Mist clung to the forests like smoke, curling along the narrow roads that led to the villages I had silently claimed. Birds remained quiet, and even the river's current seemed to hesitate, as if sensing the tension in the air. From a ridge overlooking the largest village, I observed the movements below.
A column of riders emerged, flags hastily sewn from the banners of neighboring settlements. Over fifty men, a coalition of village leaders and mercenaries, marching together for the first time. Their purpose was clear: hunt the shadow who had been destabilizing their lands, the killer whose name no one knew. They moved with confidence, discipline, and arrogance—mistakes buried beneath training, yet detectable to someone who watches the world in patterns.
Voraciel pulsed faintly against my back, alive, patient. The whisper brushed at the edges of my mind: "…kill." Not a command. Not a demand. Just presence, waiting. Observation first. Patience always.
I crouched in the fog, mapping their formation. Spears at the flanks, swords in the middle, a few archers riding slightly ahead. They scanned the horizon, watching for movement, relying on numbers and cohesion. But even in their discipline, small errors existed: one guard stepping slightly too far ahead, another scanning the wrong horizon, horses brushing against each other in the wrong rhythm. Ordinary mistakes hidden in a sea of confidence—amplified by calculation, they could become catastrophic.
I watched them for hours, taking in their rotation, noting the paths they would follow if they advanced, memorizing where supply wagons would pause and which roads were guarded lightly. Bloodlust stirred faintly within me, restrained, like a predator feeling the first pulse of a hunt. The whisper pressed again: "…kill."
Not yet. Patience first. Observation must precede action.
Night fell, and the coalition made camp in the central village square. Lanterns flickered along rooftops and streets, throwing long shadows that twisted unnaturally in the mist. I climbed silently to a rooftop, Voraciel's presence humming faintly, alive, responsive. I watched their patrols and guard rotations, each subtle mistake cataloged: a shift in posture, a glance that lingered too long, a misaligned footstep. Observation is preparation. Knowledge is power.
This was no longer a single village challenge. This was coordinated, intelligent opposition. Crimson Tide alone would not suffice. Voraciel pulsed more insistently: "…kill—unleash." Bloodlust whispered at the edges of my mind, restrained yet eager. I could feel the edge of a new technique forming, waiting for necessity.
I whispered it aloud for the first time, feeling the weight of power settle into my bones:
"Bloodlust—Raven's Fang."
Shadows erupted from my position atop the roof, stretching across streets and rooftops, twisting unnaturally as if alive. The first patrol faltered, thrown off by the subtle tendrils of darkness, hesitation cracking their formation. Crimson Tide struck from the shadows, precise and lethal, knocking the first men unconscious without alerting the others. The remaining soldiers reacted, but Raven's Fang amplified the chaos, bending the shadows to strike with intent.
Arrows fired wildly from archers, only to be caught mid-flight by shadows, redirected back toward unsuspecting mercenaries. Spears struck into empty air, swinging at distorted darkness. The coalition scrambled, coordination breaking with every precise strike. Chaos spread like wildfire.
By midnight, over half of the coalition was incapacitated, unconscious or fleeing in panic. Voraciel hummed faintly, warm and patient. The whisper softened: "…wait." Observation had remained paramount. Patience endured. Bloodlust had been unleashed, controlled, and precise.
The remaining soldiers attempted to regroup at the edge of the square, but minor manipulations I had set days before—shifted supply wagons, altered patrols, hidden tripwires—ensnared them. Every escape route was subtly controlled. Every step guided by calculation. Crimson Tide struck silently, Raven's Fang spread shadows with lethal intent. They were experienced, trained, but I had already set the battlefield in my favor.
From the ridge, I watched the final mercenaries collapse in uncoordinated panic. Fear became visible in their movements, mistakes multiplied, and control slipped from their hands. Shadows stretched across the villages, across roads, alleys, and rooftops. Voraciel pulsed faintly in response to intent. The whisper lingered: "…wait." Not now. Not yet.
By dawn, the coalition had been completely neutralized. Every village remained unaware, ordinary, predictable. The militia leaders—experienced, trained, and disciplined—were unconscious in alleys or had fled into forests, terrified and disoriented. Observation, patience, and calculated bloodlust had won the day.
I returned to my vantage point atop the ridge, mapping the aftermath. Supply lines intact, patrols subtly shifted, villagers moving unknowingly in the patterns I had influenced. Shadows stretched across multiple settlements, guiding behavior, bending mistakes to my intent. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive and patient. The whisper softened: "…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.
I descended to the first village I had claimed, cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered, sharper than ever.
The first coordinated, intelligent opposition had been defeated. Villages remained predictable, people ordinary, mistakes everywhere. Shadows stretched across towns, guiding patterns toward my intent. The whisper had acknowledged my presence. Alive. Patient. Watching.
The world sleeps, unaware. And I am just beginning.