Night swallowed the forest whole, turning the world beyond Ridgebrook's gates into a black, breathing void. Torches from Vantor's marching unit flickered in the distance—small, trembling lights in a sea of darkness.
No wind.
No animals.
No sound but distant boots and armor.
Ridgebrook waited.
Villagers hid inside reinforced homes.
Mercenary riders stood ready at the gate.
Lira hovered close beside me, worry etched into her face.
Orin tightened her grip on her sword.
And Vlad stood still as a gravestone, eyes glowing faintly, as if he belonged more to the night than the living.
"Is it time?" he asked.
"Yes," I said softly. "Fear only. No wiping out the force. No full slaughter."
Vlad's smile grew as slow as a rising blade.
"Fear," he repeated. "The oldest currency."
He stepped forward—and vanished into the dark, swallowed instantly by the trees.
Lira shivered. "Liam… what did you just unleash?"
"Something Vantor should have feared long before now."
Inside Vantor's Forward Camp
Lieutenant Harven paced the perimeter, jaw tight. The forest was wrong. Too empty. Too silent. Even the horses snorted nervously.
"Stay sharp," he barked. "We're on enemy land."
One of his scouts stumbled into the firelight. "Sir—sir—someone's out there—moving fast—too fast—"
"Spit it out, soldier."
But the man never finished.
A muffled cry came from the trees.
Then nothing.
Harven grabbed his sword. "Form up! I want—"
A scream tore through the night.
Every soldier stared toward the sound with wide eyes.
"Torches!" Harven ordered. "Now!"
Two men lit torches and rushed toward the noise.
They didn't make it far.
A shape hung from a tree just ahead—a body.
No, not hanging.
Impaled.
A sharpened stake pierced upward through the man's groin, splitting flesh as it traveled through his abdomen and chest. Blood glistened down the wood in heavy streams, dripping onto the dirt.
The torchlight flickered again—
And the soldiers realized the stake exited through the man's open mouth, stretching it painfully around the protruding wood.
The impaled scout was still alive.
Barely.
His eyes bulged with agony, tears mixing with blood as his limbs jerked weakly. A wet gurgling sound escaped him, echoing across the camp like a dying animal.
One soldier vomited.
Another stumbled backward, screaming.
Harven froze, throat dry. "Who… who could do—"
A voice behind him:
"You were slow."
Harven spun.
Vlad stood inches away, illuminated by the shaking torchlight—calm, expression unreadable, hands unstained despite the horror behind him.
P
Harven slashed wildly.
Vlad didn't even bother to dodge.
He simply stepped back, letting the blade cut nothing but air.
Then every torch in the camp went out at once.
Total darkness.
Men screamed in the black, stumbling, tripping over tents, each other, the ground. Someone ran straight into a tree and collapsed. Horses panicked, snapping their reins.
Another torch flared shakily to life.
Its dim glow revealed a second impalement stake, this one freshly raised. Vlad had impaled another soldier—alive—through the anus again, the stake splitting him open from below, tearing a path upward, out through the mouth. The man twitched horribly, a gargled moan escaping past the stake.
Every soldier saw.
Every soldier broke.
Some ran.
Some prayed.
Some dropped weapons and bolted blindly through the forest.
Harven stared at Vlad, frozen, unable to move.
Vlad touched the second stake lightly, ensuring it stood upright.
Then he turned to Harven and the few men still standing.
"Tell your master," Vlad whispered, "that Ridgebrook sends its regards."
Harven fled.
Not marched.
Not regrouped.
He fled—screaming, sobbing, crashing into branches—his men scattering behind him like frightened animals.
Vlad watched them disappear without taking a single step to pursue.
The dying soldier on the stake gargled weakly.
Vlad left him alive.
So the survivors would remember.
So the story would spread.
Ridgebrook
We waited at the gate.
Torches crackled.
The night felt thick enough to choke on.
Then the sound reached us—
Running.
Not marching.
Panicked, staggering RUNNING.
Borrik stared wide-eyed. "Chief… they're coming back—but they're not attacking—they're fleeing!"
Orin whispered, horrified, "What in the gods' names did that man do?"
A moment later, Vlad stepped calmly out of the forest.
No blood on him.
No scratches.
Just the night clinging to him like a cloak.
He told them what happen.
Impaled straight through, from anus to mouth. Still alive. Barely. Gargling blood as Vlad let him drop at the edge of the firelight. And the panicked enemies.
Villagers gasped.
Mercenary riders recoiled.
Even Lira covered her mouth.
Vlad knelt beside the dying man.
"A message," he said.
I swallowed. "Vlad… you—"
"I left him alive," Vlad said calmly. "Fear echoes longer when the witness crawls home."
Orin shuddered. "Liam… this wasn't an attack. This was psychological annihilation."
"Good," I said. "We need time."
Vlad stood slowly and knelt before me.
"Master," he said with chilling respect, "your nightmare has been delivered."
And the forest behind him seemed to bow