Chapter 10: The Saint Returns
The first snow of winter fell over the Draeven mountains.It whispered through the black pines, curling around the abandoned paths where only ghosts dared walk.
A year had passed since the boy left.A year of silence.A year of whispers.
He died in the wastes.The mountains ate him.The Draeven have no heir.
And then—
A figure appeared at the edge of the village.
White hair drifted in the wind, long enough to brush his chest. His robe was loose, scarred by travel, open enough to show the corded muscle earned from a year of unrelenting war against the wilderness.
On his back, the White Fang and Black Fang crossed like twin omens.A faint mist coiled around them, as if the swords themselves breathed.
Rigorus walked without hurry.Every step was measured, quiet, yet the snow refused to touch him.The air bent around him—soft, reverent.
A halo of red sorrow shimmered faintly at his back, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The first to see him was a boy running water to the square.He froze. The bucket hit the snow with a dull thud.
Then came the whispers.
"Is that…?""No… it can't be…""He's… different."
Doors opened. Faces appeared in windows.Old men who had spat on his name clutched the edges of their cloaks.Young warriors felt their hearts tremble without reason.
Rigorus didn't look at them.His eyes were calm, sharp as a blade honed on grief.Every step toward the clan hall was a sermon of its own.
The doors of the clan hall groaned open.
The air inside was warm from the great fire pit, but it felt like ice against his skin.Rows of elders and warriors lined the hall, their conversations dying the instant he appeared.
Then came the echo of boots.Deliberate. Heavy.
His grandfather emerged from the shadows of the hall, armor polished though dulled with age, his face carved from stone and years of battle.
The old soldier's gaze swept over him—white hair, twin swords, the faint pulse of a red halo at his back.Then, without hesitation, the old man knelt.
"My clan head," he said, voice firm but heavy with something deeper—pride, and the weight of surrender.
A ripple moved through the room.Gasps. Whispers.
One by one, the elders followed, bending their knees until the hall was a sea of lowered heads.The old guard, the new blood, the warriors and the soft-handed alike—all greeted the boy they had once cast aside.
Rigorus took a single step forward and stopped before the fire pit.He did not smile.He simply bowed his head once—the acknowledgment of a king to his people.
"Rise," he said.
The hall obeyed.
The meeting began with a heavy silence.Elders exchanged nervous glances until finally, one with a scarred cheek cleared his throat.
"Clan Head… things have changed since you left."
Rigorus said nothing. His gaze alone told the elder to continue.
"The clan… is haunted," the man said."Not by spirits, but by… something unseen. We feel watched—even in our own homes. When we sleep. When we walk the streets. When we breathe."
Another elder spoke, her hands trembling slightly."It is not only fear. It is blood. Last month alone, three of our elders were assassinated. Women have been found… dead. Violated. Brutalized. The streets are quiet, but the silence hides teeth."
The fire pit crackled.Shadows shifted against the walls.
"We tried," the scarred elder continued. "We hired professionals, men who have hunted killers across empires. They came with blades and talismans. None returned. Whoever… whatever… stalks us is intelligent. Ruthless. And beyond what our clan has faced in decades."
A pause. A shared glance among the elders.
"And… we believe it is tied to your sister's death."
The hall seemed to shrink. Even the fire hesitated to crackle.
Rigorus lowered his head slightly, the faint pulse of his Mourning Halo flickering in the firelight.When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried the weight of a blade unsheathed.
"Then the Draeven… are already at war."
No one argued.
A Mother's Eyes
He entered her chamber quietly.His mother lay pale beneath the sheets, her breath shallow but steady. When her eyes opened, they softened with recognition.
"You've returned," she whispered, as though afraid he might vanish if she spoke too loudly.
Rigorus sat beside her. He said nothing, but his presence filled the room.Her thin hand reached for his, and this time—he did not pull away.
"You've carried so much," she said. "But tonight, let me carry the peace for you."
He bowed his head once, kissed her hand, then rose.
A Lover's Gaze
The night market was nearly empty, stalls shuttered, lanterns dimming.Naelira stood waiting at the edge of the path, as if she knew he would come.
When their eyes met, the storm in his chest stilled.She smiled faintly, though her voice trembled.
"You're here… and that's enough."
Rigorus brushed a strand of her hair back, lingered a moment, then simply said:"Sleep. Tomorrow will come."
She nodded, but her eyes followed him until he vanished into the dark.
The Snake in the Dark
His chamber was quiet.Too quiet.
Rigorus lay in his bed, White Fang and Black Fang resting by his side. His breathing slowed, but his heart never surrendered to sleep. Something pressed against the edges of his awareness.
Cold. Silent. Hungry.
Like a snake savoring the moment before swallowing a rat.
His eyes snapped open.In one motion, he gripped Black Fang.
The sword left his hand like a spear.So sharp. So precise. Not even the air dared resist.
It vanished into the ceiling.No crack. No splinter. Only a whisper of motion—then a sound like a bell struck in heaven.
Chime.
A thin fissure split across the wood, glowing faintly with cold moonlight.
And then—blood.It seeped through the ceiling, dripping slow and steady onto the floorboards below.
Rigorus rose, drew White Fang, and tore the ceiling open with a single strike. The assassin crashed down in a heap, writhing, clutching the stump where his hand had been severed.
Rigorus pressed a boot to his chest, sword to his throat."Who sent you?"
The man spat blood. "You… think I fear you?"
Rigorus twisted White Fang into his shoulder, slow, deliberate. The scream shook the rafters.
