(POV: Leonardo)
The moon had not yet risen when Leonardo and his men left the cobbled road and pressed into the wooded pass.
The night was heavy with the damp scent of pine and earth, the kind that clung to armor and made boots sink with each step. Mateo rode close, his horse's breath fogging in the chill.
"Demasiado silencioso," Mateo muttered in Spanish, glancing toward the dark tree line.
Leonardo nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "El silencio puede ser un aliado o un enemigo." His voice was calm, steady, though his eyes flicked constantly from shadow to shadow. He had survived too many campaigns to ignore the weight of silence.
The guard unit, twelve seasoned men marched with discipline, but even they were unsettled. The forest felt alive, each rustle carrying menace. A few of the younger soldiers whispered prayers under their breath, their words weaving with the crunch of boots over dead leaves.
Leonardo raised a hand, halting the column. "We set camp here. No fires," he ordered. His tone brooked no argument. "The pass is narrow. We'll rest with eyes open."
The men quickly obeyed. Tents were not pitched; instead, cloaks were drawn tight and weapons kept within reach. Mateo crouched beside Leonardo, spreading a rough map over a flat rock. "We'll reach the village at dawn if we keep pace."
Leonardo traced the route with a gloved finger, his expression unreadable. "If dawn greets us."
They shared a small smile, forged not by humor but by years of standing side by side in blood and battle.
The night deepened. An owl hooted once, and then fell silent. Leonardo lay half-reclined, his sword unsheathed across his knees, his gaze fixed on the shadows between the trees. Sleep eluded him, as it always did in unfriendly land.
Mateo leaned back against a log, adjusting his breastplate. "If trouble comes, it will be tonight."
Leonardo gave a quiet grunt. "Then we welcome it awake."
The wind shifted, carrying with it a faint sound—like fabric brushing bark. Leonardo stiffened. He lifted a hand, signaling silence. Every man froze. The forest, moments ago eerily quiet, now seemed full of whispers.
Then came the first arrow.
It whistled through the dark, striking one of the guards square in the throat. The man gurgled, collapsing before a cry could escape his lips.
"¡Escudos arriba!" Leonardo roared, his voice shattering the night. Shields rose in practiced unity, just as a rain of arrows descended, thudding against wood and armor. Men ducked low, curses slipping in Spanish as the forest erupted.
Figures darted between the trees—shadows with blades, their steps soundless. A soldier fell with a knife buried in his chest. Another screamed as a jagged spear tore across his leg.
Leonardo surged forward, sword in hand. "¡Formad círculo!" The men scrambled to obey, closing ranks around him, shields interlocked, weapons outward. He parried a sudden strike, steel sparking in the dark, and then countered with a precise thrust that sank deep into an attacker's side.
Mateo fought at his shoulder, snarling as he split the arm of a mercenary. "¡Cobardes! Come out and fight like men!"
But the enemy did not fight like men. They were phantoms, striking from shadows, vanishing into the undergrowth, only to reappear elsewhere. They were too many, too disciplined for mere brigands.
Leonardo recognized the pattern, professional killers. Mercenaries. Hired.
The clash intensified. Muskets cracked, smoke curling through the trees. The acrid stench bit Leonardo's throat. He swung again, his blade carving an arc through the night. Blood sprayed, hot against his cheek.
A voice hissed near his ear as a masked figure lunged, their knife grazing his armor. Leonardo twisted, slamming his pommel into the attacker's jaw, dropping him to the ground. "¡Atrás!" he barked, keeping the circle tight.
Still, the numbers pressed. Men grunted, cried out, faltered. Another arrow cut down a soldier beside him. Leonardo clenched his jaw, fury rising. Whoever orchestrated this ambush had prepared well.
Mateo spat blood from a cut on his lip, his eyes wild. "Esto no es casualidad. Alguien sabía que estaríamos aquí."
Leonardo's stomach churned, not from fear, but from clarity. Mateo was right. Only someone within the court could have betrayed their route.
The mercenaries pressed again. Leonardo blocked a sword strike, driving his knee into the enemy's chest before slashing him across the neck. His men roared, emboldened by his ferocity, but the tide did not break.
"Mateo," he growled between blows, "stay close."
"I've never left your side," Mateo shot back, cutting down another attacker.
The enemy regrouped, their silhouettes blending into the dark. For a moment, the forest was still. Leonardo breathed hard, his armor heavy with sweat and blood. He tightened his grip on his sword, senses screaming that this was only the beginning.
The stillness shattered.
A whistle pierced the night, sharp and deliberate. From the treeline emerged a new figure—taller than the rest, her presence commanding even in shadow. She did not rush forward like the others. She walked, deliberate, confident. A mask concealed her face, but the way the mercenaries shifted around her marked her as their leader.
Leonardo's eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed danger.
