Men in dark clothing stand around my house, too still to belong there, their presence wrong in a way that sends a chill down my spine. The wind pulls at their garments, but they do not move with it.
Swords rest in their hands, loose but ready, as if they are waiting for something—or someone.
My breath stills.
Who are they?
And why are they standing in front of my house?
I remain where I am, half-hidden by the trees, letting the darkness swallow my shape while my eyes adjust and take them in one by one.
There are five of them, spaced carefully, not like wandering bandits but like men who know how to surround a target.
Their footing is steady, their shoulders relaxed, and the way they hold their blades tells me they are not strangers to blood.
This is not a mistake, not a coincidence, and not a random stop in the night. They are here for a reason, and that reason lies behind that door.
A faint movement draws my focus. One of them turns his head slightly, then gives a small, deliberate nod to another.
The man closest to the entrance shifts his grip and begins to walk toward the door with slow, measured steps, as if he has all the time in the world.
My body goes cold.
My mother and father are inside.
The thought strikes with such force that it nearly knocks the breath out of me, but I force it down before panic can take hold.
Panic will get them killed, and hesitation will do the same. There is no time to think, only to act.
My hand moves before my mind finishes forming the command. I slip my bag open and pull out the mask, pressing it over my face until it settles into place and erases me completely.
The familiar weight of it steadies something inside me, turning fear into something sharper, something that can cut.
My fingers close around the hilt of my dagger next, the cool metal grounding me further, reminding me of what I am capable of.
I glance around quickly and reach for a fallen branch near my feet, testing its weight in my hand. It is rough, uneven, but strong enough to serve its purpose.
The man is only a few steps from the door now.
I do not give myself another moment.
My arm moves in a swift, precise motion, and the branch leaves my hand with force, cutting through the air before striking him cleanly in the arm.
The impact is sharp, enough to make him stagger and hiss under his breath as the wood lodges into flesh.
Everything freezes.
Every head turns toward me at once.
For a single heartbeat, the world holds its breath.
Then I step out of the shadows.
The mask hides my face, the clothes hide my form, and the darkness hides the rest. There is nothing left of who I am, nothing that can be traced back to that house behind them.
If anyone sees me now, they will see only a stranger, only a threat, only something that came out of the night to kill.
That is enough.
"Who sent you?" I ask, my voice low and altered, stripped of anything familiar.
No one answers.
One of them lets out a short, humorless breath, and I catch the glint of his teeth beneath the cloth covering part of his face.
"Does it matter?" he replies, his tone almost bored, as though this is nothing more than routine. "You chose the wrong place to stand."
"Then you chose the wrong house," I return without pause.
Silence snaps tight between us.
Then they move.
All at once, as if pulled by the same string, they rush toward me with frightening speed, blades flashing in the dim light.
There is no hesitation in them, no wasted movement, only the clean intent to cut me down where I stand.
I move to meet them.
Running away is not an option, not when their path leads straight to my family, and so I close the distance instead, forcing the fight away from the house before it can even begin.
The first strike comes fast, a downward slash meant to split me open, but I twist aside just in time, feeling the wind of the blade brush past me.
I do not give him the chance to recover.
My dagger drives forward, aiming for his ribs, but he blocks it with his sword, the force of the impact sending a sharp jolt up my arm.
He is strong, stronger than I expected, and the realization settles cold in my stomach. These are not ordinary men.
Another comes from my side, his blade cutting low toward my legs. I leap back, barely avoiding it, and pivot sharply, slashing toward his throat.
He jerks away just in time, but the edge of my dagger still grazes his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
There is no space to breathe.
They press in from all sides, their coordination tight, their attacks relentless, forcing me to keep moving, keep reacting, keep surviving one strike after another.
Steel flashes in every direction, the sound of it ringing in my ears as I block, dodge, and counter with everything I have.
A sharp pain tears through my arm before I can fully register the movement that caused it.
I suck in a breath as a blade slices across my upper arm, the burn immediate and deep, hot blood spilling down my skin.
The pain is blinding for a moment, threatening to slow me, to drag me under, but I bite it back and force my body to keep moving.
Pain means I am still alive.
And as long as I am alive, I can kill.
The man who cut me steps in again, confident now, his sword rising for another strike meant to finish what he started.
His eyes lock onto mine through the mask, cold and certain, already seeing me as something that will fall beneath him.
That is his mistake.
I step into his attack instead of away from it.
