The night wind carried a chill, cutting through the silence of the town.
From the tree line, shadows detached themselves from the darkness. Dozens of figures, cloaked in black and moving with unnatural stillness, drifted onto the streets of Nightfall. They moved like smoke—silent, intangible, and deadly.
Then came the sound.
Snap. Hiss.
It started as a spark, then a roar. Torches were thrown. Oil was spilled. One house ignited, then two, then a dozen. The wind picked up, feeding the inferno until the fire seemed to dance like a living, malevolent spirit.
The silence broke. Screams tore through the crackling of timber.
The black-robed figures did not run; they did not shout. They simply walked through the chaos with cold efficiency. Iron swords flashed in the firelight; daggers found their marks. There was no negotiation, no hesitation. They moved like demons harvesting souls.
Blood slicked the stone slabs of the streets, pooling in the gutters, running thick and dark like oil.
