CHAPTER 74: SYLAS APPEARS

Shadows lengthened across the hastily established camp as the last bloodred rays of sunlight retreated behind the treeline. Soren sat on a fallen log, watching nobles bicker like children over matters that wouldn’t have concerned street rats in Nordhav.

"This position is entirely exposed!" Lord Lanther’s voice carried across the clearing, his silver-and-white surcoat now stained with travel dust. "We should have continued to the ridge for defensible high ground."

Lord Casimir Trescan gestured dismissively, rings glinting on his fingers. "And arrived well after dark? Perhaps you’d prefer stumbling off a cliff to making camp, Lanther."

The shard against Soren’s chest cooled as Valenna’s presence sharpened in his mind. ’Like dogs fighting over scraps while wolves circle,’ she whispered. ’None of them understand what hunts them.’

The camp had formed in chaotic clusters, noble houses keeping to themselves despite Ashgard’s paired riding arrangements. The burned caravan had left its mark on all of them, not just the stench of charred flesh that clung to their clothing, but something deeper. Fear, poorly disguised beneath bluster and bravado.

Kaelor dropped onto the log beside Soren, passing him a waterskin without comment. The Swordmaster’s scarred face revealed nothing, but tension radiated from his body like heat from coals.

"The fire’s too large," Kaelor muttered, nodding toward the central blaze where several Lanther knights were adding more wood. "Might as well send up signal flags announcing our position."

Across the clearing, the argument had expanded to include representatives from House Dravien.

"My knights require proper rest if we’re to continue this hunt effectively," Lady Dravien’s captain insisted, his midnight blue cloak wrapped tightly against the evening chill. "These sleeping arrangements are entirely inadequate."

"Perhaps House Dravien should have brought feather mattresses if stone ground offends their delicate sensibilities," retorted a Karvath knight, earning approving laughter from his green-clad companions.

Soren took a long drink from the waterskin, the cool liquid soothing his dust-parched throat. "They act like they’re at some noble gathering, not hunting a killer."

"Most of them have never faced real danger," Kaelor replied, his voice low enough that only Soren could hear. "Tournament champions, palace guards, they think themselves warriors because they’ve won contests with rules."

The shard pulsed cold against Soren’s chest. ’The street taught you better,’

Valenna whispered. ’No rules there. Just survival.’

The bickering intensified as twilight deepened into true darkness. A Trescan knight shoved a Lanther squire who had accidentally encroached on their designated area.

Two Karvath guards argued loudly over watch rotations. Even the normally composed Dravien contingent had joined the fray, demanding more space for their horses.

Lord Ashgard stood apart from it all, conferring quietly with his captains near the edge of the camp. His expression remained impassive as he observed the deteriorating order, those steel-gray eyes missing nothing.

When he finally moved, it was with the same deliberate economy that characterized everything he did. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Enough."

The single word cut through the clamor like a blade through silk. Conversations ceased mid-sentence. Knights froze in place, suddenly aware of their lord’s attention.

"You bicker like children while death watches from the trees," Ashgard continued, his tone carrying neither anger nor disappointment, only cold certainty. "House Ashgard knights will take the outer watch. The rest of you will maintain inner perimeter by paired houses, as assigned."

He pointed to the oversized fire. "Reduce that. Now."

The Lanther knights scrambled to obey, suddenly eager to demonstrate compliance. Ashgard’s gaze swept the camp, lingering briefly on each noble contingent.

"The fire size is set. The watch is set. The sleeping arrangements are set." His voice remained level, yet somehow carried to every corner of the camp. "Any man who continues these petty squabbles will ride back to his lord in shame. Am I understood?"

Murmurs of assent rippled through the gathered knights. Within moments, the camp reorganized itself with the efficiency that had been lacking all evening. House rivalries didn’t disappear, but they retreated beneath the surface, contained by Ashgard’s will.

As the camp settled, Soren noticed two riders departing the perimeter, Ashgard scouts, moving with the fluid grace of men accustomed to traveling unseen. They melted into the darkness beyond the firelight without fanfare or announcement.

Kaelor followed his gaze. "Last patrol of the night," he said quietly. "Checking our backtrail."

The hours crept by. Knights established watches, checked weapons, prepared simple meals over smaller cook fires. The initial chaos gave way to wary vigilance as the reality of their situation sank in. They weren’t on some noble adventure, they were hunting a killer who had already demonstrated both brutality and cunning.

Soren remained by the fire, the warmth failing to reach the cold knot that had formed in his stomach. Kaelor sat beside him, methodically sharpening his blade with smooth, practiced strokes. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

The camp had grown quieter when Soren first noticed something wrong. It wasn’t a sound that alerted him, but rather the absence of sound. The night forest, which had hummed with insect songs and occasional owl calls, had fallen completely silent.

The shard against his chest turned ice-cold, Valenna’s presence surging forward with sudden urgency.

’He’s close,’ she whispered, her voice sharp with warning.

