Aric did not wake from a dream.
He woke because the air had changed.
Because the silence in his tent was no longer empty.
Because someone else was breathing.
His eyes snapped open.
The candlelight had long since died.
The fabric walls of his tent shifted slightly with the wind.
And in the blackness—
There was a shape.
Not a soldier.
Not a Riftmarked warrior.
Something smaller. Lighter.
Moving without sound.
Moving with intent.
Aric did not reach for his sword immediately.
His fingers twitched beneath the furs.
Slow. Careful.
Waiting.
Because the intruder had not attacked yet.
They were waiting, too.
And that meant—
They wanted something more than just his death.
A whisper brushed the air.
So soft, it might have been his own thoughts.
But it wasn't.
It was real.
It was spoken.
"Your war is already lost."
----
The blade came fast.
A flicker of steel through the darkness—silent, merciless.
Aimed directly at his throat.
Aric moved before he thought.
His body reacted on instinct, muscle memory sharpened by years of war.
He rolled, the furs tangling around his legs as the blade missed by inches.
It sliced through his pillow instead, feathers bursting into the air.
And before the assassin could strike again—
Aric was already reaching for his sword.
Too slow.
The assassin was faster.
They pivoted, their movements smooth, and controlled.
A second blade flashed in the dim light.
Aric barely got his arm up in time.
Pain shot through his forearm.
The blade sliced clean through the fabric of his sleeve, cutting deep.
Not lethal.
But enough to slow him down.
Enough to make the next strike count.
His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.
And this time—
When the assassin lunged again—
Aric was ready.
Steel met steel.
A sharp clang rang through the tent.
The force rattled up Aric's arm, but he held firm.
The assassin's momentum broke.
They stumbled back, adjusting their stance.
But not before Aric got his first clear look at them.
A hooded figure.
Black cloth wrapped around their face.
But their eyes—
Their eyes were cold.
Focused.
Unshaken.
And trained.
This was not a mercenary.
Not some desperate rebel.
This was a professional.
This was someone who had killed before.
And they had not come alone.
----
A second shadow moved at the edge of the tent.
Aric barely had time to react.
The fabric rippled, something slicing through it from the outside.
Another blade.
Another attacker.
They had come in pairs.
Because they had expected him to fight back.
Because they had planned for it.
The first assassin moved again.
This time—
They aimed low.
For his ribs.
For his lungs.
A quick kill.
A practiced kill.
Aric twisted his body just in time.
The blade skimmed past his ribs—close enough that he could feel the cold steel against his skin.
But not deep enough to land the kill.
And before the assassin could recover—
Aric slammed his elbow into their jaw.
The impact sent them staggering back.
Not far.
Not enough.
But enough to give Aric space.
Enough to let him take the fight out of the tent.
He moved.
Fast.
Ducking low, he burst through the tent flaps and into the open air.
The night was cold, and heavy with mist.
But Aric wasn't alone.
More shadows moved at the edges of the camp.
Figures slipping between the tents, unseen, unheard.
This was not a single assassination attempt.
This was a purge.
And Aric was only one of their targets.
A war fought in the open could be won.
But a blade in the dark?
That was something else entirely.
----
The second attacker lunged from the shadows, blade gleaming in the dim light. Aric pivoted, bringing his sword up just in time to meet the strike. The impact rattled up his arm, steel ringing against steel, but he held his ground.
His opponent was fast—faster than the first. Their movements were sharp, and efficient, meant to kill in as few strokes as possible.
Aric deflected another blow, twisting to avoid a second dagger slashing toward his ribs. The assassin pressed the attack, relentlessly, pushing Aric back toward the tents.
But they made a mistake.
They overextended, putting too much weight into a thrust meant to pierce his throat. Aric sidestepped at the last moment, twisting his body to avoid the strike. Before they could recover, he brought his blade down in a brutal arc.
The edge of his sword bit deep into their side, slicing through the dark fabric of their cloak. A strangled breath escaped the assassin's lips as they staggered back, hand pressed to the wound.
They faltered—just for a moment.
