The journey to Oakhaven was a march through memory for Kaelen. Each rustle of leaves in the Whisperwood, each shadow cast by a gnarled oak, pulled him back to another time, another Kaelen. He saw his mother's gentle smile as she taught him the names of wildflowers, his sister Elara's infectious giggle as they chased fireflies in the twilight. These weren't fond recollections, not anymore. They were fuel, meticulously stoked coals in the furnace of his hatred. The love he once felt had curdled into a bitter poison, directed solely at those who had stolen his world.
He moved with an almost unnatural stealth, a ghost in the ancient forests. Three years of relentless training had honed his senses to a razor's edge. He could track a squirrel by the whisper of its claws on bark, feel the subtle shift in wind that signaled distant movement, and melt into the landscape with effortless grace. His diet was sparse – foraged berries, snared rabbits, whatever sustenance he could acquire without drawing attention. He slept little, usually in the high branches of resilient trees, his mind a constant whirlwind of tactics and targets.
The Blackhand brotherhood had taught him more than just physical prowess. They had taught him patience, the chilling art of observation, and the psychological warfare of the hunted becoming the hunter. They'd whispered lessons of fear, how to cultivate it, how to wield it. "A terrified man makes mistakes, boy," the masked instructor had rasped, "and mistakes are opportunities." Kaelen absorbed it all, a sponge soaking up every dark droplet of knowledge. He remembered the cold satisfaction in their eyes as he demonstrated a perfectly executed silent kill, a flick of the wrist, a severed artery, no sound but the soft thud of a falling body. He had excelled at their grim curriculum.
He reached the outskirts of Oakhaven just as the last sliver of twilight bled into night. The town was larger than he'd expected, a cluster of timber and stone buildings huddled around a central market square, all enclosed by a modest palisade. A single, watch tower stood sentinel, a flickering torch casting long, dancing shadows. Not a fortress, but defensible enough for a captain of the guard like Dagran.
Kaelen found a secluded spot overlooking the town, hidden amongst a copse of pines. He spent the next day and a half observing. He watched the comings and goings of the guards, noted their patrol patterns, their shift changes, their preferred taverns. He learned Dagran's routine quickly. The man was a creature of habit: early morning rounds, a midday meal at The Rusty Flagon, an afternoon visit to the training yard, then back to the barracks until evening patrols. He was arrogant, prone to loud boasts and heavier drinking as the day wore on. A perfect target.
Dagran was heavier now than Kaelen remembered, his once trim figure softened by ale and complacency. His face was still a brutal mask, but lined with the dissipation of indulgence rather than the discipline of a warrior. The sight of him, still breathing, still laughing, still living, while his mother and sister lay cold in their ash-filled graves, sent a fresh wave of icy resolve through Kaelen. He felt nothing but a singular, overwhelming urge to extinguish that life.
He identified the barracks where Dagran slept, a modest stone building separate from the common guard quarters, marked by a crude, painted lion insignia – a mockery of Valerius's own sigil. This was where it would begin.
Under the cover of a moonless night, Kaelen moved. He flowed over the palisade like smoke, his black tunic and trousers making him invisible against the shadows. The air was crisp, carrying the distant scent of woodsmoke and stale ale. He avoided the main streets, sticking to the narrow alleys and the darker sides of buildings. He moved with the predatory grace of a wolf, silent and unseen.
Reaching the barracks, Kaelen circled the building. A single, drowsy guard was stationed by the main entrance. Kaelen bypassed him, finding a less conspicuous window on the far side, latched but not barred. A few moments of practiced manipulation with a slender steel pick, and the latch clicked open with a whisper. He slipped inside, light as a feather.
The interior was dark, heavy with the smell of unwashed bodies and cheap ale. He could hear the heavy snores of sleeping men from a communal bunkroom. Dagran's room was at the end of a short corridor. Kaelen paused outside the door, listening. A soft snore, rhythmic and deep, confirmed his presence.
He pushed the door open soundlessly. The room was sparsely furnished: a cot, a small table with an empty ale stein, and a chest. Dagran lay sprawled on the cot, his heavy breathing filling the small space. Kaelen's hand went to the wickedly curved dagger at his hip. This wasn't just about killing. It was about making him understand.
He approached the cot, his movements deliberate, unhurried. He wanted the fear to bloom, to blossom in Dagran's eyes before the end. He reached down, his fingers closing around Dagran's mouth, silencing any scream before it could begin. The knight's eyes snapped open, wide with sudden, animal terror. Kaelen leaned closer, his voice a low, venomous whisper, barely audible over Dagran's frantic struggles.
"Do you remember Elara's Point, Dagran?"
The name, spoken in the darkness, hit the knight like a physical blow. Recognition, stark and chilling, flooded Dagran's eyes. The terror intensified, mingled with a dawning comprehension. He thrashed harder, a desperate, futile fight against the crushing grip.
"Do you remember Lyra? My sister, Elara?" Kaelen continued, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, a cold, flat drone that was far more terrifying than any shout. "They remember you."
Dagran's eyes darted frantically, searching for an escape, for a weapon, for anything. But there was only Kaelen, a shadow made flesh, a nightmare come to life. The air in the room grew thick with the knight's rising panic, the frantic beat of his heart thundering in his chest. Kaelen's grip tightened, the pressure on Dagran's windpipe increasing. He let the man gasp, just enough to prolong the agony, to let the realization sink in, deep and cold. He wanted the fear to be absolute.
This was only the beginning.