"Fear means you live," Rigorus said coldly. "I only grant that once."
The halo flickered. Whispers of the dead filled the room.
The assassin broke. "We are many… unseen… we serve a father you cannot kill."
Rigorus's eyes narrowed."Tell him… he will bury more sons than he can count."
The Hunt of the Night
The Draeven clan slept uneasily, their homes cloaked in silence. But Rigorus moved through the night like a blade through water, his swords unsheathed, halo faint and watchful.
The first shadow struck from the rooftops, twin daggers flashing. Rigorus tilted his head by the width of a breath. The blades missed his neck by a hair. His counterstroke was silent — Black Fang split the man's chest.
Before the corpse hit the ground, two more leapt from opposite sides, curved blades aimed at his ribs. Rigorus's foot shifted, cloak swirling. White Fang flicked up, parrying one, while his free hand shoved the other's strike into the dirt. Their throats opened in the same heartbeat.
The whispers of assassins spread through the alleys."Don't blink.""Cut his ankles.""Blind the halo!"
Rigorus walked forward. Calm. Measured. Untouchable.
Steel rained from above, knives thrown with deadly precision. He did not stop. His head turned, body weaving — every blade slid past, missing by an inch, as if time itself bent to his rhythm.
When they rushed him, five at once, his swords became sermons. White Fang cut the air in a wide arc, Black Fang thrust forward like judgment. Limbs fell. Screams bit the cold air. Snow stained red.
One tried smoke bombs, choking the alley in ash. Rigorus closed his eyes, relying only on sound, heartbeat, the quiver of air around a hidden blade. When the man lunged, Rigorus already stood behind him, sword through his spine.
One by one, they fell.Ten became twenty.Twenty became fifty.By midnight, ninety-nine corpses littered the clan grounds.
The Last Assassin
And then, silence.
From the rooftops, a single figure descended. Taller than the rest. Clad in crimson, a bone mask cracked with age covering his face. His aura pressed heavy — not chaotic like the others, but steady, oppressive, like a predator who had hunted for decades.
He carried two sickles, blades curved like the teeth of beasts.When he spoke, his voice was calm, tired, but certain.
"My name is Kael Varros."
Rigorus stood still, swords dripping in moonlight."You're the last."
Kael's shoulders rose and fell slowly. "They sent fodder to test you. I begged them not to. They don't understand what you've become. But me…" He twirled his sickles, the sound like chains rattling. "I was raised for nights like this."
Rigorus raised White Fang, halo flickering."Then come, Kael. Let us end the night."
The Battle of the Night
Kael struck first — faster than lightning, sickles slicing in crescents meant to cut throat and leg in a single motion.
Rigorus leaned back just enough. The first blade hissed across his chin, close enough to shave a strand of hair. The second met White Fang in a shower of sparks.
Kael flowed, relentless. Each step a dance, each strike a storm. Sickles curved around Rigorus from impossible angles — overhead, low sweeps, feints that turned mid-air.
But Rigorus did not falter. His halo pulsed. His perception sharpened. He read Kael's intent before the blades reached him. His body moved in fractions — a sidestep, a twist, a tilt of the wrist — every dodge brushing the edge of death but never crossing it.
Minutes stretched into hours.The clan woke to the sound of steel. They gathered in the distance, afraid to breathe too loudly.
Rigorus bled from shallow cuts along his arms and ribs, but his eyes never dimmed. He countered when Kael slipped — once, twice, three times — shallow wounds across Kael's chest and thigh.
But Kael fought harder. Desperate. Like a man who carried not only blades, but a lifetime of chains.
The battle raged across rooftops, through courtyards, over broken walls. Trees split in half. Stones shattered. Sparks lit the snow like stars.
By the time dawn crept over the mountains, both men stood bloodied, panting, but unbroken.
Kael's End
At last, Kael's knees buckled. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the snow black. His mask cracked, falling to reveal a scarred, weathered face. His eyes shimmered with tears.
Rigorus raised White Fang, ready to strike. But Kael… smiled.
"Strange," he rasped. "I thought I'd curse you with my last breath. But… I feel no evil in you."
Rigorus hesitated. His blade trembled for the first time.
Kael coughed, a weak laugh breaking through blood."All we ever wanted… was peace. All my brothers wanted… was to live where our forefathers once lived. But we were raised in darkness. Taught to kill. To be weapons for a father who never saw us as sons."
His voice cracked. Tears fell freely now."Oh, how cruel fate is… that I should die by the hands of one who carries the blood of those we were raised to hate. Yet…"
His gaze softened, resting on Rigorus's sorrowful halo."…yet I see no hatred in you. Only grief. Only fire. Maybe… that is what peace looks like."
Kael lowered his sickles, dropping them to the snow."Thank you… Saint. May light stay in you… where it never lived in us."
Rigorus's eyes closed briefly.When they opened, his blade fell swift and merciful.
Kael's body slumped. His tears still glistened in the morning sun.
Far Below, in the Dark
In a cavern lit by black fire, shadows gathered.
Morda sat calm, his gaze cold and calculating. Beside him loomed Dreadmaul, arms crossed, fury carved into his frame. Around them, cloaked killers whispered.
"He slaughtered them all," one hissed."Even Kael," another muttered.
Dreadmaul's jaw clenched."Then it's time. We strike before he becomes untouchable."
But Morda's voice cut through, low and sharp."No. Not yet. We do not strike like fools. We bleed him. Slowly. Until the Saint himself drowns in sorrow."
The cavern fell silent.
And in that silence, war began.