Dren's voice sliced through the heavy silence, calm yet edged with steel.
"I'll give you one chance to run. Take it, and I won't hurt you."
The assassin and Skull Breaker stood frozen, eyes locked on the lifeless head of Bone Collector. Blood glistened on the cold stone floor, catching the flickering torchlight like spilled rubies.
A shadow crossed the assassin's face. His jaw tightened until his teeth ground audibly, veins rising along his neck. The memory hit him like a hammer.
**Flashback**
A young woman's gentle voice echoed in the dim room. Twelve-year-old **Ronan** sat on a worn wooden chair while his mother, **Elara**, cleaned the fresh cuts on his knuckles with a damp cloth.
"**Ronan**… you got into trouble again," she said warmly, her touch soft as morning light.
"They were making fun of you again, Mom," he answered, chest puffed with stubborn pride. "I had to teach them a lesson."
**Elara** smiled sadly. "Thank you, my boy. But stop getting hurt over what others think. Their words don't matter."
"But Mom—"
She pressed a finger to his lips, shushing him gently. "No 'buts.' Promise me: no more fighting."
**Ronan** turned his face away, cheeks flushing. "Yes…"
"You're just like your father," she whispered, brushing his hair back.
He pulled away, stood, and walked toward the door.
"**Ronan**, wait!"
He stopped at the threshold, shoulders rigid.
"Mom… he's not here. Stop talking about him!"
The words cracked with pain. "Sorry… I'll be back later."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Older **Ronan**'s voice drifted through the memory like smoke:
*My mother was gullible, some might say. She believed in a man who never truly loved her. The town laughed—called her a wishful whore. Yet deep down she still waited for her knight to return.*
**Earlier that same day – Town of Cirus**
Young **Ronan** wandered the dusty streets, boots kicking up fine red earth as he headed to his quiet spot overlooking the market. Laughter and shouts drifted up from the stalls, but his mind was elsewhere.
Then he heard it—fists thudding against flesh. Three older boys circled a girl his own age. She never screamed. Her silver hair hung limp, face strangely calm as blows rained down.
"What's wrong with this creep?" one bully sneered. "Not even begging while we beat the crap out of her."
A fourth boy bent down and picked up a jagged stone, hefting it with a cruel grin. Still, the girl's expression didn't change.
**Ronan** stepped forward and grabbed the bully's wrist just before the stone fell.
"Leave her alone!"
The boys spun on him, shoving him hard. He hit the ground.
"Look who's here—the son of a whore!" they howled, laughing as they closed in.
They beat him until he curled into a bloody ball.
"Whatever. I'm starving," one muttered. "Done wasting time on this filth."
They left. **Ronan** lay gasping in the dirt, then lifted his head. The silver-haired girl was already walking away without a backward glance.
"Wait!" he called.
She turned. Bruises bloomed across her pale face, silver strands matted with dust.
"You're just… gonna leave me here?"
She said nothing. Turned. Walked on.
"Ungrateful…"
**Later that afternoon**
**Ronan** slipped into the shadows near the arena. The crowd roared like thunder. Steel clashed, sand flew, and sweat glistened on the warriors' bodies under the harsh sun. Only adults were allowed—betting on blood and glory—but **Ronan** hid behind a stack of crates, eyes wide with awe.
"Stylon Xexes is the winner!" the announcer bellowed. "Undefeated knight champion—again!"
**Ronan**'s hero. He watched every powerful swing, every perfect stance, dreaming of the day he would stand in that ring.
Then he spotted her—silver hair weaving through the crowd like moonlight on water.
"That bitch," he growled. "I'll make her pay for leaving me."
He pushed forward, darting between adults. A rough hand finally caught his collar and dragged him to the game master's chamber.
The man inside was a known fugitive, a thorn in the Allthing's side. **Ronan** was thrown to the floor in front of a massive oak desk.
There she was—the silver-haired girl—pouring tea for the fugitive, a slave collar gleaming at her throat.
*She's his slave…*
"Who's this brat?" the fugitive snapped.
"He was sneaking near the arena," the tall guard reported.
The fugitive leaned forward, eyes cold. "What do you want, kid? Are you a spy?"
"I—I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to be here, but I just wanted to watch the fights. I want to be—"
"Shut up."
A brutal slap sent **Ronan** stumbling. His ears rang. Flashes of his mother's face blurred before his eyes.
The guard seized him by the throat, lifting him until his feet kicked uselessly. The silver-haired girl watched, her fingers trembling at her sides.
The fugitive picked up a knife from the desk and stepped closer. "Did you report back to them? Who sent you?"
"No one… sent… me," **Ronan** choked out.
"Boss asked you a question," the guard growled, tightening his grip.
"Wait!" the girl cried.
The fugitive turned on her, voice like ice. "I didn't say you could speak. Have you forgotten what happens when you do?"
She met his stare without flinching. "If you kill him now, you'll never know who sent him. Cage him in the Turmoil. A few days and he'll talk."
Silence stretched. The fugitive studied her eyes, then raised one finger. The guard dropped **Ronan**. The boy collapsed, coughing violently.
"Take him to the Turmoil," the fugitive ordered. "Let him rot until he breaks."
The guard dragged **Ronan** through torchlit corridors and shoved him into a barren iron cage—no bed, no blanket, only cold bars and darkness.
"Two days in here breaks most men," the guard sneered. "That's why they call it the Turmoil. Wonder how long you'll last."
