9:59
It was a dark night. A quiet night. Yet quietness is not always the herald of peace; sometimes it is the airless pause before a storm breaks, and tonight was far from peaceful. The stillness was fractured only by the sporadic chirping of unseen birds and the guttural croaking of frogs hidden in the weeds, their calls carrying across the damp air like fragments of some cryptic language. Caspian's boots pressed against the earth with deliberate slowness, tracing the narrow ribbon of a dirt path that wound through the wilderness like a vein of shadow. The way forward was almost invisible—if not for the lonely glow of a few lamp posts, each one standing far apart like distant sentinels, he would have been swallowed by the pitch-black night entirely.
One such lamp post stood ahead of him, leaning slightly to one side as if the years had bent it beneath the weight of its own tired light. Caspian approached it, his coat whispering against his legs with each step, and stopped beneath the amber glow. He tilted his chin upward, eyes following the dim halo to the lantern itself—a square, steel cage mottled with rust and painted long ago in what had once been a clean, deep black. Now the paint peeled in curling flakes, and the rust beneath it glimmered faintly in the light. A handful of flies danced clumsily around the glass, their wings humming in a low, hypnotic rhythm, drawn like moths to the faint warmth.
It was, in its way, peaceful. And Caspian liked peace—at least, he told himself he did. It was what he sought, or so he believed. His methods, though… they were anything but peaceful. They were drenched in blood, stitched together with calculated cruelty. But like a canvas layered with errant strokes, mistakes could be painted over. Given time, the right tools, and a steady hand, he could reshape the picture entirely. He would be the artist. And the world? The world would be his masterpiece.
As the cold glow of the lamp brushed across his face, Caspian's thoughts turned inward—toward the words Nathan, guardian of the Library of Nightmares, had once spoken to him. They had been delivered not with rage, nor with pity, but with that peculiar mixture of distaste and fascination that Nathan so often carried.
"Caspian Sinclair," Nathan had said, each syllable pressed into the air like a seal in wax, "you are possibly the most despicable person I've ever met."
Should he have taken those words to heart? Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Even the greatest minds in history had worn the mask of madness before the world learned their visions had teeth. The difference between genius and lunacy was not truth—it was timing. If his actions now were madness, so be it; the future might yet prove them necessary.
For now, there was only the plan, and the plan hinged on one truth: he had to reach Julius before the worst happened. Before Alexander's life was snuffed out… or worse, before Julius took it. Alexander had to live, at least for now. That was the fixed point in the storm—a single, nonnegotiable variable.
The thought sharpened Caspian's focus, washing away the mental haze that fatigue had draped over him. His gaze, cold and unblinking, slid back to the dirt road ahead. He stepped forward again, the soft, wet earth giving under his boots with each step, the mud curling around his soles before releasing with a squelch. The path bore his mark now, each footprint a dark imprint in the glistening brown muck. He slid his hands into his pockets, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly, and closed his eyes for the briefest moment.
He was tired. The kind of tired that crept into the bones and whispered for surrender. But exhaustion was a luxury he could not afford. The plan had to be carried out, no matter the weight on his shoulders. He opened his eyes again and continued, counting the seconds between each lamplight as though the rhythm might anchor him.
Then, he stopped.
The pause was small, almost imperceptible, but in the night's suffocating quiet it felt like a held breath. Caspian exhaled through his nose, a faint plume of steam blooming in the cold air. Something—some ancient instinct, the kind that hums in the blood—told him he was not alone.
Slowly, his head turned, eyes sliding over his shoulder to look back along the path. The darkness there was thick and unbroken, swallowing everything beyond the faint circle of light where he stood. The only visible thing was the lamp post he had passed minutes ago, its light barely a pinprick in the distance.
To any other person, there would have been nothing to see. But Caspian's ears caught it—soft, deliberate, and measured. Footsteps. The faint, muffled crunch of soles pressing into damp soil.
His eyes narrowed.
The sound grew clearer in the stillness, until his gaze found it: a shape, faint and formless at first, beginning to take shape against the void. The outline of a figure, just barely visible in the half-light, drawing closer with unhurried inevitability.
