The sight of the Black Fang Corsairs' floating stronghold should have been a victory. Instead, it was another curse waiting to strike.
They crouched behind a jagged ridge of sun-bleached stone, staring at the towers rising from the desert like rusted fangs—torn sails snapping in the dry wind, wooden bridges creaking under the weight of patrolling guards. No way in. No way out. Not unless they wanted to die trying.
Gorim exhaled sharply, shifting the weight of the Azerite chunk strapped to his back. "Well, unless one of you lot suddenly grew wings, I don't see us waltzing in there without getting turned into arrow cushions."
Hadeefa squinted at the distant guards, then at the handful of smaller Azerite shards they had kept—each piece no bigger than a dagger but sharp enough to carve through bone. "We could kill a few of them."
Rahotep snorted. "Oh, sure. Let's kindly ask them to stand still while we politely stab them with the world's most expensive knives."
Arianne wiped the sweat from her brow. "It's either that or we knock on the front gate and beg to be enslaved."
That silenced them for a moment. Nadra, ever the realist, tapped one of the Azerite shards against the stone, watching it slice clean through with a sound like silk tearing. "This can kill."
"But can it kill fastenough before they fill us with bolts?" Varnic muttered.
A pause. Then Khaltar, voice dripping with bitter amusement, said, "I'd rather be impaled than die of thirst. At least a spear to the gut is quicker."
Hadeefa rolled his shoulders. "Then we need to be quicker."
Silence again. The Corsairs were out there—drunk, patrolling, gambling, sharpening blades for the next raid. And here they were, half-dead, starved, clinging to shards of Azerite like desperate beggars with golden knives.
Arianne smirked, a dry, humorless thing. "Well, at least when they kill us, they'll be rich for it."
Nobody laughed. Because in the end, they had two choices—sneak in and risk death or attack and guarantee it.
Their argument died the moment they heard it. A scream—sharp, cut short. Then another. The vast desert wind had a way of making distant sounds carry, stretching them out, making them too loud, too clear. It was a scream of shock, of pain, of death. And then came another. And another.
They turned to the Black Fang Corsairs' towers. One by one, the guards were falling. Their figures, barely more than silhouettes against the pale sky, jerked violently before collapsing, tumbling from the wooden bridges and watchtowers like discarded dolls. Some crumpled where they stood, arrows buried deep in their throats or chests.
No alarms. No warnings. Just death, swift and silent. Rahotep gripped his Azerite shard like it was his only tether to reality. "What in the abyss...?"
Nadra crouched lower behind the rocks, her hand gripping her belt knife out of reflex. "Who's killing them?"
No one answered, because none of them knew. The guards kept dying. The next one barely had time to turn his head before an arrow punched through his eye. His body slumped over the railing and fell, hitting the sand with a dull thud.
Then silence. A dead, suffocating silence. No more movement on the towers. No more patrolling Corsairs. Only the distant creak of swaying wooden bridges, the sigh of the wind over blood-stained sand. They did not move. Did not breathe.
Because somewhere out there, someone—or something—had wiped out an entire outpost in mere moments. And now, all that remained was the question every single one of them feared to ask.
Out of the haze of blood and dust, they finally emerged. Cloaked figures, moving like ghosts, silent as death. They walked through the slaughter like it was nothing. Their steps never hurried, their presence never announced. Each figure was draped in dark, sand-worn cloaks, their hoods concealing all but the faint glint of weapons beneath.
But the way they moved—that was what sent ice through Rahotep's veins. They had killed without effort. One of them passed a Corsair's fresh corpse, reaching down as if to check for life. There was none. The assassin simply plucked his arrow from the fallen man's eye socket and continued walking, leaving a smear of blood in the sand.
The group was methodical, practiced. Kill. Recover. Move. From their vantage point, the survivors watched in tense silence. Not one Black Fang Corsair remained standing.
Rahotep clenched his jaw. "That wasn't a battle," he whispered. "That was a culling."
Varnic exhaled slowly. "And now we wait to see if they hunt us next."
The cloaked figures broke the gates like they were made of rotted wood. No explosions, no battle cries—just the dull, heavy crack of splintering iron and a gust of wind as they slipped inside.
