Kaelen spent two weeks moving through the Dragon's Tooth foothills, a phantom amidst the rugged terrain. He learned Gareth's patterns with chilling precision. The eldest Valerius son, despite his bluster, was predictable. He frequented a specific hunting lodge, a smaller, rustic structure nestled deep within the woods, favored for its isolation and rich game. He'd arrive with a smaller retinue, often just a dozen men, seeking to prove his prowess with bow and blade against the wild boar and stag that roamed these ancient forests.
Kaelen observed Gareth's hunting parties from afar, a silent specter among the trees. He noted the lax discipline, the drunken revelry after a successful kill, the careless placement of guards. Gareth was arrogant, confident in his father's might, believing himself untouchable in these familiar woods. This overconfidence would be his undoing.
The winter winds were beginning to bite, a sharp prelude to the harsher months. Kaelen used the weather to his advantage, letting the sporadic blizzards cover his tracks, allowing him to move closer, unseen. He'd scouted the lodge repeatedly, identifying weak points, escape routes, and, most importantly, Gareth's sleeping quarters. The room was on the second floor, a window overlooking a small, enclosed courtyard where hunting dogs were kennelled.
His plan was simple, brutal, and designed to sow terror. It wasn't just about killing Gareth; it was about stripping away the security of House Valerius, about making them understand that no place, no matter how remote or well-guarded, was safe.
The chosen night was a dark tapestry, moonless and shrouded by a thick, wet snow that began to fall late in the evening. The kind of night where sounds were muffled, and visibility dropped to mere paces. Perfect. Kaelen had prepared for this. He had crafted several rudimentary, but effective, noise makers – small leather pouches filled with pebbles, designed to be thrown as a distraction. He also carried a small vial of a potent, fast-acting sedative he'd acquired from the Blackhand brotherhood, meant for the hunting dogs.
He approached the lodge from the dense tree line, moving with the preternatural silence that was now his second nature. The guards on duty were huddled around a brazier near the main entrance, their attention on the warmth, their vigilance dulled by the cold and the wine they'd been sharing. Kaelen circled to the back, where the dog kennels were. A low growl rumbled from within, but Kaelen was ready. He flicked a small, sedated piece of meat into each kennel, watching as the powerful hounds consumed it, their growls slowly fading into sleepy whimpers.
With the dogs incapacitated, Kaelen scaled the rough-hewn log wall of the lodge with practiced ease, finding handholds in the gaps between the timber. He reached the second-floor window of Gareth's room. It was latched, but Gareth, in his drunken stupor, had left the shutters slightly ajar. A slender, steel pick, almost an extension of Kaelen's fingers, made quick work of the simple latch.
He slipped inside. The room was larger than Dagran's, opulent by comparison, filled with the scent of expensive pipe tobacco and unwashed linens. Gareth lay sprawled on a large bed, snoring heavily, a half-empty tankard on the bedside table. His armor lay in a pile in the corner, his greatsword propped against the wall.
Kaelen stood over him, taking a long moment to simply observe the man who had ordered the death of his father, who had reveled in the desecration of his mother and sister. The hatred, a cold, burning coal in his chest, flared. Gareth's face, bloated and red, held no hint of the terror that awaited him.
Kaelen knelt, his movements fluid and silent. He gently, almost tenderly, removed the man's dagger from its sheath by the bed. He then placed the cold steel of its pommel against Gareth's cheek. Gareth stirred, a soft grunt escaping him. Kaelen pressed harder. Gareth's eyes fluttered open, blinking against the darkness.
Confusion slowly gave way to dawning horror as his eyes focused on the figure looming over him, a pale, shadowed face, framed by stark white hair. Kaelen removed the dagger from his cheek, but Gareth was already awake enough to understand. He opened his mouth to scream, but Kaelen's hand was there instantly, covering his mouth, pressing down with brutal force.
"Remember Elara's Point, Gareth?" Kaelen whispered, his voice a low, raspy sound that seemed to crawl into the very marrow of Gareth's bones. "Remember the scholar? My father? Remember Lyra? Elara?"
Gareth's eyes, wide and terrified, darted around the room, frantically seeking an escape. His body bucked, thrashing against the oppressive weight of Kaelen's grip. He kicked and struggled, but Kaelen was unyielding, fueled by a rage so profound it lent him unnatural strength.
"You took their last moments from them," Kaelen continued, his voice steady, devoid of any discernible emotion. "Now, I take yours."
He brought his own curved dagger into view, the blade glinting ominously. Instead of a swift thrust, Kaelen moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness. He didn't want a quick death. He wanted Gareth to understand, to feel, to comprehend the full weight of his past cruelties. He began to cut, not a vital blow, but a deep, precise incision across Gareth's thigh, designed to be incredibly painful, but not immediately fatal.
Gareth's muffled screams were guttural, desperate. Blood immediately welled up, soaking the bedsheets. Kaelen watched his eyes, observing the flicker of pain, the growing terror. He continued, methodically inflicting further, non-fatal wounds, each one a testament to the suffering Gareth had caused. He carved a grim reminder into Gareth's flesh, a silent vow of the slow, painful end that awaited all those on his list. The room filled with the sickening sounds of ragged breaths, muffled cries, and the wet, tearing sounds of flesh.
As Gareth's strength began to wane, his struggles growing weaker, Kaelen finally positioned his dagger over the man's throat. Gareth's eyes, wide and filled with tears and unadulterated fear, met Kaelen's. In those final moments, Kaelen saw a flicker of recognition, a dawning comprehension of the nightmare he had unleashed.
"This is for them," Kaelen rasped, his voice raw, and then, with a final, brutal thrust, he slit Gareth's throat.
The gurgling sound was thick, sickening. Kaelen held him there for a long moment, watching Gareth's body convulse, his lifeblood spilling onto the sheets, until finally, he went still.
Kaelen stood, breathing heavily, but his eyes were clear, his purpose unclouded. He looked at the bloody mess on the bed, at the broken shell of a man who had once thought himself invincible. He took Gareth's own discarded greatsword, surprisingly light in his hands. He dragged it across the floor, leaving a crimson trail, and with immense effort, plunged its point into the very heart of the Valerius sigil carved above the fireplace, pinning a small, blood-soaked piece of Gareth's tunic to the wood. A clear message.
The sound of dogs beginning to stir in the courtyard, their sedation wearing off, told him his time was short. He slipped out of the window, leaving behind the chilling tableau. The snow was falling harder now, covering his tracks almost as soon as he made them. He vanished into the blizzard-swept forest, leaving Gareth's agonizing death to be discovered by the dawn.
The second name was scratched from the ledger. Two down. More to go. The ashes of Elara's Point had claimed another.