Page 1
The masked figure drives his fist into the ground beside the father's face.
Hard. The earth cracks under the impact.
The father — bleeding, chained, broken — turns his eyes to Maria lying beside him. And despite everything, a quiet smile finds his face. The smile of a man who has lost everything except one thing.
The masked figure finishes his whispered words. Then straightens and turns toward Bumer.
"I don't think I need you anymore. You may go."
He glances back at the father one last time — a heavy look, dense with meaning that belongs only to the two of them.
Page 2
The masked figure walks out from among the soldiers.
Unhurried. As if the forest holds nothing he fears.
Bumer watches him in silence. Then claps twice — slow and deliberate.
Two soldiers drop from the shadows between the trees. They'd been there the whole time.
"Follow him quietly. If he does anything unusual…"
A pause.
"…kill him."
The father watches the two soldiers go.
He's still smiling.
Page 3
The masked figure moves like lightning in the opposite direction.
Running along the riverbank. The sound of water and the sound of his footsteps — nothing else exists in the night.
Page 4
Branches snap behind him.
He knows without looking. He's being followed.
He pushes faster. They match him.
Then — buried inside his own ragged breathing — he hears something he wasn't expecting.
An infant crying. Faint. Coming from the river.
He stops for a fraction of a second. Eyes toward the forest. Then he runs faster than before.
Page 5
He finds the source.
A small infant crying atop a wooden plank, racing with the current.
The masked figure looks at the child. Then raises his eyes toward the horizon.
Page 6
At the river's end — a massive waterfall.
Mist rises from its base like white smoke. The roar of falling water fills the night like an unseen beast.
If the plank reaches that edge, nothing of the child will remain.
The masked figure draws his sword without hesitation.
Page 7
He ties the sword to a rope. Leaps. Throws it toward the plank.
One terrible slow-motion moment—
The blade buries itself in the wood directly beside the infant's face. Splinters fly. The crying grows louder.
A small necklace glimmers on the child's chest beneath the moonlight.
The sword holds. He pulls the rope. But the current is stronger — dragging the plank toward the falls without mercy.
Page 8
Footsteps behind him. Slow. Certain. In no hurry at all.
The masked figure goes still.
"So. The King's instincts were right."
A cold voice. No anger. No tension. Which makes it so much worse.
"You as well… are a traitor."
The forest goes completely silent. Even the wind holds its breath.
Two figures in the dark. Faces unreadable. Two blades catching the moonlight without warmth.
One second stretches into forever.
Then the masked figure looks at the infant.
And jumps.
Page 9
He lands on the plank.
Snatches the infant into the air with one hand — and jumps again.
He clears the far bank. Barely. The landing is brutal. He drags his sword back by the rope. Sets the infant down with more care than the moment deserves. Pats his back slowly.
The crying softens.
Page 10
"Time for punishment!"
Both assassins launch across the bank. Midair —
The masked figure throws his sword.
The blade punches through the first assassin's chest in flight.
The second grabs his falling partner and drags them both into the river below.
Page 11
The masked figure pulls the sword free.
He leaves the infant behind him. Walks slowly toward the two men in the water.
The first clutches his wound:
"Damn… it's deep."
They pull themselves out. Grip their swords. And charge.
Page 12
A wide sweeping slash from the rope-sword. One of them deflects it.
The second flies at the masked figure — sword driving forward — and the masked figure catches the blade with his bare hands.
And snaps it.
The assassin stumbles back. Stares at the broken hilt in his hand.
How.
He has no answer.
Page 13
The masked figure is already moving. He grabs the man by his clothes — headbutt, savage and precise — slams him into the ground. Mounts him. Draws a knife from his sleeve and drives it in. Again. Again. Fast and without ceremony.
Page 14
"No—!"
The second assassin stabs the masked figure in the back.
The masked figure rises — sword still hanging from the wound — and throws a punch. The assassin ducks it.
Page 15
He grabs him. Throws him down.
The masked figure goes down with him — the sword sinking deeper into his own back as he lands.
He doesn't stop. He seizes the assassin's legs. Brings him down. Locks his throat.
The assassin bites — desperate, savage, like an animal.
The masked figure draws the knife.
And ends it. Cleanly. Terribly.
Page 16
He shoves the body away.
Rolls onto his stomach. Presses his face against the earth — and screams as he pulls the sword from his own back. The sound tears out of him raw and ugly.
He lies there. Blood leaving him in a steady pour. Eyes on the sky.
The infant's crying weaves into the sound of the waterfall.
Like a death hymn no one has written yet.
He pushes himself upright. Binds the wound with whatever he has. Walks to the infant. Covers him.
And disappears into the darkness without looking back.
Page 17
The night passes slowly.
The infant sleeps in his arms, knowing nothing — not who saved him, not what was lost in this night on his behalf.
The masked figure reaches a small village as dawn threatens the horizon.
He enters one of the houses without sound. Sets the infant down. Walks out immediately without turning back.
Page 18
In his palace, Bumer receives word.
Both assassins found near the waterfall. One slashed open. The other full of stab wounds.
A blood trail heading east — ending abruptly after a short distance.
As if the man dissolved into the air.
Page 19
Bumer smiles. Cold. Unhurried.
"So. They discovered his secret, and he killed them to protect it. We have no proof right now…"
He lets the silence sit for a moment.
"…but watch him closely. We'll uncover what he's hiding soon enough."
Page 20
That same morning.
An old man with a kind face walks through the village with a small boy at his side.
"Carry some of these bags for me, Thian. My back isn't what it used to be."
They reach the house. The old man opens the door.
And stops.
An infant's crying spills out from inside.
Page 21
There — on the table — a small infant, crying.
The old man approaches slowly. His eyes move across the room the way eyes do when they've seen many things and learned to read a space quickly.
He finds it: a folded letter tucked into the infant's clothes. And a small necklace, with a name engraved on it.
Mabu.
Page 22
He picks the child up. Goes to the kitchen. Finds milk.
A quiet smile — strange, knowing — spreads across his face as he whispers to himself:
"It seems I'm going to become a babysitter again."
He looks down at the infant in his hands.
Page 23
He opens the letter. Reads it in silence. Sets it aside.
Looks at the child.
"Welcome to the family…"
A pause — warm, certain.
"…Mabu."
Page 24
Thian appears in the doorway.
"Grandfather… who is that?"
The old man doesn't look up right away.
"Just between you and me, Thian…"
He glances over.
"…this is your new little brother."
Thian stares at the infant. A smile breaks across his face — wide, uncomplicated, the way only a child's smile can be.
"My brother!"
He wraps his arms around the tiny thing with the most careful gentleness in the world.
Continued in Chapter Four