Veyrath did not watch them leave.
He did not wait to see the spellcaster and the girl vanish into the forest, broken and burdened with the truth of what had happened here.
Their purpose had already been fulfilled.
His name would spread.
His legend would grow.
Now, it was time to move on.
Time to find new prey.
Time to hunt again.
And so, he left.
Left the ruins.
Left the graves.
Left the ghosts of his work behind.
Because there was always more to be done.
The wastelands were long behind him now.
The ruins, the shattered lands, the endless fields of ash and dust—they were no longer his hunting ground.
He had stepped beyond them, into a world not yet marked by his presence.
This place was different.
Lush. Green.
Thick forests stretched as far as the eye could see.
Rolling hills, rivers that sparkled under the moonlight.
And, most importantly—
Life.
He could smell it in the air.
Could feel it in the earth beneath his feet.
This land was teeming with prey.
But it was also unknown.
And Veyrath did not like the unknown.
Not yet.
By midday, he found it.
A settlement.
Not like the last one.
Not a tiny village with weak walls and weaker people.
This place was larger.
Stronger.
A fortified town, built atop a river, stone walls rising from the earth like jagged teeth.
And beyond those walls?
People.
So many people.
Merchants. Soldiers. Nobles.
A true city.
And with it—
A true challenge.
Veyrath's claws twitched.
His hunger stirred.
But he did not move in yet.
This place was too large to destroy in a single night.
It needed a different approach.
A patient hunt.
A game of death played slowly.
And that was his favorite kind.
As he watched from the treetops, his sharp eyes scanned the roads leading into the town.
Merchants came and went.
Caravans passed through, loaded with supplies.
And then, he saw them.
The patrol.
A small group of armed men on horseback.
Scouting the outskirts.
Searching for something.
Or rather—
Someone.
Veyrath's grin widened.
They had heard of him.
Had sent scouts to look for him.
But they had not expected to find him first.
And that?
That was their first mistake.
He did not strike immediately.
Did not charge from the trees like a beast.
That was not his way.
Instead, he waited.
Watched them pass through the trees, their eyes darting left and right.
They were nervous.
They had heard the rumors.
But they did not believe them.
Not yet.
They were still looking for a man.
Not for a nightmare.
Not for him.
And that was why they would die.
Veyrath moved as a shadow among the leaves.
Silent. Invisible.
Until he was close enough.
Close enough to hear their breathing.
Close enough to see the sweat on their brows.
Then—
The first one died.
A simple movement.
A shift in the air.
One moment, the man was on his horse.
The next, he was falling.
Blood sprayed the dirt.
His body twitched once, then stilled.
The others froze.
For a moment, they did not understand.
Then—
Panic.
They reached for their weapons.
Turned their horses.
Looked everywhere, but the right place.
And in that confusion,
The second man fell.
By the time they realized what was happening,
Only three of them were left.
One had fled—riding hard toward the city, breathless, frantic.
The others stayed, too afraid to run, too afraid to fight.
Veyrath let them.
Let them breathe.
Let them feel the weight of what had just happened.
One moment, they had been patrolling.
The next, half of them were gone.
And now, they did not know where the enemy was.
Because he was everywhere.
Because he was nowhere.
Because he was already inside their minds.
The last rider galloped toward the city gates.
He did not stop.
Did not look back.
His breath was ragged, his eyes wide with terror.
By the time he reached the walls, he was already shouting.
"SOUND THE ALARM!"
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
The guards at the gate rushed forward, weapons raised.
The man was panting.
Sweating.
His hands trembled as he pointed toward the woods.
"He's out there!"
"He's real!"
The others stared at him.
Unsure.
Unbelieving.
But he was not lying.
And soon, they would all know it.
Because Veyrath had let him live.
Just as he had let the spellcaster live.
Because now?
Now, they would come for him.
And when they did—
He would be waiting.
The city was on high alert.
The guards had rushed to the gates the moment the surviving scout had returned.
His horse had been lathered in sweat.
His breath had been ragged, panicked, broken.
He had barely been able to speak.
But his message had been clear.
"They're dead."
"Something killed them."
"He's out there."
And that had been enough.
Enough for the alarms to be raised.
Enough for the watch to be doubled.
Enough for them to believe the danger was still beyond their walls.
They thought they could hunt him.
They thought they could set traps, send patrols, control the chaos before it spread.
But they had already lost.
Because Veyrath was never outside.
He was already inside.
Veyrath did not move immediately.
He waited.
Watched.
Let them organize.
Let them gather their forces.
Let them believe they had a plan.
He stayed in the shadows beyond the gates, high in the branches of an old tree, watching the flood of armored men ride out into the wilderness.
Groups of five. Ten.
All searching for something that was never there.
And as the last group rode into the night, leaving the city behind—
That was when he moved.
The city gates were fortified. Guarded.
But no defense was impenetrable.
Especially not against something that did not fight like a man.
Veyrath did not approach from the main road.
He did not test the strength of the gates.
He moved where no one was watching.
