The glint of steel vanished beneath the canopy.
Callan narrowed his eyes. "Four. Maybe five. Not scouts—killers."
Lyra squinted into the dusk. "How can you tell from this distance?"
"They don't move like men afraid of being hunted. They move like men who've hunted before."
He turned, already moving. "We need to rouse the watch."
"Callan, the wall's not finished—"
"I know."
The village bell tolled only once.
Callan didn't allow it to ring twice.
The signal was meant for fire—but tonight, it meant blood.
Men and women emerged from their homes gripping farm tools and shortbows. Eyes bleary, breath sharp. They weren't soldiers. They were parents, traders, shepherds. But they came.
Callan stood before them with no crest, no speech—just his sword, strapped across his back. For a brief moment, no one moved. Then young Darek stepped forward, clutching a spear taller than himself.
"Where are they, my lord?"
Callan met his eyes. "In the trees. Coming north. Five, maybe more."
Steward Bren appeared beside him, pale and trembling. "There's no declaration of war—this must be a mistake. Or bandits—"
Callan cut him off. "No bandit approaches in formation."
He looked back to the crowd. "Get the children to the chapel. Arm anyone with two working limbs. We hold the wall."
Someone asked, "And if we can't?"
Callan drew the sword.
Its weight hummed in the air.
"Then we fight in the streets. And if that fails…" His voice dropped, dark as midnight. "You run. I'll make sure they don't follow."
They came at twilight.
Three figures first—shadows flitting between trees. Their footsteps silent, armor lacquered in greenish black. Masks over their mouths. Not bandits. Not scouts. Assassins.
Behind them: a larger figure. Hulking. Two axes. No armor. Just a blood-stained sash. His presence bent the branches.
Then the fifth.
She stood apart—hooded, robed in ash-gray silk. Her hands didn't move. Her eyes didn't blink.
Callan saw her and felt a shiver through the blade in his hand.
A caster.
They moved fast.
The three assassins broke left and right, flanking toward the eastern and western approaches. The giant strode straight toward the main gate.
And the caster vanished.
"Left flank!" Callan shouted. "Archers—on the hill!"
Darek and the bowmen scrambled toward the trees.
Callan himself moved west.
The assassin appeared in the grass like smoke, blades gleaming green with poison. He struck first—fast, precise. Callan deflected the first blow with his gauntlet, spun low, and brought his sword upward.
It split air.
The assassin leapt back.
He was good. Fast. Agile.
Callan was better.
They danced in the twilight, metal flashing like lightning. The assassin fought to wound. Callan fought to kill.
A parry.
A feint.
Then Callan stepped inside his guard and drove his sword through the man's chest.
Blood sprayed the dirt.
He looked east.
Another scream. Lyra had raised a barrier near the chapel—barely in time to stop the second assassin from reaching the children. She chanted rapidly, glyphs glowing in the air.
Then a burst of flame struck the side of the chapel, and Lyra was thrown backward.
The caster had reappeared.
Callan moved without thought.
He left the corpse where it fell and sprinted down the hill, ignoring the burning in his legs.
The caster stood on the chapel roof now, arms raised. Fire gathered in her palms—dancing in arcs of gold and red.
He skidded to a halt beneath her.
Too high to strike.
So he threw the sword.
It spun through the air, impossibly fast—and struck her shoulder.
She shrieked and vanished in a burst of smoke.
The blade embedded in the roof with a thud.
Callan didn't wait. He leapt, grabbed the eaves, and hauled himself up.
The roof cracked beneath his boots. Smoke curled around his face.
He ripped the sword free—and ducked just in time to avoid a bolt of raw fire.
The caster reappeared ten feet away, hand charred, blood trickling from her mouth. Her eyes burned with hatred.
"You," she hissed. "You're him."
Callan didn't answer.
She raised both hands.
The flames obeyed.
They surged like a living beast.
Callan raised his blade—not to block, but to cut.
The air screamed as he struck.
And the fire parted.
On the ground below, villagers watched in stunned silence as the sky above the chapel lit up like a dying star—then exploded outward in a ring of gold light.
When the dust cleared, the caster was gone.
Not burned. Not bleeding.
Gone.
Only a scorch mark remained where she had stood.
And Callan stood at the center of the roof, sword in hand, unmoving.
Meanwhile, at the gate, the giant approached.
No tactics. No disguise. Just brute strength.
He took an arrow to the thigh and didn't slow.
A spear through the ribs—he laughed.
Then he reached the gates.
Two men held the line. One had a pike. The other, a cleaver.
The giant swatted them aside like flies.
He grabbed the gate beams—and pulled.
The wood snapped.
Just as he began to step through, a figure dropped from above.
Callan landed like a falling star.
The giant grinned. "You're the one they warned me about."
Callan said nothing.
The giant charged.
A swing of the axe—
Callan dodged.
The blade cleaved a cart in two.
Another swing.
Callan blocked it with the flat of his sword—and slid ten feet backward in the dirt.
The crowd gasped.
Callan looked at the blood on his palm.
The man was strong.
But strength wasn't enough.
The next exchange happened in seconds.
The giant roared. He brought both axes down.
Callan stepped to the side—and slashed upward.
The axe fell.
So did the arm that held it.
The giant screamed.
Callan drove his sword through the man's stomach, twisted, and yanked it free.
The body crumpled.
Silence fell.
Then a cheer broke the air.
And another.
But Callan didn't smile.
He just stared down at the corpse, eyes cold.
After the bodies were buried, the villagers gathered at the chapel.
Lyra had bandaged her arm and now tended to the wounded.
Callan stood beside the gate, wiping blood from the blade.
Bren approached, face pale.
"Four enemies. One vanished. No heraldry. No demands. Just… slaughter."
Callan nodded.
Bren hesitated.
"Who are you, my lord?"
Callan looked at him.
Then at the villagers.
Then at the sky, still glowing with the last light of day.
"Someone who's trying very hard not to become who I used to be."
That night, in the woods, the fifth attacker stood before a stone altar carved with infernal runes.
Blood dripped from her fingers.
A dark shape loomed behind her—robes black as pitch, face hidden behind a mask of bone.
"You failed," the shape said.
The woman lowered her head. "He's stronger than expected. The sword…"
The masked one raised a hand. "Do not speak of it. That blade remembers too much."
The woman bowed. "Shall I return?"
The shape turned away.
"No. You have seen his strength. You have seen his fear. We will send another."
A pause.
Then a low whisper: "The Demon General has awoken."