Then, silence. A long, uneasy silence. The kind that made every breath feel too loud. The kind that stretched long enough to make the dwarves wonder if the Corsairs had somehow fought back.
But then—The doors swung open again, and the assassins walked out, calm as a morning stroll. Not a scratch on them. Behind them, inside the stronghold, only corpses remained.
Varnic swallowed. "By the forge…"
Nadra wiped her sweaty palms on her belt, eyes wide with disbelief."Did they just—?"
Before anyone could finish that thought, one of the cloaked figures stopped and turned toward their hiding spot.
His voice carried across the dunes, sharp and mocking. "Are dwarves always this good at hiding behind rocks, or is this a special occasion?"
Silence. Then—Rahotep sighed and stood up with his hands in the air. "Aye, fine. Ye got us."
One by one, the others followed, stepping out from their cover, hands raised in surrender—not because they were prisoners, but because no sane person would pick a fight after what they'd just witnessed.
Gorim muttered under his breath, "Ye know, we could've stayed hidin' a bit longer."
Grumli snorted. "Aye, maybe till they got bored an' left."
Rahotep shot them both a glare before turning back to the figures. "Alright, ye got sharp tongues an' sharper blades. Who in the bloody abyss are ye?"
The leader of the cloaked figures smirked beneath his hood. "We could ask you the same."
Khaltar stepped forward before any of the others could speak. His dark eyes locked onto the cloaked figures with the same unyielding steel he carried in battle.
"My name is Khaltar," he said, his voice firm, unshaken. "And these dwarves?" He gestured toward Gorim, Grumli, and Varnic with a nod. "They are my friends."
Then, turning his gaze to Rahotep, he added, "And this man is our captain."
Rahotep raised a brow but said nothing. The leader of the cloaked figures studied them for a moment before asking, "And you? Where do you come from?"
Khaltar squared his shoulders. "I am from the Silver Axe."
At those words, the air shifted. The assassins exchanged glances beneath their hoods, their posture no longer one of idle amusement but something else—something sharper. Recognition. And perhaps… a hint of caution. The leader tilted his head, his smirk fading."Silver Axe, you say?"
Khaltar nodded once."Aye."
The assassin's fingers twitched near his blade, not in hostility, but as if measuring something unseen. Then, at last, he spoke again—"Interesting."
At first, the assassins remained silent, their expressions unreadable beneath their hoods. The only sound was the desert wind, whispering through the ruined stronghold, carrying the scent of spilled blood and smoldering torches.
Then, the leader lifted his chin and spoke at last. "Take everything," he commanded, his voice smooth yet sharp like a dagger drawn in the dark. "Weapons, gold, supplies—strip this place bare."
His men moved without hesitation, like shadows given purpose, slipping into the stronghold's halls to loot what remained of the Black Fang Corsairs.
"The ships," the leader continued, turning to his second-in-command. "Sail them to the Dagger Coast. We'll regroup there."
A few of the assassins nodded and disappeared toward the harbor. Then, the leader brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, keening whistle.
For a moment, silence followed. Then—a rumble in the dunes. From the rolling sands beyond the fortress walls, dark shapes began to emerge, rising like specters from the desert itself. First, a dozen. Then two dozen. Then fifty. Then more. An army.
Their armor was mismatched but practical—light enough for desert travel, dark enough for stealth. Some bore black veils over their faces, others wrapped in linen to shield against the harsh winds. Every one of them carried weapons—curved blades, longbows, spears, and throwing knives glinting beneath the moonlight.
At least two hundred strong. But it was not just warriors that arrived. With them came horses, lean and bred for endurance, their tack adorned with charms of bone and silver. Some bore long spears strapped to their saddles, others had lightly armored riders clutching bows, quivers full of arrows dark as the night.
This was not a mere raiding party. This was a force prepared for war.
The leader of the assassins turned back to Khaltar and the others, his smirk returning. "You chose the righ time to show up, Silver Axe," he mused. "But now the question is… what will you do next?"