Caspian didn't move. Neither did the figure. They simply closed the distance until they were almost within the lamp's reach—almost close enough for the light to catch the planes of their face. But then they stopped, holding in the penumbra where shadow still reigned.
The rainless night felt suddenly heavy, as though the air itself leaned in, waiting.
The figure shifted—only slightly at first, like a predator testing the air before striking. Then, with slow, deliberate precision, he lifted one foot and let it fall forward. The sole met the earth with a muted thud. And in that instant, the world seemed to split apart.
It began as a vibration, subtle enough to be mistaken for the rumble of a far-off storm. But the tremor grew with terrifying speed, burrowing through the ground and up into the air until the very air around Caspian seemed to hum. Then, without warning, it broke.
A massive surge of energy burst forth from the figure, detonating into the night like the unsealing of some ancient tomb. It was not merely light or sound, but something far older, far darker—a force that seemed to claw its way out from the core of the earth itself. The energy burned crimson, a deep and living red, flowing from the man's body in long, writhing tendrils. It tore upward, coiling into the black sky like blood set aflame.
The night, so silent moments before, roared to life as the crimson power spread outward, an expanding storm of raw force that rattled the trees and sent the lamp post's light shivering. Even the air tasted different—thicker, metallic, like the tang of fresh blood carried on the wind. Caspian's breath caught in his throat.
The sky answered the surge. Above them, the crimson tendrils twisted and merged, shaping themselves into something hideously deliberate. The outline took form first—a monstrous silhouette, grotesque and immense. Then came the details, burning themselves into the heavens: jagged horns like obsidian blades, wings stretched wide enough to blot out the stars, and a maw filled with too many teeth to be human. A demon's face stared down at the earth, molten eyes glaring from the clouds.
The ground felt different now, as though it might splinter beneath the pressure. And in that oppressive weight, the figure began to move again.
He stepped forward, one foot after another, until the glow of the lamplight finally claimed him. The shadows peeled away, revealing him fully.
He was tall—far taller than most men Caspian had ever seen, his frame towering yet unnervingly lean, a body carved of taut muscle and unyielding bone. Short, spiky hair the color of fresh-spilled blood caught the lamplight, each strand seeming to shimmer faintly with the same energy that had torn the sky. His face was, at a glance, ordinary—almost forgettable—save for the scar. It began just above his left eyebrow, a deep, pale groove carved into the flesh, and cut a ruthless path down across his cheek, ending just beneath the left corner of his mouth. The scar was old, yet somehow still angry, as if it had never truly healed.
His clothing looked like it had been stolen from a battlefield. A once-white tank top, now stained with dirt, sweat, and something darker, clung to him in torn patches, its fabric barely holding together. Wrapped over it in uneven layers were strips of brown rags, some fraying at the edges, others stiff with what might have been dried blood. Around his neck hung a black desert turban, its cloth weathered and crusted with fine sand, as if he had walked straight out of a wind-scoured wasteland.
On his feet rested battered brown suede boots, their original color now drowned in the thick coat of mud that clung to them. Each step he took seemed to grind the earth deeper beneath him, as though the ground itself bowed under his weight.
Then he looked up.
The movement was slow, almost casual, but when his eyes found Caspian, it was like being caught in the gaze of a predator that had already decided you were prey. His irises were red—not the dull red of blood in shadow, but the burning red of molten metal, alive and seething. Those eyes did not merely see; they searched, peeled back the layers, measured every breath Caspian took.
For a moment, his expression was as unyielding as stone—no malice, no warmth, just an unshakable stillness that made the world seem smaller. And then, without warning, the mask cracked. His lips stretched into a wide grin, one so jarringly at odds with the moment that it felt almost grotesque. It was a smile of someone who already knew how the game would end—and knew you wouldn't like the outcome.
To the average passerby, he might have looked like nothing more than a beggar—clad in tattered rags, his boots caked in mud, his clothing worn thin by wind and time. But the truth was far from what the eye would suggest. Beneath that humble exterior was a man whose very name could still a room, a man whose presence alone could turn courage into ash. He was a force of nature bound in flesh, a figure feared by millions across the continent. He was the most powerful assassin in all of recorded history.
He was Rowen Vailheart.