Up.
Stone walls were meant to keep men out.
Not him.
He climbed like a silent shadow, claws digging into the cracks of the stone.
The guards at the watchtowers stared outward, scanning the dark woods for a threat that no longer existed.
Never once did they look down.
Never once did they hear him pass.
And by the time they realized their mistake,
It would already be too late.
Inside the walls, the city was uneasy.
The people had heard the warnings.
The merchants had closed their shops early.
The taverns had dimmed their lights.
No one spoke of an attack.
No one spoke of a monster.
But there was a tension in the air.
They felt that something was wrong.
They just did not understand why.
And that?
That was the best kind of fear.
Because it was the kind that spread like wildfire.
Veyrath did not strike yet.
Not in the way they expected.
Not yet.
Instead, he moved unseen through the city.
Through alleyways. Rooftops. Unlocked doors.
And he began to change things.
A merchant's cart, overturned in the street.
A pile of swords from the blacksmith's shop, missing.
A horse in the stables, found wandering loose in the square.
Small things.
Things that made no sense.
Things that made people ask questions.
Things that made the guards nervous.
And when the first man sounded the alarm—when the first frantic voices carried through the streets—
Veyrath smiled.
Because the real panic hadn't even started yet.
The guards rushed through the streets, shouting orders.
"Check the gates!"
"Check the walls!"
"Find out what happened!"
But there were no answers.
Because they did not understand the game they were playing.
Not yet.
And then, it happened.
One of the captains—a broad-shouldered man with a scarred face—paused in the square.
His expression darkened.
He turned to the others.
"Where are the patrols?"
Silence.
And in that moment, they realized—
They had sent all their strongest men outside the city.
And now the city was undefended.
Now, whatever was inside was already here.
Panic had already begun.
People were shouting, moving, searching for something they could not see.
That was when Veyrath took his first victim.
Not a soldier.
Not a warrior.
A messenger.
A man carrying orders between outposts, running through the streets.
He was fast.
But not fast enough.
A flicker of movement in the dark.
A hand grabbing his throat.
A single twist.
And the body slumped against the stone, lifeless.
No one saw it.
No one heard it.
But when the next runner found the corpse lying in the alleyway—his face frozen in silent terror—
That was when the true chaos began.
Veyrath did not stop.
He did not give them time to react.
Another body.
A guard, found with his sword still in its sheath.
Another.
A stable hand, killed before he could even scream.
Not enough to cripple the city.
But enough to make the fear real.
By the time the patrols returned,
By the time the gates reopened and the captains shouted orders—
The city was already burning with paranoia.
"He was inside while we were gone!"
"How? How did he get in?!"
"Damn it, we should have stayed!"
Veyrath watched them from the rooftops.
Watched as their anger boiled over.
Not at him.
At themselves.
Because nothing was more dangerous than a man drowning in his own failure.
They were frustrated.
They were furious.
But above all,
They were afraid.
And that?
That was his victory.
The city was breaking.
Not in flames.
Not in war.
But in something deeper.
Something that could not be fought with swords or walls.
Something that had already sunk into the hearts of its people.
Fear.
Veyrath watched from above, unseen, untouched.
The guards had returned from their fruitless patrols, exhausted and angry.
They had found the bodies.
They had seen the chaos he had left behind.
And now?
Now they did not know what to do.
They had planned to fight a man.
Instead, they had found a ghost.
And ghosts could not be killed.
By morning, the watch had doubled again.
The streets were filled with men in armor, weapons drawn, eyes darting to every shadow.
But they were not patrolling with discipline anymore.
They were acting out of fear.
They shouted at nothing.
Drew swords at movement that wasn't there.
They had not slept.
And exhaustion was just as deadly as any blade.
Veyrath could have killed them all now.
Could have torn through their ranks like a storm.
But that was not the game.
Not yet.
Because he wanted them to collapse on their own.
He wanted them to be the ones who destroyed themselves.
And that was already beginning.
By midday, the market had emptied.
The vendors had stopped selling.
The streets were too quiet.
The people were too afraid to walk alone.
Whispers filled the air.
"The killer is still here."
"The guards can't stop him."
"We should leave before it's too late."
And that was exactly what Veyrath wanted.
A city was not just walls and soldiers.
It was people.
And if the people stopped believing in its safety, stopped believing in its leaders—
Then the city was already dead.
By evening, the captain of the guard made his first mistake.
A public execution.
A man—a suspected informant, a drunk who had spoken too much about the killings.
The guards had dragged him into the square.
Bound him.
Called him a traitor.
Said he was helping the enemy.
The people had gathered to watch.
Not because they wanted to.
But because they needed to believe someone was responsible.
Because they needed to believe they still had control.
Veyrath watched from the rooftops.
"We found the rat," the captain declared.
The people did not cheer.
They only watched.
Waiting.
The man screamed as they cut him down.
But the people did not feel safer.
They only felt worse.
Because now, they knew.
The guards were not in control.
They were just as afraid as they were.