The blade grazes my shoulder as I close the distance, but I do not stop, do not hesitate, do not feel anything beyond the single point of focus that drives me forward. My hand moves in one clean motion, fast and precise, and the dagger slices across his throat before he can react.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then his eyes widen.
warm blood hits my hand before he even understands he's dead.
Blood spills, dark and heavy, and he collapses in front of me without a sound.
The world sharpens.
My grip tightens.
Not from fear.
From the fact that it was easier than I expected.
The remaining four hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, but it is enough for me to see something shift in them.
It is not fear, not quite, but recognition, as if they have realized I am not what they expected.
Then, just as suddenly, they step back.
One of them clicks his tongue softly, almost in annoyance, and gives a brief signal with his hand.
Without another word, they turn and retreat into the darkness, their movements swift and controlled, vanishing as quickly as they appeared.
I stand there, chest rising and falling, blood dripping from my arm onto the ground.
They did not flee like men who lost.
They left like men who chose to.
The thought lingers, heavy and unsettling, but I push it aside. There is no time to chase it, no time to understand it.
I turn and run.
The distance to the house feels longer than it should, every step dragging against the fear that I might already be too late.
My hand tightens around the dagger as I reach the door and push it open, slipping inside with as little noise as possible.
The darkness inside is familiar, unchanged.
I move quickly toward my parents' room and pause at the entrance, my breath caught somewhere between dread and hope.
They are still there.
My father lies as he always does, his breathing steady, his posture careful. My mother rests beside him, her face calm, untouched by the danger that had stood just outside their door moments ago.
Relief hits so suddenly it almost weakens my knees.
I do not step closer, do not risk waking them, because the moment they open their eyes, everything will become harder.
Instead, I stand there for a brief moment, letting the sight of them settle into me, anchoring me before I leave again.
Then I turn away.
I move through the house quickly, retrieving what I came back for, my hands steady despite the blood that still runs down my arm.
The cloth and necessities I forgot earlier are gathered without hesitation, packed away with the same efficiency as before.
When I step outside again, the night feels colder.
I pause at the threshold and lift my gaze briefly toward the dark sky. There are no answers there, no signs, no reassurance, but I still find myself whispering under my breath, a quiet plea carried into the silence.
Keep them safe.
The words are simple, but they carry everything I cannot say aloud.
I do not wait for a response.
I turn and disappear into the night once more, leaving behind the only place I have ever called home, with blood on my hands and something far darker following close behind.
The road does not end.
It stretches endlessly beneath my feet, winding through rough ground and narrow paths, cutting through forest and stone as if it has no destination at all.
By the time the sun rises, my body is already heavy with exhaustion, and by the time it stands high above me, every step feels like I am dragging something unseen behind me.
My arm burns.
The wound has not stopped bleeding completely, and the dried blood pulls against my skin with every movement, sharp and unforgiving.
I do not slow down. Slowing down means weakness, and weakness has no place in what lies ahead.
By noon, the mountains rise before me.
The northern military camp stands carved into its base, vast and unyielding, surrounded by sharpened stakes and guarded watchtowers.
Smoke rises from within, blending into the sky, and the distant clash of metal carries faintly through the air.
I stop for the first time.
The sight settles heavily in my chest, cold and certain. There is no path here that leads to survival. Whether it is the battlefield or the truth hidden beneath my clothes, death waits for me either way.
I walk forward anyway.
The closer I get, the louder everything becomes. Voices, footsteps, the rough sounds of men who have lived too long in violence.
The gates stand open, allowing movement in and out, but every step inside feels like crossing something that cannot be undone.
I keep my head down and move with purpose.
Groups of men gather near the entrance, some already armed, others waiting, their appearances varied in a way that makes them seem almost out of place beside one another.
Some are broad and hardened, others lean and sharp, and a few look as though they have never held a weapon before.
New recruits.
I slip in behind them without drawing attention, letting their presence shield mine as we move forward together.
The weight of the mask is gone now, but my posture remains the same, controlled and careful, every movement measured.
No one looks at me twice.
Not yet.
A voice cuts through the noise behind me.
"Hey."
It is low. Close.
Too close.
My body stills for a fraction of a second before I turn.
Three men stand there, taller than most around them, their builds solid, their presence heavy in a way that immediately sets them apart.
Their swords hang at their sides, but the way their hands rest near the hilts makes it clear they do not hesitate to use them.
One of them steps forward.
Before I can move, the cold edge of a sword presses against my neck.
It is sharp.
Close enough that I can feel it without it cutting, a silent warning that it only needs the slightest push to end me.
"Where do you think you are going?".