The road from the ridge to the village was longer than it looked.
By the time Matthew led Bors, Euron, and twenty‑one mercenaries down to the Ward brothers' lands, the night air was thick and heavy.
Patrol torches glowed faintly around the outskirts of the village—steady lights pacing back and forth.
Matthew crouched low behind the shrubs, his men silent around him, every breath measured.
They waited.
The first patrol passed. Then the second.
By the third rotation, Matthew already understood their rhythm, their timing, the blind spots between routes.
When the last couple of sentries turned the corner, he murmured, "Euron—can you take out those two without a sound?"
The assassin's eyes tracked the lit path, then flicked back. He shook his head.
The guards had chosen their post well, backs to open ground, every angle visible.
Matthew's brow tightened. He turned to the rest. "Knives. Two of them."
A pair of blades appeared instantly, passed forward by rough hands.
Crossbows were too loud. He needed silence.
Gripping the knives, he slipped away into the dark alone.
He circled through the underbrush, moving on crouched feet until the torches lit his face faintly gold.
Twenty paces.
Fifteen.
He rose suddenly, both arms flicking outward in a smooth double throw.
Two faint whistles sliced the silence.
The guards never even turned.
Both collapsed at once—their throats pierced clean through.
Gasps rose from the shrubs where his men hid.
Matthew stepped calmly into the torchlight, crouched to drag the bodies aside, then shoved the torches into the dirt to snuff their glow.
"Stop staring," he hissed over his shoulder. "Move. Straight to the Wards' hall!"
Bors sprang forward at once, followed by the others—leaving Euron motionless for a heartbeat longer, eyes glued to the corpses.
The clean wounds gleamed faintly in the firelight.
To Euron, that kind of precision was no accident of luck—it was trained skill. Lethal, practiced, personal.
No noble should move like that. Certainly no young noble.
When he finally caught up, he wanted to ask how. But instinct told him not to.
---
Inside the village, their target stood out immediately.
Amid rows of squat, mud‑brick houses, the Ward brothers' main hall loomed tall—a crude monument of privilege built with timber and clay.
Matthew froze the group with a raised hand, tilting his head.
No voices. No footsteps.
Perfect.
He moved forward, catlike, weaving through narrow alleys of dirt walls. The men followed, each step heavier with tension. Their feet ached from stealth, their breath burned.
Not one dared speak.
Many realized, for the first time, how safe it felt under the command of someone who actually seemed to know what he was doing.
Respect—raw and wordless—bloomed somewhere under the fear.
Matthew didn't notice. His attention stayed fixed on the hall.
Halfway across the yard, armored sentries came into view—real soldiers, not farmers. Steel glinted at their waists, and behind them loomed the wooden doors of the brothers' hall.
Matthew motioned back. "Bors—when I draw some away, take the rest straight in. Wait for my signal."
Bors nodded and whispered the order down the line.
Then Matthew broke cover and ran.
He moved too fast for their eyes to register—a blur darting from one wall shadow to another.
The new recruits watched, wide‑eyed.
By the time the guards shouted, "Who's there?" Matthew had already slipped behind the hall, smashed a windowpane, and shoved a torch through the curtains.
Flames caught in a breath.
"Fire!" a voice screamed. "They're attacking us—come on!"
Sentries lunged forward, swords flashing.
But Matthew was already moving again—smashing, lighting, laughing as he ran. "Come on then! Catch me if you can!"
Even through the haze of smoke, they could hardly follow him. To them, he looked like a lunatic dancing in firelight.
The leader snarled orders, splitting his men in two—half to chase, half to save the hall.
That was the moment.
From the shadows behind the house, Bors boomed, "Go!"
He charged with spear in hand, bursting from behind the huts. His roar shattered the night.
The first patrolman spun too late; Bors rammed through him like a bull, stumbled forward, and surged toward the hall.
The mercenaries followed, shouting as the fight erupted.
Euron stayed behind, just outside the torchlight, watching.
He'd joined dozens of raids in his life—but this one… this had rhythm.
And then he saw them—the two brothers.
One of them he recognized instantly: Ser Wely Ward, the brute who had barred their passage by day.
The other was broader, older, naked but for his nightshirt.
Wely's fury was volcanic. "Kill every last thief!" he bellowed, charging with a sword.
His brother, Maken, followed roaring after.
At first they fought shoulder to shoulder, blades carving through the first line of mercenaries. But chaos scattered them quickly—dust and smoke turning order into madness.
That was when Euron smiled.
He slipped sideways around the fight, blade angled down, moving like a shadow through the confusion.
Maken Ward never saw him.
Three quick steps, a whisper of steel—and pain.
A sword point blossomed from his chest, shining red even in the dark.
Euron twisted free and vanished again.
By the time Maken fell, blood soaking into the dirt, his brother was screaming his name.
Matthew saw everything. He had returned from the far corner, several of the Ward guards still hard on his heels.
"Back!" he shouted. "Fall back, all of you!"
The mercenaries broke loose from the melee, following him through the alleys.
Those who lagged behind screamed for help, and Matthew—practical as ever—cut his way briefly through the fray to free the few who might live.
The rest were left behind.
A good commander wasted no pity on fools who disobeyed orders.
As he dragged his last saved man free, Wely Ward spotted him through the smoke.
Sword raised, the knight charged, howling with rage.
Matthew felt him coming, turned sharply, parried, and countered.
Steel clashed in sparks. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then, with a precise twist of wrists, Matthew disarmed him—Wely's sword flying from his grip into the dirt.
Euron burst forward again, hoping to finish the second brother where he stood. But one of Wely's guards lunged, tackling his lord to the ground just in time.
The assassin cursed, retreating to the shadows.
Matthew pulled back, panting, sword flashing in the firelight, and yelled, "Go—move now!"
Within seconds, they were gone, sprinting down narrow lanes with torches burning behind them.
Wely Ward roared after them, seizing his fallen flail.
"After them!" he screamed. "Rally everyone! We'll skin them alive! Burn them all!"
Men poured into the streets, villagers clutching tools, soldiers struggling into armor.
"Revenge! Find them! Revenge!"
The twin villages filled with chaos, steel clanging, voices carrying through fire and smoke.
To the Ward men, it looked as if the raiders were still there—flames everywhere, shadows everywhere, impossible to tell what was real.
To Matthew, miles away and smiling in the dark, it looked exactly as planned.
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