The grass trembled beneath hurried footsteps. Dark figures slid from the shadows — masks glinting faintly under the moonlight. The Black Knives, silent as the grave, closed in on the children.
Blades whispered from their sheaths. Their leader raised a hand, the signal sharp and final.
"Take them alive. Their heads are worth nothing compared to their blood."
The children shrank back, whimpers breaking the fragile silence. The weary man stepped forward, arms outstretched, voice steady despite the odds.
"Stay behind me."
But before the Knives could lunge, the world shifted.
A pressure descended on the field — heavy, suffocating, ancient in weight. The night itself seemed to recoil. The hunters froze, instincts screaming.
From the far end of the plain, a figure approached, slow and deliberate. The moonlight caught the edge of a massive blade slung across his back, jagged and cruel as if forged for war, not ceremony.
The Hound had arrived.
The Black Knives turned as one, steel flashing. Their leader hissed, "This hunt is ours. Step aside."
The Hound said nothing at first. His mask, carved like the maw of a wolf, tilted slightly — his gaze resting on the children. Then his voice rumbled, calm but unyielding:
"The weak may hunt for coin. But these lives are not yours to claim."
With a motion that seemed too swift for his size, he drew the great blade. Moonlight bled across its edge.
The leader of the Black Knives sneered. "Then you die with them."
They struck. Shadows darted forward, knives gleaming.
The Hound moved.
Steel met steel, sparks tearing through the night. His blade carved arcs too heavy to block, shattering daggers like glass. Every strike was final, every step deliberate — the dance of a predator among scavengers.
The children could only watch as the monster they had feared became their unwilling savior, cutting down the hunters one by one.
Igron's smirk vanished, replaced with awe. "He's… fighting for us?"
Kairo's crimson eyes narrowed, reading deeper than the others. The Hound's movements were not mercy — they were judgment. He fought not to protect, but to preserve.
And with every swing of that terrible blade, the truth became clear:
The Hound had not come to kill the children.
He had come to claim them.