The road stretched wide, dust rising in lazy clouds with every step. Dusk had turned the sky a dull red, and the caravan's wheels creaked like old bones. Horses snorted, their hides gleaming with sweat.
Daemon walked with the others along the ridge above, his boots silent on the grass. His heart slammed in his chest, harder with every turn of the caravan's wheels.
Selvara crouched low beside him, eyes locked on the train of wagons. "See them?" she whispered. "Silks. Gold. Heavy guards, but fat ones. They'll break quick."
Her tone was patient, almost motherly. But Daemon had seen her knives flash too many times to mistake her for gentle.
She was the spider, always calm, always smiling, while the web tightened.
Daemon forced himself to nod. His throat was too dry for words.
Behind them, Ryn sprawled on the grass like it was a picnic, tossing a dagger into the air and catching it by the tip. His grin never wavered.
"Ahh, I love rich meat. They squeal better. Softer. Sweeter." He licked his lips, exaggerated, just to see Daemon flinch.
And Daemon did flinch. His stomach clenched, bile threatening. He wanted to tell Ryn he was a monster. He wanted to ask why the hell they kept him around. But then he looked at Kaelen—
Kaelen stood apart, arms crossed, gaze locked on the caravan with cold precision. He said nothing, gave nothing. A wall of silence. But Daemon could feel it—the man wasn't just watching the guards, he was weighing every movement, calculating how many breaths each one had left.
Daemon hated him most of all for that calm.
The plan was simple. Kaelen had explained it once, voice low and sharp as flint. "Ryn takes the front. Selvara, the rear. I'll cut the drivers. Daemon—" He'd looked at him then, long, steady. "You hold the line. Keep anyone from running."
Daemon's gut dropped again at the memory. Hold the line. That meant kill the desperate ones. The ones who begged. The ones who might scream for their children.
His mouth worked now, words slipping before he could choke them back.
"Why me?"
Selvara tilted her head, her smile soft and cruel. "Because you still hesitate. And nothing forces a man to grow sharper than standing between mercy and death."
Ryn laughed loud, rolling onto his back. "Ohhh, let him break. I want to see it. Let the lamb try to bite."
Daemon's hands shook. He clenched them tight, nails carving crescents into his palms. He wanted to scream, to tell them he wasn't like them. That he wouldn't become like them.
But then he remembered last night. The blood. The guard's last breath bubbling out. That sharp, awful rush—power, hot and dizzying. And his tongue turned to stone.
The caravan rolled closer. He could see faces now—women, men, children. All wrapped in silk and dust. Laughing. Talking. Lives unknowing, about to be ripped open.
Selvara's hand brushed his arm, light, almost kind. "Daemon. Look at me."
He turned. Her eyes were green fire.
"Don't think. Just do."
And the scream in his head got louder.
The signal came from Kaelen's hand. A small motion.
Everything snapped forward at once—
Ryn leapt with a howl. Selvara vanished into shadow. Kaelen drew steel and cut the drivers before the horses even panicked.
And Daemon stood frozen, sword in hand, staring at the first noble who turned wide-eyed toward him.