And that was all Aric needed.
With a swift, practiced movement, he drove his sword forward, sinking it into the assassin's chest. A sharp gasp—then silence.
The body crumpled at his feet.
Aric stood over them, breath coming fast, blood dripping from his own wounds. His eyes flickered over the corpse, assessing.
Their clothes were dark, made for concealment. But beneath the folds of the cloak, something caught the faint moonlight—something metallic.
Aric crouched, pulling back the bloodied fabric. A thin layer of reinforced leather armor lay beneath, but it was not the armor that caught his attention.
It was the insignia stitched into the chest plate.
A noble crest.
The sigil of House Valtor.
A slow chill crept down Aric's spine. House Valtor had remained neutral in the war. They had sent no troops and made no alliances.
And yet, here was one of their own, dressed in black, buried under the body of a hired killer.
This was not a rebellion.
This was something else.
A calculated strike.
An execution.
And he was meant to be the target.
----
The camp was in chaos.
By the time Aric reached the center of the village, soldiers were already dragging another captured assassin into the torchlight. The man struggled, thrashing against his captors, but Lira was already stepping forward, unsheathing her dagger.
The struggling stopped.
The man's breath came in sharp, panicked bursts as he was forced onto his knees. Blood dripped from a wound on his brow, smearing down his face. His black cloak was torn, revealing similar reinforced armor to the assassin Aric had killed.
Another noble soldier.
Another insignia—this time, hastily removed, as if someone had tried to erase the proof.
Lira crouched in front of him, tilting her head slightly. Her eyes were cold, calculating.
"Who sent you?"
The man clenched his jaw, saying nothing.
Lira hummed, tapping the tip of her dagger against his knee. "You see, the problem with trained assassins like you is that you're good at keeping secrets. The issue is—"
She drove the blade down, twisting it into the soft flesh between his kneecap.
The man let out a muffled cry, his body jerking against his restraints.
"—I'm very good at getting answers."
Aric watched, his expression unreadable.
Lira leaned closer, her voice dropping to something quiet, almost conversational. "The first stab is always the worst. The body isn't prepared for it. The second, though?" She yanked the dagger free, blood pooling onto the dirt. "That's when it really starts to hurt."
The man's breath came in sharp, shuddering gasps.
She wiped the blade clean on his sleeve, waiting.
Seconds passed.
Then—
"House Valtor," he gasped. "They sent us."
Lira didn't look surprised.
Aric didn't either.
"Why?" Aric stepped forward, voice calm but edged with steel.
The man swallowed hard, eyes darting between them. He knew he wasn't walking away from this.
But still—he laughed.
Low. Bitter.
"You think this war ends with your little victory?" His voice was hoarse, strained. "You think killing nobles, taking villages, means you've won?"
He lifted his head, a smear of blood trailing from his lips.
"You don't even know what's coming."
Lira's blade flashed again, sinking into his throat before he could say another word.
His body slumped forward, lifeless.
Lira wiped the dagger clean once more, exhaling sharply. "That was going nowhere."
Aric frowned. "He knew something."
"Probably," Lira muttered, standing. "But now we know something too. House Valtor has picked a side. And they didn't pick us."
Aric's grip on his sword tightened. The attack wasn't just an assassination attempt—it was a message.
House Valtor had made their move.
And now, Aric had to decide how to respond.
----
Kael arrived minutes later, looking grim. "That wasn't all of them."
Aric turned, eyes narrowing. "How many more?"
Kael exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "We caught three more. Killed another two trying to escape."
Lira clicked her tongue. "Damn."
Aric didn't move, didn't blink. "And the rest?"
Kael hesitated.
And that was the answer enough.
They were still out there.
More shadows in the dark.
More blades waiting for the right moment.
The attack had failed—but not entirely. The assassins hadn't come to fight a war. They had come to deliver a message.
Aric was no longer facing just the noble houses.
Something else was pulling the strings.
Something hidden.
Something deeper.
And as he stood there, listening to the distant wind, he knew one thing for certain.
This war was just beginning.