"Quién eres," he muttered under his breath, his Spanish low, blade raised.
The woman tilted her head, studying him as if she had all the time in the world. Then, in a voice as smooth as the steel she carried, she answered—not in Spanish, but in Chichewa. "Usiku uno, moyo wako udzakhala wanga."
Leonardo did not understand the words, but the tone was unmistakable—deadly promise.
"¡A mí!" he commanded his men, bracing for the storm that was about to break.
The masked woman lifted her hand, and the forest answered with steel.
***
The circle of soldiers braced as the masked woman stepped closer, her blade glinting faintly in the moonlight.
The mercenaries parted for her like loyal hounds yielding to their master. Leonardo's chest heaved, every instinct warning him that this was no ordinary foe.
"Mateo," he said quietly in Spanish, his voice a taut wire. "Stay alive. Whatever happens."
Mateo's jaw tightened. "No pienses en morir, comandante. Not tonight."
The woman stopped a few paces away, her mask hiding all but sharp eyes that glittered with a predator's calm. She spoke in Spanish now, voice clear and cold. "Leonardo de Vargas."
He did not flinch at hearing his name on her lips. "¿Quién te envía?"
Instead of answering, she raised her blade in salute—mockery, challenge, or both. Then she lunged.
Her speed startled him. He barely met her strike, the clash of steel ringing like thunder through the trees. The force shuddered down his arm. She pressed again, her movements sharp and precise, each attack flowing into the next with practiced ease.
Leonardo countered with equal ferocity, his blade a blur. Sparks flew as they locked, twisted, and broke apart, circling like wolves. Around them, the battle still raged, but the men instinctively gave space, sensing this was no ordinary duel.
"You're skilled," Leonardo ground out, parrying another slash. "But skill alone does not win wars."
Her reply came in Chichewa, low and calm: "Nkhondo imaperekedwa ndi chikumbumtima." He didn't know the words, but he heard the conviction.
She feinted left, and then struck high. He blocked, but she flowed under his guard, slashing across his side. The cut was shallow, but hot pain seared through him.
Leonardo gritted his teeth, ignoring it. He swung hard, his blade nearly catching her mask, but she bent low, sweeping his legs. He stumbled back, regaining his footing just in time to meet her next strike.
"¡Maldita sea!" Mateo shouted, cutting down an approaching mercenary. He tried to push toward Leonardo, but three enemies barred his path. "¡Aguanta!"
Leonardo gave no sign of weakness. He pressed forward, their blades sparking, and his breath harsh. His mind raced, her stance was not European. It was faster, coiled with strange rhythms, like fighting wind and fire at once.
She slipped through his guard again, her blade grazing his neck. Warm blood trickled down. She whispered in Spanish, close enough for him to feel her breath. "Eres fuerte. Pero la fuerza no basta."
With a growl, he shoved her back, rallying every ounce of skill. He struck in a flurry, three blows in quick succession. She deflected each, her movements smooth as water. Then, almost lazily, she shifted, her blade sliding under his guard, nicking his wrist. His sword slipped slightly in his grip.
Poison. He felt it immediately. A cold burn spread from the wound, crawling up his arm like ice.
Leonardo's stomach twisted, his breath catching. He forced himself to tighten his grip. "¡Ven! If poison is your weapon, then finish it cleanly!"
Her eyes narrowed. "Not yet."
She pressed him again. His swings grew heavier, slower, the poison eating into his strength. Still, he fought, driving his blade forward with sheer will. He slashed across her shoulder, drawing blood at last.
For the first time, she faltered, a sharp breath escaping her. Their eyes locked—hers blazing with fury, his steady even as sweat dripped down his temple.
"Now you bleed," he rasped.
But her fury only sharpened her strikes. She came at him with relentless speed, her blade ringing against his, driving him back step by step. His legs grew heavy, his vision blurring. Each breath was a war.
Mateo's voice cut through the chaos: "¡Leonardo!"
Leonardo tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. His sword slipped lower.
The masked woman spun, her blade flashing. With a precise strike, she disarmed him, his weapon clattering against the stones.
She caught him with a swift kick to the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. The sky spun above him, stars wheeling like shards of glass.
Before he could rise, her knee pressed into his chest, her blade at his throat. Around them, the mercenaries closed ranks, cutting down the last of his guards.
Mateo fought desperately, roaring curses, but was dragged down by three men.
Leonardo glared up at her, chest heaving. "Hazlo."
The woman tilted her head, her voice a whisper in Chichewa. "Tama waka."
Sleep now.
Her blade pricked his skin. A dark haze coiled at the edges of his vision, the poison claiming him. He tried to rise, to spit one last command to Mateo, but his body betrayed him.
His last sight before the darkness took him was her mask leaning close, her eyes unreadable, and her breath steady as death.