Vyk pressed his back against the rough bark of a tree, the cold seeping through his cloak, sharp as a blade. His breath misted in the air, vanishing into the abyss of the night.

  The silence pressed in—thick, expectant—only broken by the quiet melody Selene strummed on her lute, the notes whispering like ghosts. Mira sat next to her, eyes closed in something that could’ve been meditation, but Vyk knew better. The elf wasn’t as serene as she seemed.

  Prince Kaelan had just entered the tent where the escapee was being held. The thought sat bitter on Vyk’s tongue. If it were up to him, the bastard would’ve been dead the moment they caught him—limbs severed, head rolling in the dirt. He didn’t understand why Kaelan bothered with people like that. Weak, desperate men who had already chosen their fates.

  Why waste time? Why drag this out?

  Tch. He clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders.

  He let his back slide down the trunk, settling onto the damp ground, his elbows resting on his knees. His mind wandered despite himself, slipping into the shadows of his memories. Faces blurred together—targets, allies, corpses—just a sea of nameless figures who had never mattered beyond the missions.

  But one face always stood out.

  Kaelan.

  The boy-prince who commanded their group with a precision that Vyk couldn’t ignore. The one who gave orders with the ease of a seasoned warlord, despite barely being out of childhood. It was unnatural. Unnerving, even.

  Vyk had long stopped trying to understand him. Kaelan wasn’t someone you figured out—he was someone you followed, whether out of loyalty, necessity, or sheer survival.

  At first, when the group was first assembled under King Valen’s orders, the arrangement had been clear. The Crown Prince, Arkyn, had inserted Vyk into the team—not as just another sword, but as a safeguard. A failsafe, should anything happen to his younger brother. Kaelan knew it. They both did. But the prince had never addressed it, never acknowledged the silent line drawn between them.

  The mission had seemed simple at first—hunt down a group of so-called bandits terrorizing Aeloria. But the moment they started chasing shadows, Vyk had known it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

  What grated on him more was that the Royal Inquisition, led by the Crown Prince himself, was already working on this case—far ahead of them. So why were they here? Why send Kaelan out like this, knowing he was already so far behind?

  Politics, most likely. The kind of bullshit Vyk despised.

  If the rumors were true, this was just a push to shove the last of the royal siblings into the spotlight. Kaelan, the prince no one really knew, no one could pin down. Some said he was a prodigy, others called him a puffed-up child. Truth was, no one knew. He never showed his hand, never let anyone see more than what he wanted them to. His instructors kept their mouths shut. His inner circle, even smaller.

  Five months and thirteen days. That’s how long Vyk had been watching him.

  And what he’d seen? It left him with more questions than answers.

  Kaelan was a commander—there was no denying that. He was decisive, pragmatic, always two steps ahead of everyone else. He planned battles like he was playing a game no one else could see. And yet, for all his brilliance, the battlefield wasn’t kind to him.

  Vyk had come to respect the prince’s mind, but there were times it made him furious.

  Sometimes, Kaelan was ruthless. Cutting down obstacles like they were nothing, making calls others wouldn’t dare make. And yet other times, he hesitated. Showed mercy where there should’ve been none. Held back when a clean kill would’ve solved everything. It made no sense. And worse, it worked. Somehow, even his most idiotic decisions led exactly where he wanted them to.

  And then there were the other moments. The ones that unsettled Vyk the most.

  Sometimes, Kaelan looked lost. Not in thought, but truly lost—like a man drowning in an abyss no one else could see. It wasn’t something a teenager should wear on his face. When it happened, Selene and Mira were always close, their quiet presence grounding him in a way Vyk couldn’t understand. They knew something he didn’t.

  And that? That pissed him off more than anything.

  Vyk’s instincts prickled—a phantom warning creeping up his spine. The night had been still, suffocating in its silence.

  Then, movement.

  Kaelan strode out of the tent, his posture wound tight, his movements clipped and controlled—too controlled. The firelight cast jagged shadows across his face, but it couldn’t hide the cold edge to his voice.

  “Vyk.” A single word, razor-sharp. “It’s an emergency. Gather everyone. Now.”

  Vyk pushed off the tree immediately and shadow leaped near the prince and saluted, his expression darkening. “What happened?”

  Kaelan’s eyes flickered toward the campfire, where Mira and Selene already sat. “I’ll inform them. Get the others.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Vyk held his gaze for a second longer, but Kaelan was already turning away, his posture tense.

  Tch.

