The first sound was not a war cry, nor the thunder of hooves.It was the faintest thing—The brittle snap of a twig underfoot.
In the deathlike silence, that tiny noise rang out like a blade being drawn from its sheath, sharp enough to slice the stillness in two. For an instant, the night itself seemed to tighten, as if some unseen hand had seized it by the throat.
And then, the darkness exploded.
Shadows burst from the treeline in a black tide, steel glinting in their hands, their steps heavy and deliberate, like a pack of wolves closing in on their prey. A sharp whistle cut through the air—And with it came chaos, sudden and uncontrollable.
"Enemy attack!"
Eleres' voice lashed through the lethargy of the camp like an arrow through cloth.
Almost at the same moment, Cedric reacted, his shout booming like a war drum: "All hands, to arms!" His longsword cleared its scabbard in a flash of silver, firelight dancing along the steel. He charged forward with the few sober guards at his side, meeting the rushing bandits head-on.
But most of the guards were still drunk. One man rolled over, muttering a curse about the noise; another tried to stand but his knees buckled, dumping him back into the dirt. The raiders had chosen their timing well—The first wave crashed into the camp like a wave of iron, cutting down those who hadn't yet grasped what was happening. Blood sprayed into the firelight; the air instantly filled with the choking mix of hot iron, burning fat, and smoke.
The Frontline—Cedric was a wedge of steel driving into the enemy ranks. His sword swung in heavy, decisive arcs, each stroke colliding with the crunch of bone and the scream of torn metal. One sweep drove two raiders back, a reverse thrust skewered a third in the chest. Around him, half-awake guards stumbled into the fight, their swords and axes crashing together in clumsy but desperate blows. Sparks flew where steel struck steel; overturned firepits sent tongues of flame racing across dry grass, painting the battlefield in a hellish orange.
A young guard stumbled and fell beside the firepit, searing embers scattering across his forearm. The stench of scorched flesh burst into the air instantly, sharp and nauseating. He gritted his teeth and rolled away, his longsword trembling in his grip as he barely parried the downward slash of a curved blade. The clash rang out with a shrill metallic scream. Nearby, a wooden shield split clean in two under the force of a strike, splinters and blood spraying together before being ground into the mud by the crush of boots. Someone retched, another cursed, but most simply raised their weapons in raw instinct, meeting the descending tide of death with desperate steel.
A guard stumbled against the wagon wheel, a long blade descending toward his head. Cedric's step was a blur—his sword roared through the air, smashing the enemy's strike aside before reversing in a stabbing arc that drove the point clean through the raider's chest. The body slid from his blade as he turned for the next target.
In the Shadows—Eleres moved differently. Where Cedric was a storm, Eleres was a shadow.His mind was linked to the Undead's Eyes, the battlefield unfolding before him in precise, glowing markers—each exposed back, each unguarded flank. He slipped along the chaos at the edges of the fight, his hood swallowing his face, his steps soundless.
The first kill came easily.A bandit was raising his sword to cleave down on an unaware guard when a cold edge kissed his throat from the side. Eleres' dagger slid through flesh like water. A dark mist of blood unfurled in the night, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared. Eleres eased the corpse down without a sound.
The second target fell moments later. Warm blood surged along the blade, trailing down his wrist in a thin, hot stream. The chill of the night wind turned it instantly into something like fine shards of ice against his skin. Eleres kept his breathing so shallow that even the rise and fall of his chest was imperceptible, becoming just another shadow among shadows. He could hear the wet, sticky sound of a boot grinding into damp soil, and—fainter still—the subtle scrape of metal as someone adjusted their grip on a weapon. That was the next target's position. Circling into the blind spot of a firelit skirmish, he moved behind a raider, using the shadow of a guard as cover. His wrist flicked; the blade slipped under the ribs, biting deep. Arterial blood burst over the dirt as the man collapsed, choking on his own breath.
The Undead's Eyes fed him every detail—An opening on the western flank.A lone raider reloading a crossbow.A guard about to be flanked from the right.
Eleres moved like a thread weaving through the tapestry of battle, each step calculated. He struck only once per target, never twice, and never left a body standing.
The third kill was quick and silent.A raider, having just driven back a guard, turned to join another fight. He caught, for the briefest moment, the glint of eyes in the dark—cold, merciless. And then his throat opened beneath the assassin's blade, warm blood flooding his mouth before he even realized he'd been struck.
With each life Eleres took, Cedric's front line grew lighter, the press of the enemy loosening. The guards, now fully awake and driven by survival, pushed forward with renewed strength. The clash of blades, the roar of battle cries, the shrieks of the dying—It all merged into a single, unending song of steel and death.
In the shifting firelight, figures rose and fell, the battlefield a blur of motion and shadow. The smell of blood was everywhere; the dirt had turned to mud beneath the feet of the fighters, slick with the fallen.
At last, the final bandit broke. Seeing the tide turn, he fled for the trees.But the night itself seemed to reach for him—A hooded shape burst from the side, low and fast. The dagger punched clean into his heart, cutting off his breath with a single, sharp exhale.
Eleres lowered the body gently, wiping his blade in one smooth motion. Without a word, he stepped back into the mingling blaze and darkness, swallowed whole by the chaos.
It was as if he had never been there at all.
The firelight gradually faded, leaving only embers that flickered weakly in the night wind. The distant treeline sank back into a suffocating silence, broken only by the hesitant chirping of a few late insects, as if they feared to disturb the ground freshly baptized by death. The air still hung thick with the mingled scents of blood and char, laced with the damp musk of the soil—a lingering curse that seemed to whisper to the survivors: this night, they had been watched by death itself.