The knight gasped, his breath catching as he stared at the lifeless body before him.
"The elf man... he didn't say anything about a dead prisoner, did he?"
The guard beside him frowned, eyes narrowing as he thought for a moment before responding.
"No, he didn't...I'm sure of it"
A realization crept into his tone.
"That means... he probably knows more than he told Lord Haymen."
The first man exhaled sharply, glancing at his companion.
"That's right. We should alert the Lord as soon as possible... This treasonous act can't go unpunished....but still, we have to confirm it before we're assumed to be racist like Ser Gavin." But his gaze lingered on the corpse—Vin's stiffened form, the several bruises on his face and battered body. His thoughts wavered.
'Still… this guy was obviously beaten to death.... what could have led to something like this... none of our people dared-'
His thoughts were immediately cut short on hearing a familiar wet, sickening squish.
His eyes widened as searing pain exploded from his back, just beneath his ribs. A choked groan escaped his lips but was quickly shut out as a hand covered his lips. His body locked up in shock, muscles refusing to move.
Confused, he turned—trying to see where the sound had come from.
The blade shot forward once more, piercing clean through his chest.
A deep, gurgling sound rose in his throat as warm crimson blood poured from his lips. His gaze locked on the sword.
His fingers twitched, and with his final breathe, he turned around and there, standing behind him, he saw Victor. And his fellow knight? He laid on the floor, with a slit throat, already dead.
Victor's cold eyes stared back at him, and in one glance he could already tell how his life was about to end. Then, with one swift motion, Victor yanked the sword free.
Without any word, he fell to the ground, gurgling in his own blood until finally, he was dead.
In a silent manner, Victor immediately exited from the site, leaving the knight's corpses.
A few moments ago, everything had seemed normal.
But now, something was different.
One of the patrolling guards walked along his usual route, his boots crunching softly against the dirt.
Ahead, another guard moved toward one of the camps.
The first guard paid little attention, continuing his path—until a sharp, awful sound sliced through the silence.
He stiffened as his head snapped toward the noise.
"What's going on?" His voice came out wary, uncertain.
Then, a shadow loomed behind him.
In the next instant—
A blade flashed across his throat sending blood spraying into the cold night air.
His eyes bulged as his hands instinctively reached for the wound, but his body had already begun to fail him.
His knees hit the ground. Then, his body followed.
The patrols fell one by one. Silently. Efficiently.
Evan and Victor worked in the shadows, eliminating every guard that roamed the camp. There were no alarms, no warnings. Just the quiet, merciless slaughter of those who thought they were safe.
And when the last patrol lay dead—
The real massacre began.
This wasn't Evan's original plan, but it was the only effective way to make sure that they wouldn't have to live in fear of how close their pursuers can be to do. And so, it began.
Lord Haman's soldiers slept soundly in their tents, unaware of the death creeping upon them.
Victor and his colleague moved swiftly.
They entered the tents one by one, their blades whispering through the air.
A quick slash. A sharp exhale. A body going still.
No matter how many knights slept in each tent, it didn't matter.
They all died the same way—throats slit in their sleep.
There was no shouting. No fighting. No struggle.
Just the slow, methodical cleansing of every living soul in the camp.
The hours passed in eerie silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of fabric and the soft gurgles of dying men.
By the time the night was near its end—
There were little to no men left.
In the faint moonlight, Victor stepped toward a knight's sleeping tent—the latest in his silent execution.
On entering the knight's tent, he could already notice the man stirring slightly in his sleep.
Wasting no time, Victor with his heavily bloodied sword at hand, prepared to end him quickly, in a single swing as he had done to the others.
But then—
The soldier's eyes snapped open.
For a second, he just stared. Then—his gaze locked onto Victor.
Realization crashed over him like a tidal wave and his body tensed up in an instance.
In one frantic motion, he reached for his sword, unsheathing it in an instant and pointing it at Victor.
"Who are you?" He commanded. But then, he hesitated as his brow furrowed.
"…Wait."
Recognition flashed in his eyes.
"You… you're one of the prisoners."
Victor remained silent.
"How did you—" the knight cut himself off. His expression twisted into something grim. A quiet understanding settled over him.
"The elf man was lying… wasn't he?"
Victor tilted his head slightly. He needed to kill this man before he alerted the others. But the knight was already gripping his weapon tightly, and their pending clash was obviously inevitable.
"I don't know anything about the elf man." Victor said, since it would be best not to compromise the innocent man's family if he eventually failed to slay the knight.
"But I do know one thing." His voice hardened.
"A man who strikes down his own friend from behind—just in the name of loyalty—" His eyes gleamed coldly.
"—is not a man at all."
The knight paused for a moment before almost bursting into a chuckle.
"You awful people don't deserve to even talk to me about loyalty! You're criminals for crying out loud!" he spat.
However, Victor only gave a small, humorless smile.
"Don't worry." he said, stepping closer.
"I won't talk to you about it...I'll beat it into you. So in your next life, you'll know how to treat your own comrades."
The knight slowly rose to his feet, tightening his grip on his sword.
"You think you can kill me?" He sneered.
Victor didn't answer. He simply raised his weapon.
A prideful smirk tugged at his lips.
"Come at me."
***
In the Lord's tent, the atmosphere was different from the others.
It would be far from obvious to say that Lord Haman slept in luxury.
A finely made bed. A tent that was larger, decorated, comfortable.
He lay under thick, warm covers, his breaths slow and steady.
But then, an alerting issue commenced—
His hounds barked.
Once.
Twice.
Then, continuously.
A frown creased his face as he stirred.
His brows twitched and his hand shifted slightly.
Then—
A soft snap.
It was subtle. Barely noticeable.
But Lord Haman's eyes snapped open.
His hands moved instantly to his sword which he laid with, and swiftly unsheathed it in one smooth motion, turning—
His blade met nothing but empty air, and his gaze shot forward— And there he saw it.
A crossbow.
Aimed directly at his chest.
And behind it—
Evan.
The young man stood in the shadows, gripping the weapon and taking steady slow steps, he walked into the camp.
"Don't." He muttered to the Lord.