Godwin Era, Cozmo-39 'Galmoon'
Mikayle crouched atop a green hill, every leaf and twig below sharp in his gaze. He moved carefully through the underbrush, silent as a shadow, eyes fixed on the narrow path winding down into the dense forest. It wasn't a proper road—just a trail faintly worn by travelers—but today it would serve perfectly.
The forest was thick and chaotic. Branches twisted overhead, leaves rustling in the soft evening breeze. Shadows stretched long in the fading light, blending into the deep green of the trees. The earthy smell of damp soil and crushed leaves filled the air. Mikayle's attention never wavered until he stumbled against something solid.
He looked up.
It wasn't a tree. It was his boss.
Grey-streaked, spiky hair framed a sharp, weathered face. A faded cloak hung loosely from one shoulder, shredded and frayed from countless journeys. Beneath it, a dark tunic, torn at the edges, was tucked into a leather belt holding two gleaming daggers. His brown eyes didn't move—not an inch—as if he hadn't noticed Mikayle bumping into him.
Mikayle straightened, brushing dust from his clothes. His face was pale, slightly dirty, with soft, rounded cheeks still full of youth. His large, alert brown eyes watched the path below with caution far beyond his years. Tousled brown hair fell forward over his forehead, framing his intense gaze.
"Boss… are they coming, or are we waiting forever?" Mikayle whispered, eyes fixed on the winding path below.
Without even glancing at him, the grey-streaked man's voice cut through the quiet, calm but tinged with annoyance."Master! Is it that hard to say 'Master' properly?!"
A distant neigh sounded. Mikayle glanced sideways. Three wooden carriages appeared, guards armed and alert, moving along the twisting trail. A mischievous grin spread across his face. The prey is here at last.
Inside the first carriage, two boys sat opposite each other.
One had dark red hair, flickering like dying embers, tousled but soft. His deep blue eyes were wide, filled with innocent wonder, trembling as he hugged his knees. Silk and velvet clothes, once pristine, were now dirtied by mud and blood. He sat fragile and almost ethereal, a light caught in the harsh grip of the slavers.
The other boy, smaller and dark-haired, wore a worn, frayed overcoat that hung loosely on his frame. Freckles dotted his pale cheeks, and striking green eyes, calm yet tired, peered out from beneath messy bangs. He sat rigid, disappointment unreadable on his face, shadows under his eyes whispering of fear and a youth forced to endure too much.
The first carriage jolted violently. The horse sank into a deceptively soft patch of mud, wheels digging in, the carriage shuddering and stuck.
The master's hand went to his pocket and drew a wooden mask, carved with intricate layered details. At its forehead, a single eye was etched, and inside the eye's pupil, three daggers seemed to blaze with eternal flame. Two curved openings framed the eyes perfectly, styled like a hunter's gaze—fitting his face exactly.
His voice turned cold and even."Mask on, kiddo."
Mikayle tugged his scarf higher, barely covering his face. In the name of masks… this is the closest I get.
The second carriage's guards rushed forward. The third remained still. Then the fight began.
A guard lunged. The master sidestepped, spinning a dagger into the mud at the man's feet. He stumbled, cursing as the slick earth swallowed his footing. Mikayle's heart raced. Every move… I have to learn every strike, every misstep could kill me.
Another charged from the left—he kicked a branch into his face, sending him sprawling. The sound of snapping wood and wet mud filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of blood.
The master vaulted onto the carriage roof, dagger flashing, landing behind another guard. One precise jab to the shoulder, and the man collapsed silently, leaving a faint metallic tang in the air.
Two guards flanked him. He dropped into the shadows, misdirecting them. Their swords slashed air; panic flickered in their eyes. A spinning kick sent one sprawling into the mud, while another's dagger cut his cloak—he twisted, striking the shoulder.
A guard lunged from the front. The master caught the wrist, spun, and elbowed the next guard's knee. Both went down, groaning, mud splattering across their faces.
Four remained. Fear flickered behind their eyes, their breaths sharp and shallow. One whispered, voice cracking, "Who… who is this?!" Their hesitation made the master's task easier.
A dagger thrown to distract them; he slipped into the carriage's open side door. Two guards from left, two from right. He slid through mud, springing off the first carriage wheel to land behind another. A spinning kick to the chest, dagger in the shoulder, precise and deadly.
The remaining two hesitated. Panic rose. A subtle hiss preceded their downfall, leaving all four incapacitated. Shadows from the trees stretched over them as the last rays of sun glinted off his blade. The master closed the carriage door silently, letting them believe he had fled in fear.
Mikayle, hiding behind the third carriage, looted the treasure. His heart raced, awe and fear mingling. Every move… perfect, fluid, unstoppable.
The first carriage remained trapped in mud. The people inside were alive—they had to be freed.
"So… what did we get today? Diamond or gold?" the master called aloud.
"Two chickens, boss!" Mikayle shouted back, sarcastic.
A grimace twisted across the master's face. Minor loot, but focus never wavered.
He crouched beside the guard writhing from the kick."Can't even stand?"
"Oh… I see now. Not guards. Just a pack of slavers," he murmured.
"You know what I despise most? Those who sell someone else's freedom for coins and worthless paper."
The blade cut the thug's throat. Begging didn't save him.