The night had not yet lifted its veil from the forest, and the air remained thick with the acrid scent of blood and damp earth. Though the assassins had vanished into the shadows, the weight of their presence still pressed upon the men. The aftermath of battle always carried a strange stillness, an eerie quiet that settled over the dead and the living alike. The ground was littered with bodies, some belonging to Adrian's men, but most to their enemies. The assassins were a chilling sight, even in death—clad in dark leathers, their faces still hidden behind cloth masks. They had come to kill, yet they had retreated before the deed was done.
Adrian stood amidst the fallen, his sword hanging limply in his grasp. His breath was ragged, his muscles trembling from exertion. Though the fighting had ended, his pulse still pounded in his ears. The cold bite of steel against flesh, the clash of weapons, the cries of the dying—all of it still echoed in his mind.
And above all, the knowledge that he had nearly died. Again.
Frustration burned in his chest. He had trained. He had studied. He had adapted. But when the moment came, he had faltered. He had not been fast enough, not strong enough. If not for Otto's intervention, he would be lying among the corpses. The realization was as bitter as the iron tang of blood in the air.
He clenched his jaw and forced his breathing to steady. He could not afford to dwell on weakness. Not now.
A grunt broke the silence. Klaus stepped over a fallen enemy, his expression twisted in dissatisfaction. "They retreated too easily," he muttered, kicking one of the corpses over with the toe of his boot. "Could've fought to the last. Could've at least tried to bleed us dry."
"They weren't here for that," Otto replied, his tone grim. He knelt beside one of the assassins, studying the body. With a practiced motion, he pulled the mask down, revealing a face that was eerily unremarkable. A man in his late thirties, perhaps. Hard-eyed, but not cruel. A professional killer. Otto exhaled sharply. "They came for one purpose. And now they know exactly what they wanted."
Adrian inhaled deeply, forcing himself to think past the remnants of battle. The attack had not been reckless or disorganized. The assassins had moved with precision, striking at weak points, vanishing before their losses mounted too high. This was a calculated act. A test.
And he was the subject.
"They let me live," he murmured, more to himself than the others.
Otto's eyes flickered to him. "Because they weren't here to finish the job. They were watching."
Adrian's stomach tightened at the thought. The assassins weren't just hunting him. They were studying him.
A weak cough snapped his attention to the ground. One of the enemy still clung to life, his body broken and bleeding out, yet his eyes were sharp with awareness.
Adrian moved before he could think, dropping to one knee beside the dying man. The assassin's breath was labored, his chest rising and falling in jagged motions. His lips were already flecked with blood, but his gaze was unwavering.
Adrian's voice was low, firm. "Who sent you?"
The man let out a weak chuckle, his voice no more than a rasp. "Too late…" He coughed, more blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Yet there was no fear in his eyes. No desperation. Only certainty. "You already know."
A chill ran through Adrian's bones.
Before he could press further, the assassin exhaled his final breath, his body going still.
Otto cursed under his breath. "Damn."
Klaus scowled, crossing his arms. "These bastards are disciplined. Too disciplined for common mercs."
Adrian pushed himself to his feet, his mind racing. The precision, the ruthless efficiency, the way they moved like phantoms in the dark—this was the work of House Darnath.
The implications hit like a blow to the chest. The House that had been crushed, its name erased from history, was not only returning—it was organized. And it had set its sights on him.
The realization sent a surge of urgency through him. He looked to his men. They were watching him now, waiting for orders. The battle was over, but the war was only beginning.
His voice was steady when he spoke. "Gather the wounded. Burn the enemy dead. We leave at first light."
Otto studied him for a long moment, then nodded. Klaus hesitated, his mouth opening as if to argue, but one look at Adrian's expression silenced him. With a grunt, he turned to carry out the orders.
As the men set to work, Adrian stepped away, his gaze lingering on the dark treeline. Somewhere beyond the reach of firelight, the enemy was still watching.
This time, he would be ready.
The night deepened, and the scent of burning flesh filled the air as the bodies of the assassins were set alight. The flames flickered in the darkness, casting eerie shadows across the camp. The soldiers worked in silence, their movements slow, weary from battle.
Adrian sat on a fallen log, his sword resting against his knee. The weight of command pressed heavier than ever. He had led them this far, but at what cost? He had nearly fallen. His men had nearly died for him. And for what? To be tested like a lab rat in a grander scheme?
A presence beside him made him glance up. Otto. The older warrior studied him with an unreadable expression.
"You're thinking too much," Otto said finally.
Adrian huffed a quiet laugh. "And you don't think enough."
Otto snorted but said nothing. For a moment, there was only the crackling of fire, the distant murmurs of soldiers tending to the wounded. Then Otto spoke again, quieter this time.
"You've improved."
Adrian turned to him, surprised.
Otto met his gaze, his expression serious. "You held your own longer this time. You fought smart. You're getting better."
Adrian exhaled, shaking his head. "Not fast enough."
Otto didn't argue. He simply placed a hand on Adrian's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before walking away.
Adrian watched him go, the warmth of the gesture lingering even as the night grew colder.
The road ahead was uncertain. But he would not face it alone.