The leader of the assassins finally turned to face them fully, lowering his hood. His features were sharp, weathered by the desert, his eyes dark as the void between stars. A thin scar ran across his cheek, a remnant of battles fought long before this night.
"I am Sayf al-Maut," he said, voice steady and measured. "Blade of the Nameless Sands. And you—" he gestured toward Khaltar and the others "—you are coming with us."
He snapped his fingers. Within moments, several of his men led a series of chariots into the ruined courtyard—sleek wooden frames reinforced with iron, wheels wrapped in hardened leather for endurance, drawn by powerful desert stallions.
"We ride for Warm Oasis," Sayf announced. "It will take us a full day's journey, perhaps longer if the winds turn against us. But with the Corsairs dead, this desert is still not safe. Mount up."
The dwarves exchanged glances. They had little reason to trust the assassins, but even less reason to remain here. So, one by one, they climbed aboard the chariots, settling in among the warriors of the desert. Then—the signal was given. The horses lurched forward, and the entire force was on the move.
The Red Wastes stretched before them, vast and unforgiving. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the cold grasp of night. But the moon was full, casting an eerie silver glow over the dunes.
The chariots thundered forward, kicking up clouds of dust, the rhythmic pounding of hooves the only sound beneath the endless sky.
At first, the ride was smooth, the sands firm beneath them. But as the night deepened, the desert revealed its crueler nature.
Cold winds howled from the east, biting through their clothes. Loose dunes shifted beneath the wheels, forcing the drivers to fight for control. Twice, a chariot nearly overturned, but the seasoned warriors steadied them before disaster struck. As the hours passed, exhaustion crept in.
Some dozed off despite the rough ride. Others sat silent and watchful, their hands never far from the weapons they had managed to keep. The desert was never truly empty—jackals howled in the distance, unseen figures moved in the dunes, perhaps bandits, perhaps worse. But no threat approached.
By the time the first hints of dawn painted the horizon in hues of gold and crimson, their journey had stretched nearly twenty leagues across the shifting sands. Then—at last—a change in the landscape.
The air became warmer, thicker with moisture. The scent of fresh water teased their senses. And ahead, beyond a ridge of dunes, palm trees swayed gently against the morning sky.
Warm Oasis. A haven in the heart of the Wastes. The sight of it sent a surge of relief through the weary travelers. But as the chariots approached, Sayf al-Maut cast a glance back at them, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Rest while you can, travelers," he said.
The chariots came to a halt just beyond the oasis walls, the scent of fresh water and burning torches filling the air. Sayf al-Maut dismounted first, striding toward a small, unassuming house near the center of the settlement. With deliberate knocks, he rapped on the wooden door.
A moment passed. Then, the door creaked open, revealing a man with a weathered face, sun-kissed skin, and piercing eyes that had seen both war and freedom. His coat was adorned with silver trimmings, worn from years of hardship, yet regal in its presence. Sayf bowed his head slightly. "King Jhon," he addressed the man with respect.
But from behind him, Khaltar froze. His eyes widened as if he had just seen a ghost. His grip on his chariot loosened, and for a brief moment, he simply stared.
Then, as if reality had finally sunk in, he jumped off his chariot in a frantic rush. "Jhon?! No. That can't be. Jhon Rackham?!"
Jhon's eyes flickered with recognition—then shock. He blinked once, then twice, his mouth parting in disbelief. "Khaltar?"
Without hesitation, Khaltar ran toward him, pushing past Sayf, his heavy boots kicking up the desert dust. And in a moment that none of their companions could have expected, he threw his arms around Jhon, gripping his old friend in an embrace that only men who had survived too much together could understand.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then—they laughed. A rough, knowing laughter, the kind that carried the weight of years, of old battles, of shared drinks and near-death experiences. The others, however, remained still.
Rahotep, Gorim, Grumli, Nadra, Arianne, Hadeefa, Varnic—all of them exchanged confused glances.
The dwarves shifted uncomfortably. The assassins stood in silence. Even Sayf arched an eyebrow. Jhon Rackham, a king? And Khaltar, knowing him personally? None of it make sense.
And yet, here they were—Khaltar and Jhon, grinning like fools, completely ignoring the awkward stares surrounding them.