Adam tried to lift the fallen pawn, but its wooden shape seemed glued to the cross drawn on the map, as if an unseen force was holding it there. At that very moment, in Sector 5, Stroe unfolded the first letter. Then, the pawn of that sector shook violently, with an intensity that seemed almost alive — a convulsive vibration, like a silent scream, that the truth revealed was never meant to be known. The tremor born from it shook the entire map, and all of Western Valahia quivered, the earth itself seeming to shudder.
The smell of blood was everywhere in exile. The ground was strewn with dark pools, reflecting the light of the moon. That moon, a silent witness, watched the scene without the power to describe it, even if it had been given speech.
In Sector 5, the hunter Stroe felt his harsh nature tense — something here was not as it should be. He was close to the Speaking Cave. The guard who accompanied him whispered that the place should have been deserted long ago. But the tracks on the ground told another story: recent entries and exits, deep footprints in the damp clay.
Stroe raised his hand and ordered all the guards to remain outside, watching the entrance. He would be the only one to go inside.
The torch in his hand cast trembling shadows across the dark cave walls. The entrance was beaten and strewn with jewels, laid out as on a ceremonial path, something fit only for high rank. Stroe stilled his astonishment — how could such treasures have been brought into the heart of exile, without Adam Wolf ever knowing?
In the depths of the cave, no piles of gold awaited him, as he might have thought. Instead, he found a simple wooden table, laden with letters bound tightly by a black string, each bearing the seal of a crest unknown to the four regions. The torchlight flickered, and the seals seemed to absorb the light.
One of the letters was already opened, the edges of the parchment slightly gnawed by dampness:
"Centurio, our troops are ready at the border. When the Red Moon is full, we shall open the Gates from Sector 6. – signed Pi."
A short hiss, almost animal-like, made Stroe start and turn his head sharply. From the cold, damp wall of the cave, a silhouette seemed to peel itself from the stone. It advanced slowly. A silver mask, without a single crack, covered its face completely, and the eyes — a blazing green — fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to steal his breath. A precious stone adorning the mask's forehead glimmered faintly in the wavering light of the torch, like a star caught in the night.
— "Hanged are those who read the letters of the dead, hunter…"
The legionary's voice echoed deep, with a threatening calm that made the sound colder than the cave's air.
Stroe's heart pounded in his chest, but the only question that broke from his lips was:
— "How did you enter the cave?"
— "I passed the guards at the entrance. Simple." replied the legionary with mocking indifference, as though those men were nothing more than blades of grass cut by the scythe of the wind.
— "How can you kill one of Adam Wolf's guards without a sound?"
— "Leave the questions. Let us come to you. What are you doing here, hunter?"
— "You will learn nothing from me. We will fight, if we must."
Stroe waited for no further word. His fingers moved quickly to his belt, seizing a small leather pouch. A mix of black powder slid between his fingers, spilling like poisoned sand, ready to be used in the next instant. The torchlight danced on the metal edges of the mask, while the breath of the two men mingled in the narrow, suffocating air of the cave.
— "Without trace, without form, without sound" — he whispered, and the words echoed shortly in the damp cave. The dust in his palm rose slowly, thread by thread, until the black particles mixed with the damp air, melting into it like an unseen mist.
For a moment, Stroe's body seemed to vibrate, his outlines blurred, and then he vanished entirely, leaving behind only the torch, flickering alone upon the cold stone.
The legionary remained unmoving, straight as a marble statue. Beneath the flawless silver mask, the corner of his mouth curled, almost mockingly.
— "The old thieves' spells of the Neghină Mountains…" he murmured, in a tone blending amusement and scorn. — "But I do not need eyes to see you, Stroe."
The air around shifted abruptly. His aura pulsed, growing in intensity. It was like a bell of energy vibrating through the cave walls. The Ancient Aura of the legionary. A dark vortex coiled around his body, swirling like heavy smoke. The jewels on his mask flashed with a bluish-green glow, and from his body dripped thin, living strands of shadow, crawling over the stone like roots searching for water. They struck the ground in precise circles, as if measuring the space.
Invisible, Stroe clung to the damp wall of the cave, his breath held. The legionary was only a few steps away, the dark stones on his mask pulsing like eyes. He loaded his crossbow with a blessed arrow: "I must strike the mask…" he thought, eyes searching for the perfect angle. "That is his weakness."
But the instant Stroe's finger pulled the trigger, one of the thin, dark strands brushed the shaft of the arrow. The wood vibrated, and the sharp, almost metallic sound was swallowed by the cave's echo.
The legionary reacted with an explosion of speed, impossible to follow. The air tore behind him like a shredded cloth, and the arrow struck only the stone wall where he had stood an instant before, shattering it in a spray of cold shards.
— "Unlucky…" he whispered in a low voice, like a murmur from beneath a grave. Then he lunged toward an apparently empty spot.
Stroe rolled across the hard floor, the sharp stones biting into his ribs. But he did not have time to recover his balance — a hand, cold as iron, seized his ankle. From that touch, the thin black strands coiled rapidly, like living anacondas, dragging him back and revealing his position.
— "Your guards died the same way…" said the legionary, lifting him with one hand, straight by the throat. — "Without me touching them. I only… suggested they cut their veins."
Stroe's breath broke into a painful hiss, his throat trapped in a living vise. He saw the green eyes behind the mask glowing with an intensity almost unreal. And then he recognized that hue… the same green as the Eastern Host.
— "You… are Zo… de…" he tried to say, but his voice cracked.
The silver mask drew closer, its jewels reflecting the pale torchlight like drops of frozen blood. And in that instant, Stroe heard the voices.
They were not mere whispers. They were hundreds, perhaps thousands, speaking all at once, inside him, flooding his mind, washing away his thoughts like waves of black, heavy water.
— "The end of the road, hunter…" they laughed, with a tone both sweet and threatening. — "You will make a beautiful piece… in the collection."
The last thing he saw was his own hand, raising the crossbow… to his temple.
A short crack rang through the cave's depths, and the echo died quickly, as if the rocks themselves wished to swallow the evidence.
At that same moment, on Adam Wolf's map, the pawn from Sector 5 was wrapped in a web that appeared from nowhere…, leaving behind a trail of blood to the edge of the parchment. All the other pawns had fallen… with one exception.
In Sector 6, a black pawn remained motionless, glowing faintly, like a dead star. And, somewhere beyond the map, someone waited to strike.