The air in Dagran's small room grew heavy, choked with the knight's terror and the metallic scent of his fear. Kaelen's grip on the man's mouth was unyielding, allowing just enough breath to keep the flame of panic alive. Dagran thrashed, a frantic, desperate dance on the cot, his eyes bulging as Kaelen leaned closer, his voice a chilling murmur.
"Do you recall the screams, Dagran? The fire that lit the night sky over Elara's Point?" Kaelen's voice was utterly devoid of human warmth, a flat, dead tone that was more terrifying than any roar. "You laughed. You all laughed."
Dagran's struggles intensified, his muscles straining against Kaelen's surprising strength. He tried to bite, to buck, but Kaelen was a coiled spring, holding him fast. He wanted Dagran to understand, truly understand, the depth of the horror he had inflicted, and the price that was now due.
With a swift, practiced movement, Kaelen shifted, freeing one hand. His other hand remained clamped over Dagran's mouth, silencing any outcry. He drew the wickedly curved dagger, its polished blade gleaming faintly in the near-darkness. Dagran's eyes, wide with pure animal terror, fixed on the steel. He let out a muffled whimper, a sound of utter despair.
"My mother, Lyra," Kaelen whispered, his voice dangerously low, "she deserved a dignified end. My sister, Elara, she deserved to grow old. You took that from them. You took everything."
He pressed the flat of the blade against Dagran's chest, just above his heart. Dagran convulsed, a desperate tremor running through him. Kaelen watched him, cold and unfeeling. There was no joy in this, no triumphant glee, only a grim satisfaction, a sense of righting a cosmic wrong.
Then, with a sudden, savage twist, Kaelen drove the blade home. It wasn't a clean, swift kill. He twisted the blade, slowly, deliberately, grinding it against bone and tearing through flesh. Dagran's body arched, a silent, agonizing scream tearing through his muffled throat. His legs kicked violently, thrashing against the cot, a desperate dance of death. Blood welled up around the hilt, hot and thick, soaking into the rough fabric of Dagran's tunic.
Kaelen held him there, impaled, for long moments, watching the light fade from Dagran's eyes. He wanted the man's final moments to be filled with the agonizing awareness of what he had done, and who had finally come for him. The thrashing subsided, slowly, into a series of weakening shudders, until finally, Dagran went limp, his body slumping heavily onto the cot. The stench of blood mingled with the lingering odor of fear and ale.
Kaelen withdrew the blade, a sickening squelch accompanying its release. He wiped it clean on Dagran's tunic, his movements methodical. He left the body as it was, a grotesque tableau, a message for those who would find it. This wasn't a robbery or a random murder. This was personal.
He moved to the small table and picked up Dagran's empty ale stein. He dipped a finger into the pool of blood on the cot and, with careful precision, drew a single, stylized mark on the stein: a broken lion rampant, Valerius's sigil, slashed through with a jagged line. It was a declaration, a promise that the hunt had begun.
Silence descended upon the room, broken only by Kaelen's steady breathing. He moved back to the window, his senses alert. The communal barracks were still quiet, the guards deep in their drunken slumber. No alarms had been raised. His entry and the grim execution had been flawless.
He slipped out of the window as silently as he had entered, melting back into the inky blackness of the night. He didn't run. He walked, a measured, unhurried pace, moving through the town's deserted alleys. He scaled the palisade effortlessly, dropping to the dewy grass on the other side.
As he moved away from Oakhaven, the first faint tendrils of dawn began to paint the eastern sky. Soon, the town would stir. Soon, Dagran's body would be found. Kaelen felt no elation, no surge of triumph. Only a grim satisfaction, and a renewed sense of purpose. One name scratched from the ledger. Many more remained.
He pulled his hood lower, disappearing into the pre-dawn mist that clung to the fields. The first scythe had fallen. The harvest of vengeance had truly begun. He had given Dagran his brutal end, a mirror to the suffering he had inflicted. And in the depths of his being, Kaelen knew that the next names on his list would face an even more exquisite terror.