  Vyk saluted, but it wasn’t out of obedience—it was just muscle memory at this point. He turned on his heel and let the shadows swallow him whole.

  He didn’t know what the hell had just happened. But if Kaelan was calling it an emergency?

  It sure as hell wasn’t good.

  With a sharp exhale, Vyk melted into the shadows, and they embraced him without question.

  The first presence he sensed was Rylas and Aleric, stationed a few hundred meters from the camp.

  A few effortless strides through the darkness, and he arrived near them—just in time to see the chief’s body hoisted onto a makeshift spire. Flames crackled, consuming the remains, casting long shadows across the earth.

  Aleric’s voice wove through the night, a solemn hymn laced with quiet sorrow.

  “—carries the sight of the weary and the secrets of the lost, we offer our prayers. Lugh of the Twisted Trunk has finally found respite from the storms that raged within and without. Their life, though marked by hardship and sorrow, still yearned for the light. May the divine light guide them to a haven of peace, where the wounds of this world can finally heal, and where they may find the solace that was denied them in life.”

  Rylas stood beside him, silent as he watched the fire do its work. The heat twisted the air, distorting the body within. The fire was a beacon—both for the achieved and the lost.

  No one spoke for a while.

  Vyk broke the silence first. “His Highness calls for you. It sounded urgent.”

  The other two finally turned to him, Rylas’ brow furrowed, Aleric’s expression unreadable.

  “What happened?” Rylas grunted, his voice carrying that quiet, restrained menace that made him a terror on the battlefield. A force of nature. It was no wonder he had been assigned as Kaelan’s personal guard.

  Vyk gave a slight bow, more out of habit than necessity. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.” His gaze flicked to the burning spire. “Thought the prince ordered a burial.”

  Aleric sighed. “He did. But it wouldn’t have lasted. The animals would’ve dug him up by morning.” He watched the flames consume what remained of Lugh. “This way, at least, he stays whole. Whatever that’s worth.”

  Vyk didn’t reply. It wasn’t his concern.

  His job was to deliver a message, not linger on the dead.

  He turned toward the Twisted Trunk, the ruined village resting a few miles away, before glancing back at the two. “It’d be best if you get back to camp. Posthaste.”

  And with that, he disappeared into the darkness, already moving to find Ewin and Lyrik.

  As he neared Twisted Trunk, he re-emerged from the shadows, slowing to a jog. No need to spook the villagers—if they were even capable of fear anymore. The track, if it could even be called that, twisted through barren land, where the trees thinned, and the ground hardened to dry, cracked earth. The closer he got, the heavier the air felt, the kind of stillness that warned of a place long abandoned by fortune.

  Then, Twisted Trunk.

  You didn’t arrive at Twisted Trunk. You just… found yourself in it, like stumbling into a ditch in the dark. A blemish on an already miserable landscape, a place no one wanted, not even the gods.

  As the village came into view, the sight was no better than before. The homes, if you could call them that, were huddled together like beggars in the cold, roofs sagging under the weight of time and neglect. The wood was rotting, the walls barely standing. Nothing here thrived—only endured.

  Then, a sound. A commotion.

  That was new.

  Vyk slowed, rounding a corner toward the village square—or the space that passed for one. The first thing his eyes found was the gnarled husk of the twisted trunk itself, dead and looming over the square like a corpse refusing to rot.

  Then he saw the people. They weren’t drifting shadows for once, not mere ghosts waiting for life to leave them. They were gathered, tense and whispering, eyes fixed on something.

  And then he saw it.

  The elder Skulk.

  A heap of ink-black limbs and lifeless, curling tentacles. The monster Kaelan had slain.

  Vyk stared at the corpse for a long moment. He had no delusions—it was a kill worthy of songs, the kind of feat that would turn a lesser noble into a war hero overnight. But Kaelan? He’d brushed it off like it was just another task to cross off a list. As always.

  Vyk shook his head. Dwelling on it was pointless.

  “Why are you here?”

  The voice came out of nowhere, and his body tensed on instinct before his training reined it in.

  “Look up, assassin.”

  Vyk didn’t have to. He already knew.

  Perched atop the nearest roof, Ewin lounged like a man without a care in the world, bow in hand, smirking down at him with that infuriatingly smug elven grace.

  “Tell me, why are you here, and not at the camp?”

  Vyk barely suppressed a sigh. Of all the damn times.

  “It’s an emergency,” he said flatly. “His Highness ordered for a meeting. Immediately.”

  For once, surprise flickered across Ewin’s face. “Well well well…” he mused, hopping down effortlessly. “So, Kaelan’s finally found something. Took him long enough.”

