The forest slept beneath a blanket of snow. Each branch creaked softly under the weight of the flakes, and the moon, suspended like a white eye in the sky, bathed everything in a ghostly glow.
It was a landscape that any traveler would have considered beautiful, even sacred. But for Lucian Vorath, beauty was a useless luxury.
The crunch of his boots against the snow was the only sound that accompanied him. Step by step, the mercenary advanced without any apparent destination, his tattered cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow battered by the wind. There were no villages nearby, no burning fires, no marked trails. Nothing. Just him, his sword, and the silence.
A silence that was too absolute.
Lucian looked up at the starry sky. It was clear, so clear that the constellations seemed to have been drawn on purpose. His gray, tired eyes reflected in that celestial tapestry for a moment. Anyone else would have felt peace contemplating such a view. He, on the other hand, felt only a frozen emptiness, as if the stars were watching him from above with indifference.
"Too quiet," he muttered hoarsely.
His hand closed around the hilt of the sword at his side. The cold leather against his skin brought him a strange calm. That instinct, that edge of alertness that had never betrayed him, now screamed loudly: he was not alone.
Lucian was thirty-two years old. And in every wrinkle at the corner of his eyes lay a story of violence. Since he was a child of barely ten, he had learned to live surrounded by death.
The memory came like a knife.
His mother, on the floor, her eyes open but empty. Blood splattered across the walls of his home. His father, slumped beside him, with a gash across his chest. No one ever explained what had happened. No one wanted to tell him anything.
"It was an accident," some said.
"A robbery," others claimed.
Lies.
Lucian knew it from that night on. His parents had been murdered. And the rumors, whispered in rotten streets, always pointed to the same name: the president.
The child he once was, helpless and trembling, became carrion for a neighborhood where only the strongest, the cruelest, and the fastest survived. There he learned to steal so he wouldn't starve, to fight so he wouldn't be trampled, to kill so he wouldn't be killed.
At eighteen, when the blood on his hands was impossible to wash away, he chose to become a mercenary. If he was going to live like a predator, at least he would get paid for it.
That was Lucian Vorath now. A man marked by visible scars and others that would never heal.
The snow crunched.
Not under his foot.
Lucian stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes narrowed, and his ears picked up the subtle rustle of fabric, the metallic click of something moving among the trees. His instincts roared: they were surrounding him.
His voice, though low, cut through the silence:
"Come out, damn it."
The shadows responded. Figures began to emerge from among the trunks. First one, then another, then five more. Men covered in black armor, their faces hidden beneath metal masks. Their movements were precise, silent, like those of experienced predators. Each carried a different weapon: spears, curved swords, double-edged knives.
Lucian counted at least ten. There were probably more.
A taller figure stepped forward. The voice that came from the mask was deep and metallic.
"Lucian Vorath."
The name echoed in the frozen air.
"You have lived too long."
Lucian let out a dry, almost ironic laugh.
"Too long? And I thought I was just beginning to tire of this world."
His gaze sharpened like the blade of his sword.
"Tell me... who sent you?"
No one answered. The silence was confirmation enough.
Lucian smiled, but his eyes flashed with hatred.
"The president... of course. He never left loose ends. And I... I was a very annoying loose end.
One of the assassins, the one with the spear, raised his weapon.
"It doesn't matter who sent us. All that matters is that your story ends here."
Lucian spat to the side, his saliva stained with dried blood.
"Then you'll have to work hard to kill me."
And he drew his sword.
The sound of steel being released from its sheath was like thunder in the silence. The blade reflected the moonlight, cold and lethal.
The assassins lunged in unison.
The first one came with his spear aimed straight at Lucian's chest. Lucian swung his sword, blocked with a metallic flash, and, taking advantage of the momentum, kicked the man in the abdomen. The impact threw him against a tree, whose trunk creaked under the violence of the collision.
Another descended with a curved sword. Lucian leaned back, feeling the cut air brush his nose. The blade buried itself in the snow in front of him. With a sharp movement, he plunged his own sword into the attacker's shoulder. The muffled scream was lost among the snowflakes.
But there were many of them.
A knife grazed his side. Another blow came down from above, forcing him to roll in the snow. Each movement kicked up white dust that floated around them like a macabre dance.
The ground began to crack with each clash of weapons. Black fissures opened in the white surface, as if the earth itself trembled before the violence.
Lucian gasped, but his smile remained.
"Is this the best you've got?"
They responded with silence and more steel.
One of the assassins reached him from behind, plunging the blade into his side. The pain made him growl, but Lucian spun around furiously, plunging his sword into the man's throat before he could retreat. Warm blood splattered his face, contrasting with the cold of the night.
His vision was blurring. His body, thin and scarred, was beginning to fail him. But still, he remained standing.
The ground began to crack with each clash of weapons. Black fissures opened up in the white surface, as if the earth itself trembled before the violence.
Lucian gasped, but his smile remained.
"Is this the best you've got?"
They responded with silence and more steel.
One of the assassins reached him from behind, plunging the blade into his side. The pain drew a growl from him, but Lucian spun around in a rage, plunging his sword into the man's throat before he could retreat. Warm blood splattered his face, contrasting with the cold of the night.
His vision blurred. His body, thin and scarred, began to fail him. But still he stood.
"Come on!" he roared, his voice breaking. "If you want my head, come and get it!"
The assassins surrounded him again. The fight continued. A dance of shadows and steel under the starry sky. Each blow resounded like a war drum, each wound staining the snow red.
Lucian moved like a cornered wolf. Wounded, exhausted, but his fangs still ready to tear.
Until it happened.
A blade descended without warning and pierced his chest.
The air left his lungs in a dry gasp. The enemy's sword pierced him completely, pinning him to the snow. Blood spurted violently, staining the pristine white with a deep red.
Lucian fell to his knees. The sword slipped from his hands, sinking into the snow.
The assassins surrounded him, motionless. They did not celebrate, they did not speak. For them, it was just a job.
Lucian looked up at the starry sky. The cold numbed his fingers, warm blood ran from his lips.
And with that last breath, a shooting star crossed the sky.
A bitter laugh escaped his bloodied lips.
"Heh... if there is an afterlife..." he coughed, blood bubbling in his throat, "...I swear I will burn this world."
The final blow fell. The blade split the darkness.
The snow was stained red.
The forest returned to silence