The Blackmoor Fens lived up to their name. A labyrinth of boggy ground, tangled roots, and stagnant, black water, it was a place where light struggled to penetrate and sound was swallowed by the thick, perpetually damp air. Tristan, leading his small, grim band of six knights, quickly regretted his rash decision. The thick fog, which he'd hoped would conceal their departure, now choked them, reducing visibility to mere feet. The whispers of the marsh, the croaking of unseen frogs, and the distant, mournful cries of waterfowl seemed to mock their every step.
Tristan, usually so confident, felt a growing unease. His heavy armor, a symbol of his power within the castle, was now a cumbersome burden, sinking him deeper into the soft earth with every misstep. His hand constantly strayed to the hilt of his sword, but what good was a blade against a ghost?
Kaelen knew the fens like the back of his hand. He had spent weeks here, mapping the safe paths, charting the treacherous quicksands, and identifying the perfect killing ground. He moved through the miasma of fog and mist like a wraith, his senses preternaturally sharp. He heard the squelch of their boots, the nervous whispers of the knights, the jingling of their ill-maintained armor, long before they saw him. They were walking into his parlor.
He had chosen a section of the fens where the solid ground narrowed significantly, bordered on either side by deep, murky pools of bog water that shimmered with an unsettling, oily sheen. Across this narrow path, he had stretched barely visible tripwires of braided sinew, laced with small, sharp bone shards. Further down, he'd dug shallow, concealed pits, lined with sharpened stakes, cleverly camouflaged with moss and reeds.
As Tristan and his men blundered forward, their exhaustion growing, the first knight stumbled, his foot catching a tripwire. A surprised yelp escaped him as he pitched forward, splashing into the shallow bog beside the path. Before he could recover, an arrow, silent and deadly, hissed from the fog, burying itself deep in his throat. He gurgled, hands clawing at the fletching, before collapsing into the dark water, ripples spreading silently.
"Ambush!" Tristan roared, drawing his sword, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Form up!"
But Kaelen moved like the mist itself. A second knight, turning to face the direction of the arrow, plunged unexpectedly into one of the hidden pits, a sickening crunch echoing as the stakes pierced his body. His scream was abruptly cut short, ending in a chilling gurgle as he struggled in the mire.
Panic began to set in. The remaining knights huddled together, their backs to each other, peering frantically into the impenetrable fog. They saw nothing, only heard the ominous sounds of the fen and the chilling whispers of the wind. Kaelen wanted them to break, to scatter, to fall into his meticulously laid traps.
"Show yourself, you coward!" Tristan bellowed, his voice hoarse with fear and fury. "Fight like a man!"
Kaelen's answer was another arrow, this one finding its mark in the exposed knee joint of a third knight, who crumpled with a shriek of agony. The man's companion, turning to help, slipped on the slick ground and slid into a deep pool, thrashing wildly as the bog claimed him.
Now only Tristan and two knights remained. The arrogance had drained from Tristan's face, replaced by stark, primal fear. His eyes were wide, darting from shadow to shadow, his breath coming in ragged gasps. This wasn't a hunt; it was a slaughter, and they were the prey.
"He's here!" one of the remaining knights screamed, pointing vaguely into the fog. "I saw him! A pale face, white hair!"
Before the knight could elaborate, Kaelen moved. He had circled around, using the bog itself as cover. He burst from the fog, a silent, terrifying apparition. His hunting bow was slung, his curved dagger held low. He moved too fast for the knight to react, a blur of dark leather and pale hair. One swift, precise strike to the neck, severing the carotid. The knight dropped, blood gushing onto the muddy ground.
Tristan was now face to face with his nightmare. Only one knight remained, a seasoned veteran named Ser Eldrin, who had seen many battles. Eldrin raised his shield, his sword ready, but his eyes were filled with despair.
"Tristan! Run!" Eldrin yelled, pushing his lord back. He met Kaelen's charge, his heavy broadsword meeting Kaelen's smaller dagger with a clang. Eldrin was strong, experienced, but Kaelen was faster, fueled by a decade of burning hatred. He ducked beneath a sweeping blow, thrusting his dagger upward into Eldrin's unprotected armpit, a killing blow. Eldrin grunted, his eyes widening in surprise as he fell, his lifeblood joining the bog water.
Now, it was just Tristan and Kaelen. The fog swirled around them, an intimate shroud. Tristan stood alone, his heavy greatsword trembling in his grip. His face, once sneering, was now a mask of utter terror. He looked at Kaelen, truly looked at him, and saw not just a man, but the embodiment of his family's sins.
"You," Tristan choked out, recognizing the haunted eyes, the stark white hair. "You're… the scholar's brat."
Kaelen said nothing. He simply stepped closer, his dagger poised. He circled Tristan slowly, like a wolf around a cornered deer. He wanted Tristan to feel every agonizing second, to know that his doom was inevitable, self-inflicted by his own arrogance and cruelty.
"My mother and sister," Kaelen finally whispered, his voice a chilling monotone. "They begged. You laughed."
Tristan stumbled backward, his foot sinking into the soft earth. He swung his sword wildly, desperately, but Kaelen evaded him with fluid grace. He wasn't interested in a duel. He was interested in retribution. He darted in, faster than Tristan could react, plunging his dagger into Tristan's unprotected knee. Tristan screamed, a high-pitched, agonizing sound, and crumpled to the boggy ground, his sword clattering uselessly.
Kaelen knelt over him, his hand clamping over Tristan's mouth. Tristan thrashed, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and a dawning, absolute horror. He understood what Kaelen wanted.
"You remember the sound of bones breaking?" Kaelen whispered, his face inches from Tristan's. "The tearing of flesh? You caused that. Now, you feel it."
And then Kaelen began his work, slow and methodical, carving his vengeance into Tristan's flesh, mirroring the desecration visited upon his family. The muffled screams were raw, primal, swallowed by the cold, indifferent embrace of the Blackmoor Fens. When Kaelen finally plunged his dagger into Tristan's heart, ending his agonizing torment, the faint light of dawn was just beginning to pierce the eastern sky, casting long, pale shadows across the marsh.
Another name, carved deep into the earth. Three down. One son remained. And then, the lion himself.