crouching to examine the body.
The precision of the wounds told him everything he needed to know. Elya's ice magic had slowed the beast, Sarem's blade had delivered the killing blows, and Renia's strategic mind had orchestrated it all.
For a brief moment, memories surfaced: long nights of planning, the camaraderie forged in fire, the unspoken trust between them.
He shook his head violently, banishing the thought. The past was a chain he'd broken long ago.
As Dorian rose, his sharp ears caught the faint sound of footsteps further up the trail. They were hurried, uneven, and disorganized—a group in disarray.
His grin returned.
Moving silently, Dorian slipped into the shadows, blending into the jagged rocks that lined the path. He crept forward, his movements as fluid as water, until the source of the noise came into view.
It was a group of five adventurers, their faces pale, their weapons drawn. They moved in a loose formation, their eyes darting to every shadow, every flicker of movement in the mist.
"I'm telling you," one of them hissed, a stocky man with a mace slung over his shoulder. "Something's out here. You heard what they said at the camp. He's hunting people—tearing them apart!"
"Shut up," another snapped, a wiry woman with twin daggers gripped tightly in her hands. "You're just spooking yourself. There's nothing out here but us and the ridge."
Dorian crouched low, his dagger gleaming faintly in the misty light. He watched them for a moment longer, studying their movements, their expressions.
Weak.
Fear radiated off them like a stench, clouding their judgment, dulling their senses. They would be easy prey.
But easy wasn't what Dorian wanted.
He stepped into the open, his grin wide and gleaming like a predator catching the scent of its prey.
"Looking for me?"
The reaction was immediate. The stocky man stumbled back, his mace slipping from his grip as his wide eyes locked onto Dorian. The wiry woman spun on her heel, her daggers raised defensively, her breath catching in her throat.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound confident.
Dorian's grin widened. "The name's not important," he said, his tone light and mocking. "But if you're heading up the ridge, I'd say you're in the wrong line of work."
One of the others, a lanky archer, nocked an arrow and aimed it at Dorian's chest. "Stay back," the archer said, his voice shaking. "We don't want trouble."
Dorian tilted his head, his grin turning cold. "Trouble's already here."
The fight began before the archer could release his arrow. Dorian moved like a shadow, closing the distance in an instant. His dagger flashed, slicing cleanly through the bowstring before the archer could react.
The stocky man lunged with his mace, but his movements were slow, telegraphed. Dorian sidestepped easily, his blade finding the man's side. Blood sprayed across the stones as the man collapsed, clutching at his wound with trembling hands.
The wiry woman was faster. She darted in with her daggers, aiming for Dorian's throat. He caught her wrist mid-swing, twisting sharply. The crack of bone echoed through the mist as she screamed, her weapon falling from her hand.
"Pathetic," Dorian said, his voice dripping with disdain.
The remaining two adventurers froze, their weapons trembling in their hands.
"Run," Dorian said softly, his grin sharp as a blade.
They didn't need to be told twice.
As the echoes of their retreating footsteps faded, Dorian turned his attention to the wounded. The stocky man groaned, his blood pooling beneath him as he struggled to crawl away.
Dorian crouched beside him, his grin fading into something colder. "Where's Renia?" he asked, his voice calm.
The man whimpered, shaking his head weakly. "I... I don't know—"
Dorian pressed his dagger to the man's throat, the blade biting into his skin. "Wrong answer. Try again."
"Stone Shard Ridge!" the man gasped, his eyes wide with terror. "She... she's climbing the ridge!"
Dorian smiled faintly. "Good boy."
With a swift motion, he ended the man's life, his blade slipping between the ribs with practiced ease.
The mist thickened as Dorian stood, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. The ridge loomed like a jagged crown, its peaks hidden in the swirling fog. Somewhere up there, Renia was moving, unaware of the shadow creeping closer with every step.
Dorian wiped his blade clean on the dead man's tunic, his grin returning.
The hunt was just beginning.