The Cold Breath of the Unknown
The silence of the forest felt unnatural. The only sound was the rustling of leaves in the wind, yet Eryndor could feel it—something lurking just out of sight.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. "How many?"
Lysara's eyes scanned the darkness. "Two. Maybe three. They're skilled, moving without a sound."
Eryndor exhaled slowly, steadying his pulse. He had fought before, but this was different. A strange feeling stirred inside him—as if he had fought this exact battle in another life.
The thought sent a chill through him.
Lysara stepped closer. "They're waiting for the right moment."
"Then we don't give them one."
Before she could respond, he vanished into the shadows.
---
The First Strike
Eryndor moved quickly, stepping off the path and into the dense forest. He slowed his breathing, focusing on the smallest sounds.
There—
A footstep. A shift in the air.
He reacted without thinking. Spinning, blade flashing.
Clang!
Sparks flew as steel met steel. The attacker had anticipated him, parrying the strike with precision.
Eryndor's eyes locked onto his opponent—a hooded figure, face obscured, wielding twin daggers.
The assassin pushed back, lunging with deadly speed.
But Eryndor was faster.
His body moved on instinct, stepping into the attack, countering before he even realized what he was doing.
Blade met flesh. A cry of pain.
The assassin staggered back, clutching his arm.
Eryndor's breath hitched. He had fought like this before. Not as Eryndor, but as—
Who was he?
---
A Past That Bleeds Into the Present
There was no time to think.
A second attacker emerged, striking from the shadows.
Lysara intercepted, her staff glowing with arcane energy. "Focus!" she snapped.
Eryndor shook off the daze, locking onto his next opponent. This one was different. Stronger. Faster.
The assassin moved with a familiarity that unsettled him.
Was this just a coincidence?
Or had they fought before?
No. That's impossible.
He gritted his teeth and charged.
---
A Name on the Wind
The battle raged. The assassins fought with precision, but they hadn't expected Eryndor to match them move for move.
His sword cut through the air, movements sharp, efficient. His body knew techniques he had never been taught.
And then—
"You… shouldn't exist."
The words came from the wounded assassin, breath ragged.
Eryndor froze. "What?"
The man's voice was barely above a whisper. "The dead should stay dead."
And then—
A flash of steel.
Lysara moved faster than sight, striking the man down before he could land a final blow.
Silence followed.
Eryndor's heartbeat thundered in his ears.
The dead should stay dead.
What did they know about him?
Lysara wiped her blade clean. "We need to move."
Eryndor's hands trembled.
For the first time, he wasn't just searching for the truth.
The truth was searching for him.
---
End of Chapter 2.