**Ronan** said nothing. His eyes already carried the dull acceptance of death.
A day dragged by.
**Elara** searched the streets of Cirus, voice raw from calling her son's name. Doors slammed in her face. Insults flew—"whore," "foolish dreamer." The silver-haired girl passed her once, then paused, watching the desperate mother weep for her missing child.
Later, the girl slipped into the Turmoil. **Ronan** sat hunched in the corner, arms scratched raw from his own fingernails. She pushed a small bundle of food between the bars.
"Eat," she said quietly, "or you'll die."
He stared at the floor.
She turned to leave. "Your mother is out there… crying for you."
Her words struck like lightning. The moment she vanished into the shadows, **Ronan** lunged for the food and devoured every crumb.
Unseen, she hid in the corridor and watched, a faint flicker of something soft in her eyes.
Days blurred. The girl—Hana—visited mostly at night, bringing bread, water, and quiet company. **Ronan** taught her to read the strange letters of this land; she had come from far away, where the writing was different. She shared little about herself, but one night she whispered her name.
"Hana."
"That's a beautiful name," he said.
She smiled—small, fragile, the first he had ever seen from her.
"You're really an amazing person, Hana."
For a heartbeat, her lips curved into a real smile.
Footsteps echoed. She gathered the book and slipped away like a ghost.
Later the fugitive returned with the guard and a twisted man they called the Mad Healer.
"See? He's already broken," the fugitive said.
"We need answers fast," the healer replied. "Golden Knights are moving for some unknown mission."
**Ronan** kept his head down, listening.
"Kill him tonight if he's useless," the fugitive ordered, then left.
The healer stayed, grinning. "I'm going to have so much fun with you."
That night Hana returned with keys, eyes fierce. She had planned the escape with **Elara**, who waited outside the walls. The gate creaked open—then the Mad Healer lunged. They fought in the narrow stairwell. Hana shoved him hard; he tumbled down the stone steps. She grabbed **Ronan** and they ran.
Outside, chaos erupted. Golden-cloaked knights stormed the compound, torches blazing, swords flashing. Flames licked the rooftops. The fugitive's men scattered.
The fugitive himself fled upstairs, then spotted Hana and **Ronan** running below. "My priceless jewel thinks she can leave me?" he snarled, snatching a crossbow.
Outside the burning walls, **Elara** pulled **Ronan** into a crushing hug. "We run—now." She kissed his forehead, then Hana's. "All of us. Together."
Hana's eyes widened, then softened. A real, hopeful smile broke across her face.
They turned to flee.
A crossbow bolt hissed through the night. **Elara** crumpled.
They spun. A golden-cloaked knight on horseback—Dren—held the crossbow, cloak billowing in the firelight.
But it was a cruel trick of the moment. The fugitive had fired from the balcony above. By the time the children looked, only Dren was visible.
Dren leaped from the saddle and dropped to his knees beside **Elara**, face twisting with recognition. "**Elara**…"
She smiled weakly, lifting a trembling hand to cup his cheek. Behind him, **Ronan** snatched up the fallen sword, ready to strike.
"**Ronan**… I told you he'd come back," **Elara** whispered.
The sword clattered to the ground.
"Your father… I'm glad he's here," she breathed.
**Ronan** shoved Dren aside and fell beside his mother. "Mom, stay with me! Please don't leave me!"
"Your father's here, **Ronan**… be nice to him, my boy." Her hand slipped from his cheek and fell still.
Ronan's sobs tore through the smoke-filled air. Footsteps thundered closer. Dren scooped both children onto his horse and galloped into the night.
In a distant kingdom he left them safely. **Ronan** cursed him through tears, swearing he would grow strong enough to kill the man who had taken his mother.
Dren rode away in silence, carrying the weight of a son he had abandoned twice.
Eight years later
A taller, harder **Ronan** and Hana galloped a stolen horse across moonlit fields. They had grown into weapons. They stopped at a roadside tavern, drank bitter ale, and listened to a drunk boast about the bounty hunter called "the Drought." Rage boiled over. **Ronan** smashed the man with his cup while the entire room watched.
Hana dragged him outside and slapped him hard. "Your mother wouldn't want this. Not on innocent people."
He calmed, breathing heavy, and they rode on.
In the next town, locals chained a boy their age to an execution post, calling him a monster who had killed his own family with bare hands. Ronan approached at night.
"If you're really that strong," he said quietly, "why haven't you escaped?"
The boy finally spoke: his parents had tried to murder him first. He had only defended himself but he was to strong a slight push killed them instantly. Ronan and Hana freed him. The boy became Skull Breaker.
Hana laid out their plan: become bounty hunters, grow strong, earn influence. Skull Breaker joined, carving his name in blood. Hana earned hers too—Bone Collector. **Ronan** became the Assassin. He won the trust of Greenwood's king and whispered a single suggestion: summon Dren to kill Boldr. The rest would fall into place—Dren would enrage Forkbeard, who would pay a fortune to eliminate him, giving them the coin to hire deadlier killers.
Present
But the plan lay in ruins at **Ronan**'s feet.
He stared at the severed head of Bone Collector—Hana, the only person he still loved—and felt something inside him shatter.
His jaw locked. Skull Breaker's grip tightened on his weapon until the leather creaked.
Dren's blood-streaked face remained calm. "I'll turn a blind eye this once, kid. Go. For your mother's sake."
Ronan's voice came out low, venomous, shaking with every ragged breath.
"I'm going to kill you."
The chapter ends.