The forest was a graveyard of whispers.
Moonlight filtered through skeletal branches, illuminating three figures moving with practiced silence. They weren't soldiers. They weren't saviors. They were hunters—predators who had long forgotten the weight of mercy.
At the front strode Veynar a man draped in blackened armor laced with runes that pulsed faintly blue. His face was sharp, hawk-like, scarred down one cheek. In his hands rested a glaive etched with angelic script—a weapon stolen, not gifted.
Behind him walked Serra, tall and lean, her hair white as bone. A rosary of hollow bullets swung at her hip, each shell carved with sigils of annihilation. Her eyes gleamed with fanatic light.
Last was Kael, the youngest, but no less terrifying. He wore no armor, only strips of leather and cloth, his chest inked with swirling black tattoos that seemed to crawl when he breathed. A chain of crimson steel wrapped around his arm, ending in a sickle that dripped faint traces of energy.
They moved like wolves. Hungry. Patient.
"Two of them," Serra murmured, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Barely awakened, yet their trail burns like wildfire. How sloppy."
Kael smirked. "Not sloppy. Arrogant. They think the forest hides them." He pressed a hand to the earth, eyes fluttering. The tattoos writhed, spreading faintly across the soil. His grin widened. "But the ground remembers everything. Their footsteps… their scent… they're close."
Veynar raised his glaive, silencing them. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, listening. In the distance—laughter. Two voices, young and unguarded.
Ezagone's laugh.
Veynar's lips curved into a predator's smile. "Children." He spat the word like venom. "They carry the filth of devils, yet still laugh as though they belong to this world." He twirled the glaive, the runes glowing brighter. "That arrogance dies tonight."
Kael chuckled darkly. "I'll make them both sing."
---
They camped at the edge of the clearing, shadows folding over them like cloaks. The brothers' fire flickered in the distance, warm and fragile.
Serra crouched, resting her chin on her hand, studying them with the gaze of a viper. "The older one. He's dangerous." Her lips curled. "The wings. I felt it."
"Wings?" Kael's eyes gleamed. "Then he's already broken the seal."
Veynar's face hardened. "So the rumors were true. A winged devil walking free." His grip tightened on the glaive. "He'll fetch a high price for his corpse. Or better—his wings as a trophy."
The fire popped in the clearing. Ezagone's voice carried faintly: "Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? A real academy!"
Kael tilted his head. "Academy?"
Serra hissed. "Blasphemy. That nest of abominations still dares exist?"
Veynar didn't answer. His mind was already calculating, already hungering. If the boys were heading toward the Academy, the window to strike was now. Outside those walls, they were prey. Inside… untouchable.
"We move tonight," Veynar said coldly. "Before sanctuary can shield them."
Serra smiled, unslinging her rifle. Each bullet pulsed faintly with holy light—corrupted, inverted. "I'll take the younger one. Break the hope from the elder's eyes."
Kael licked his lips, the sickle twitching in his hand. "And I'll make the elder bleed."
Veynar stepped forward, his glaive catching moonlight. "No games. No hesitation. We kill fast. We kill clean. Their laughter dies with the dawn."
"Tonight, the forest drinks their blood."