Night fell heavy over the caravan. They had set camp in the gully's bend, torches guttering low, every shadow stretching too long. No one laughed, no one sang. The usual murmurs of dice and wine were gone — silence reigned, fearful and reverent.
At the edge of the firelight, D'rail hunched over a chunk of stale bread. He chewed like a starving rat, every bite dry in his throat. His mind spun in circles.
Curse? Sunrise? I'll be lucky if they don't throw me on a pyre before dawn. Gods, why do my lies keep getting worse?
On the far ridge, just visible through the trees, the bandits lurked. They hadn't struck. They hadn't even shouted threats. They only watched. Waiting.
One of them, slumped against a tree trunk, groaned low and wet. His comrades whispered sharply, trying to rouse him. The man's skin gleamed with fever sweat; the gash across his ribs had festered black.
He seized, convulsed, and gave a strangled cry that carried down into the valley like a wounded wolf.
The caravan froze. Every head turned toward the sound.
Another cry filled with agony — then silence.
A scout scrambled back from his hidden perch on the ridge, face pale. "One of them's dead," he stammered. "He… he just dropped. Like his soul was ripped out."
The merchants gasped. A woman pressed her hands to her mouth. "The curse…" she whispered.
The guards shifted uneasily, blades half-drawn but trembling in their grip. All eyes turned to D'rail.
D'rail nearly choked on his bread. "What?" he croaked.
The broad-shouldered guard dropped to one knee. "My lord… it's begun. Your warning was true."
"I—" D'rail started, then stopped. Their faces glowed with terror, awe, belief so total it pressed against him like heat. To deny it now would unravel everything.
So he leaned back, forced a weary sigh, and let his gaze drift toward the ridge as though looking past mortal things.
"Yes," he said softly. "One has paid the price."
The words slithered from his tongue like poison — yet the caravan bowed their heads as though blessed.
On the ridge, the surviving bandits dragged their dead comrade into the shadows, whispering frantic prayers. Their fear spread faster than fire. By the hour's turn, the forest was empty; the bandits had fled into the deeper dark, abandoning their vengeance.
The caravan didn't cheer. They didn't shout. They only stared at D'rail across the firelight, too afraid even to breathe loudly in his presence.
And for the first time in his life, D'rail realized — a lie had killed.
The fire burned low, embers glowing like half-buried stars. No one slept that night. They sat in a circle, the silence broken only by the occasional crack of sap in the logs.
D'rail sat apart, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. He pretended to meditate, eyes half-lidded, but in truth he was fighting off a stomach cramp from bad bread.
The broad-shouldered guard finally broke the silence. His voice was low, reverent. "It's no longer safe to call him by name. The world isn't worthy of such truths."
Murmurs stirred.
The merchant woman who had spoken of monasteries clasped her shawl tighter. "Then how shall we call him?"
The guard's gaze swept the circle, then returned to the fire. "He is the Phantom Lord. One who kills without blade, whose silence is death. Let the name alone strike fear where he walks."
The younger guard, still pale from earlier, nodded fervently. "Phantom Lord. Yes… it fits."
"Phantom Lord," the others echoed, voices hushed, testing the weight of it. Some bowed their heads, as though in prayer.
D'rail opened one eye, then the other. He sat frozen, bread crust halfway to his mouth. Phantom Lord? Me?
He tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. They weren't joking. Their faces were solemn, etched with awe.
The broad guard rose, lifted his cup of watered wine, and spoke with grim conviction. "Let it be known — the bandits have fled, cursed and broken, for they dared cross the Phantom Lord. May his legend grow, and may no enemy ever stand before him again."
Cups were raised, hands pressed to hearts, heads bowed.
D'rail forced a thin smile and lifted his crust of bread as if it were a chalice. Inside, his mind screamed.
Phantom Lord? That name will stick. It'll follow me like a noose. By morning they'll be telling villagers, and by next week I'll have bounty hunters testing my 'curse.'
The fire popped, startling him. He realized everyone was watching, waiting for him to say something, some blessing to seal the moment.
He cleared his throat, raised his crust higher, and murmured:
"May silence answer all who oppose me."
The crowded circle shuddered with awe.
D'rail sank back into his cloak, hiding his grimace behind the crust. His lie had grown teeth, and now it was walking on its own.