Kaelor sensed it too. The Swordmaster paused mid-stroke, his head lifting like a hound catching a scent. His single eye scanned the treeline, narrowing as it searched the darkness beyond their circle of firelight.

Across the camp, other veterans had noticed the unnatural silence. Ashgard knights reached casually for weapons, their movements unhurried but purposeful. Even Lord Ashgard himself had gone still, those steel-gray eyes fixed on the northern perimeter.

Then came the sound, hoofbeats, irregular and panicked, approaching from the direction the scouts had departed hours earlier.

Knights rose to their feet, hands dropping to sword hilts. The hoofbeats grew louder, accompanied now by the wild neighing of terrified animals.

Two horses burst into the clearing, riderless, their flanks heaving with exertion. Reins torn and trailing, saddles empty. One mount staggered, its left flank laid open by what could only have been a sword stroke, blood black in the firelight.

The wounded horse collapsed at the edge of camp, legs folding beneath it as strength finally failed. The other circled frantically, eyes rolling white with fear.

"The scouts," someone murmured, breaking the stunned silence that had fallen over the camp.

Harrick pushed forward, his usual arrogance replaced by something closer to panic. "We must ride out! Find them!"

Several knights nodded in agreement, reaching for weapons and moving toward their tethered mounts. But Ashgard’s voice stopped them cold.

"No."

The lord hadn’t moved from his position, hadn’t raised his voice, yet the single word froze every man in place. His expression remained unchanged, though something in his eyes had hardened further.

"He found them," Ashgard said simply.

A ripple of unease passed through the gathered knights. Hands tightened on sword hilts. Eyes strained against the darkness beyond the firelight.

The fire popped loudly, sending sparks spiraling upward. In the sudden flare, shadows seemed to deepen at the forest’s edge. Soren rose slowly to his feet, the shard burning cold against his chest. Something was watching them from the darkness. Something patient. Something dangerous.

Kaelor stood beside him, blade now drawn and ready. The Swordmaster’s scarred face betrayed nothing, but his single eye remained locked on the treeline, tracking something only he could see.

Even Harrick, usually so quick with mockery, had fallen silent. His face had gone pale beneath its usual arrogance, hand white-knuckled around his sword hilt.

’The moment comes,’ Valenna whispered through Soren’s mind, her voice like steel sliding from a scabbard. ’At last, the storm.’

The shadows at the edge of the clearing parted.

A man stepped into their circle of firelight with the casual confidence of one entering his own home. Tall and lean, he moved with predatory grace, each step precisely placed.

His green hair, the shade of summer leaves, hung disheveled around a face of striking, cold beauty. Eyes of the same impossible green surveyed the gathered knights with detached interest.

His sword, already wet with blood, hung casually from his right hand.

With his left, he dragged something behind him, a body, limp and unresisting, still clad in Ashgard gray. The scout’s throat had been opened with surgical precision, his life emptied onto forest soil.

Sylas, for it could be no one else, stopped at the edge of the firelight. Without ceremony, he released his grip, allowing the corpse to fall at the nobles’ feet.

"Now it begins," he said, his voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the suddenly silent camp.

For one heartbeat, no one moved. Shock held them immobile, knights and nobles alike frozen by the killer’s audacity. He had walked directly into their midst, outnumbered thirty to one, yet carried himself with absolute certainty.

Then everything happened at once.

Sylas moved, his blade flashing in the firelight faster than thought. A Lanther knight standing nearest, his mouth still open in surprise, toppled backward as his head parted company with his shoulders.

The body remained upright for a moment, blood fountaining from the severed neck, before collapsing in a clatter of armor.

Chaos erupted. Knights scrambled for weapons. Nobles shouted contradictory orders. Ashgard’s voice rose above the din, commanding formation, but few heard him through their panic.

Sylas was already moving again, flowing through their midst like water through cupped hands. His blade whispered once more, and a second knight, Karvath green now stained crimson, fell to his knees, clutching uselessly at the wound that had opened him from collarbone to navel.

Soren found himself rooted in place, unable to move as the killer carved his way through the camp’s defenders. The shard against his chest burned like a coal, Valenna’s presence sharp as a blade point.

"Form ranks!" Ashgard roared, his voice finally cutting through the panic. "Hold him!"

Knights began to rally, moving to surround the intruder. Steel rasped from scabbards as training finally overcame shock. But Sylas seemed unconcerned by the closing circle, his movements unhurried yet impossible to track completely.

Across the fire, Soren found himself locked in the killer’s gaze. Those green eyes, inhuman in their intensity, fixed on him with sudden, focused interest. Something like recognition flickered in their depths, though Soren was certain they had never met.

The shard against his chest seared hot enough to burn, Valenna’s voice cutting through his paralysis.

"At last," she whispered. "The storm."

Sylas stepped toward the fire, sword dripping red onto the ground, a trail of dark droplets marking his path. The nearest knights scrambled backward, their courage faltering in the face of his unhurried confidence. His green eyes never left Soren’s.