  Vyk ignored the bait.

  Ewin landed lightly a few steps away, stretching lazily before turning toward the forest. “I wonder what this is about,” he murmured, then threw a glance over his shoulder. “See you at camp.”

  “Wait—where’s Lyrik?”

  But the elf was already gone. Of course. The bastard was already gone.

  Vyk exhaled sharply, scanning the gathered crowd. If Lyrik was anywhere, he’d be—

  Ah.

  There, in the thick of a drunken little spectacle, was the swordmaster himself.

  Surrounded by a gaggle of wide-eyed children and eager villagers, Lyrik stood with a chipped tankard in hand, swaying slightly.

  “—it charged at me, screeching like a banshee, trying to rip me in half! Look! Look at those damn tentacles!” He gestured wildly at the Skulk’s corpse, his voice half-slurred, half-roaring. “That thing could crack a boulder!”

  Vyk closed his eyes briefly. This was going to be painful.

  “But me? Me!?” Lyrik pounded his chest. “I laughed in its cursed face! Grappled it right ‘round the neck, I did! We tumbled through the stone glade like a pair of drunken sailors—” He paused, blinking. “Do you lot even know what a sailor is?”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd. Even Vyk felt an involuntary smirk twitch at his lips, though he buried it quickly.

  Lyrik took a swig from his tankard, and a villager eagerly rushed to fill it again.

  “Finally!” he continued, voice thick with drink and bravado. “I pinned it down! Strangled it with my bare hands! It begged for mercy—squealed like a little piglet! But I had a job to finish, and finish it I did! Drove my blade straight through its eye! You folks know what happened next!”

  A chorus of gasps, cheers, and delighted shouts. Children clamored for more tales, men clapped him on the back, and women hovered just close enough to be noticed.

  Vyk rolled his eyes and slipped through the chaos, approaching quietly until he was close enough. He didn’t bother getting Lyrik’s attention the normal way.

  Instead, he sent a sharp mana transmission straight to his mind. “Enough with the theatrics. The prince ordered to gather. Now.”

  For a heartbeat, Lyrik stood frozen, his drink halfway to his lips, the laughter and chatter around him a dull hum in the background. Then, realization dawned. His eyes flicked through the gathered faces, searching for Vyk, but the damn assassin had already melted away into the night.

  "Son of a—" Lyrik muttered under his breath, biting back a curse.

  The villagers, oblivious to the sudden shift in his mood, were still pressing in. The children pulled at his sleeves, their wide eyes alight with admiration, begging for just one more tale. The men clapped him on the back, offering fresh tankards and shouting for another round. The women—well, some were looking at him with an entirely different kind of interest.

  And gods, for a moment, he considered staying.

  But Vyk’s tone had been sharp. Urgent.

  Which meant trouble.

  Lyrik exhaled, plastering on a grin as he carefully peeled the smallest hands from his arm. “Ah, little ones, I’d love to stay and regale you with another harrowing tale of my unmatched skill, but alas—” he sighed dramatically, “—a hero’s work is never done.”

  A chorus of groans erupted from the children, a few of them stomping their feet in protest. “Come on! Just one more!”

  One of the bolder village women stepped forward, her voice as smooth as the wine she had been sipping. “Leaving so soon?” She leaned in, tilting her head. “You’ve certainly earned a bit of celebration.”

  Lyrik hesitated, caught between duty and temptation. But before he could even entertain the idea, a low chuckle sounded from somewhere in the shadows—faint, but unmistakable. Vyk.

  Bastard’s probably watching.

  Lyrik huffed, straightening with a lazy stretch. “Another time, my dear,” he said, flashing the woman a roguish grin. He took a step back, only for another drunk villager to swing an arm over his shoulder.

  “You’re not getting away that easy, hero! You haven’t even finished your drink!”

  Lyrik resisted the urge to groan. This was getting ridiculous.

  He ducked low, slipping beneath the man’s grip and spinning on his heel. With practiced ease, he maneuvered through the bodies pressing in on him, dodging reaching hands and sidestepping the occasional attempt to refill his tankard.

  Just as he reached the edge of the crowd, he heard someone shout, “Oi! He’s running!”

  Lyrik cursed under his breath and broke into a light jog, ignoring the laughter and playful jeers from behind.

  By the time he finally slipped out of the village and into the darkness beyond, he let out a breath of relief.

  “Damn prince better have a good reason for this,” he muttered, setting off toward camp.