And that?
That was the first real crack in the city's foundation.
That night, Veyrath moved again.
Not to kill.
Not yet.
But to watch.
And he saw it—the guards whispering among themselves, arguing in hushed voices.
"The captain's making mistakes."
"We shouldn't have killed that man."
"He's lost control."
"We should take over."
It was always the same.
Fear made men turn on each other.
And once they did,
They were already dead.
By dawn, the first guards had fled.
Three of them.
Vanished into the night.
Their weapons left behind.
Their armor discarded.
And when their absence was noticed—
The panic spread even faster.
Because if the guards were running,
Then what chance did the people have?
The next day, the mayor locked himself in his manor.
Refused to come out.
Refused to speak to the people.
Because he knew.
Knew that if he stepped outside, he would be torn apart.
Not by Veyrath.
But by his own people.
The city was fracturing.
Turning on itself.
Falling apart without a single battle.
And Veyrath?
He simply waited.
Because soon,
They would beg him to end it.
By the fifth day, the gates were no longer guarded.
By the sixth, merchants had begun fleeing.
By the seventh, the streets were empty.
No more orders.
No more authority.
Just paranoia.
Just the whispers of something that was never seen, but always there.
Veyrath had done nothing.
Had made no more moves.
Had simply let the city destroy itself.
And it had.
Now, all that was left was to finish it.
Veyrath had watched it crack and crumble, piece by piece.
The soldiers had turned on each other.
The people had lost faith.
But there was still one thing keeping them from complete collapse.
A lie.
A false hope.
The belief that the deaths had been controlled.
That only those who fought had been targeted.
That only those who resisted had died.
Veyrath would tear that illusion apart.
Because fear was not true fear until it became lawless.
Until it became chaos.
Until it became something no one could control.
And so, he hunted again.
Not just the guards.
Not just the fighters.
Anyone.
The first to die was a merchant.
Not a soldier.
Not a threat.
Just a man in the market, trying to leave the city before it was too late.
He had been loading a cart, glancing over his shoulder, wary but unarmed.
He had thought he would escape.
And then, he didn't.
Veyrath struck in broad daylight.
A single movement.
A flash of claws through the air.
The merchant collapsed in the street, bleeding out between crates of food and fabrics.
People screamed.
And the guards?
The guards were nowhere to be found.
The death shattered the last illusion of control.
People had believed that as long as they obeyed the rules, they would live.
That if they stayed inside, didn't fight, didn't resist—
They would be safe.
But now?
Now they knew the truth.
The killer didn't care who they were.
And that meant no one was safe.
Panic rippled through the streets.
Merchants abandoned their goods.
People trampled over each other, running for the gates, shoving, screaming.
The city was turning on itself.
Exactly as Veyrath wanted.
By nightfall, the last remaining guards had regrouped.
They tried to restore order.
Tried to calm the masses.
But their voices no longer carried authority.
They were just as afraid as everyone else.
And when a guard accidentally stabbed a man during an argument,
When the crowd turned on them, enraged, beating them down in a blind frenzy—
That was when the last semblance of law shattered.
The city was no longer a city.
It was a grave waiting to be filled.
By the second night, the wealthy had shut themselves inside their manors.
They had blocked out the screams.
Had barred their doors.
Had told themselves that this chaos would pass.
That the city could still be salvaged.
That the monster would leave eventually.
Veyrath decided to correct their mistake.
Because the rich bled just like the poor.
And fear made no exceptions.
He made sure they were found.
Made sure their bodies were displayed.
One was found hanging from a balcony, throat slit.
Another was found on the steps of his estate, his lifeless hand still gripping a gold coin.
The message was clear.
Wealth did not buy safety.
Influence did not grant immunity.
Death was not selective.
And now, there were no more illusions left.
On the third day, the city devoured itself.
There was no enemy to fight.
No army marching against their walls.
No war.
Just the fear of something unseen, untouchable.
And that fear was worse than any sword.
Neighbors turned against each other.
Accusations spread.
"You led him here."
"You let this happen."
"You deserve to die more than I do."
The city was no longer a city.
It was a mass grave still waiting to be buried.
And Veyrath?
He did nothing.
He simply watched.
By the fourth day, the city was nearly empty.
The weak had fled.
The strong had killed each other.
Only the mad remained.
Those too terrified to leave.
Those too broken to fight.
And so, Veyrath watched one last time.
He perched on the highest building, looking down at what had once been a thriving city.
Now it was just ruins.
Broken walls. Abandoned streets. Doors swinging in the wind.
All because of a whisper of fear.
And he had never even needed to fight.
A woman staggered through the streets, clutching a child.
She had nowhere to go.
No home. No hope.
She paused, looking up toward the rooftops, as if sensing him.
As if she knew what had caused this.
Her lips parted.
Her voice was hoarse.
"Are you even real?"
Veyrath tilted his head.
Then, he vanished.
Because the answer didn't matter.
All that mattered was that the fear remained.
And it would.
Long after he was gone.