The air inside the Wayside Shrine was thick and stagnant, like congealed paste—or the depths of a bottomless well—pressing down on the chest until every breath felt heavy, dragging against the lungs.
The only sound came from the firepit, where a damp log hissed in protest, like someone muttering under their breath. Occasionally, a spark would crack and flare, momentarily lighting up the tense faces around it—some with clenched jaws, others furrowed brows, and a few whose eyes were glassy and unfocused—before darkness swallowed them again, leaving only vague silhouettes.
Finn Adler leaned against the cold stone wall in the corner. The chill seeped into his back, sharp and steady, keeping his mind razor clear. His eyes were closed, breathing slow and even, chest barely moving—a rock merged with its surroundings. Yet his awareness spread out like a spider's web, catching every tremor within the shrine: the twitch of a finger, the hitch of a breath, the scrape of a boot against loose gravel.
The three "merchants" clutching wineskins had knuckles pale with tension. The leather bulged and creaked under their grip, and a few drops of wine trickled through their fingers, vanishing soundlessly into the dirt. The veiled woman's breathing was unnervingly steady—steadier even than the hulking guard beside her. Only the thin veil across her chest shifted slightly with each breath. The young sword-wielding duo were worse off. Sweat slicked the man's palms, and he kept wiping them on his pants until the fabric wrinkled. The girl's eyes darted to the doorway over and over, anxiety plain on her face, as if she expected something monstrous to burst in at any moment.
The shrine was a powder keg—silent, packed tight, waiting for the tiniest spark.
And the spark came.
At first, it was faint—uneven footsteps outside, squelching through damp earth. Then the sound grew, louder, faster, like a storm breaking over a roof. Armor clattered, metal plates struck together, and angry shouts rolled through the night air.
"They're inside! Surround them—don't let anyone escape!"
That single shout struck the tension inside the shrine like a hammer. Snap! The string broke.
The "merchants" tore away the oilcloth at their feet, revealing three gleaming sabers still wet with dark red blood. The veiled woman's movements flowed like water—two slender daggers slid into her hands. She sank low, knees bent, eyes sharp as a leopard ready to strike. The mountain of a man beside her rumbled a low growl, muscles bunching and veins bulging like ropes beneath his skin.
Boom!
The rotting wooden door exploded inward. Splinters flew in every direction—some clattered against stone, others fell into the fire, sending sparks leaping high.
A dozen figures filled the entrance. Moonlight framed them in jagged silhouettes, their shadows twisting across the floor. Each wore the same leather armor, a snarling wolf's head branded on their chests—the mark of the Direwolf Clan.
At their head stood a scarred brute, a cruel slash running from forehead to chin. Behind him loomed several armored warriors, their iron plates dull with dust but heavy with menace.
"The Five Fiends of the Savage Reach," the scarred man sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "You robbed our Ironclad Caravan Guard, took our map, and thought you could rot away in this wilderness in peace?"
Finn's gaze didn't linger on the Five Fiends. Instead, he spotted a familiar face among the Direwolf Clan: Caden the Turncoat—once the fourth captain of Blackwind Keep, the first to wag his tail and kneel when Marcus Thorne rebelled. Now, he stood behind the scarred man, bowing low, grinning sycophantically, and pointing toward the shrine's occupants with a coward's smug delight.
"Enough talk!" the veiled woman snapped, her voice sharp as an owl's cry. "Yoric 'The Dire', the goods are ours! If you want them, come and take them yourself—stop flapping your damn mouth!"
The scarred man—Yoric "The Dire," vice-lord of the Direwolf Clan—grinned wide, showing yellow teeth that gleamed sickly white in the firelight. "I'll take what's mine," he said, his tone turning feral. "And your lives while I'm at it. None of you leave here alive!"
His hand cut through the air. Battle erupted in an instant.
The cramped shrine became a slaughterhouse of flashing steel and screams. Blades clashed and rang—clang, clang, clang!—sparks spraying from every blow. Blood sprayed, screams tore the air, and the metallic stench quickly smothered the scent of smoke and earth.
The Five Fiends fought like devils, but they were outnumbered several times over. Within moments, one of the "merchants" was skewered by three swords at once. His eyes bulged wide in disbelief before he crumpled, blood pooling hot and dark beneath him.
The young swordsmen were cornered, pale as ghosts. The man shielded the girl behind him, trembling so hard his sword clattered against the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Finn still sitting unmoving, calm amid chaos.
"Friend—run!" he shouted hoarsely. "They'll kill you too!"
Finn didn't answer. Didn't even open his eyes. His stillness in that storm of violence was unnatural—terrifying.
Yoric "The Dire" noticed him too. His eyes narrowed with irritation. "What are you waiting for? Kill the bystanders too! Leave no one breathing!"
Caden's face lit up—his chance to prove his loyalty. He drew his blade and strode toward the corner, flanked by two bandits. Then he froze mid-step, recognition dawning. His lips twisted into a cruel grin.
"Well, well. If it isn't the dying lord's sickly son—Finn Adler! Perfect timing. Your father clung to Blackwind Keep's seat for too long. Tonight, you can join him underground!"
His mockery was a buzzing fly in Finn's mind—annoying, unnecessary. Not rage, just a faint irritation.
When Caden's sword came slicing down, Finn finally moved.
He was weightless. A blur of motion faster than thought—a ghost streaking through the firelight.
Instead of dodging back, he slid into the strike, body twisting like a cat's. His hands shot out—two black talons clamping down on the wrists of the bandits beside him.
Crack!Crack!
Bone snapped like dry twigs. The bandits' screams caught in their throats. Before they could even cry out, Finn wrenched a sword free, flicked his wrist—swish!—and slit one throat cleanly.
Psshh! Blood sprayed across the stones and hissed as it hit the flames.
Caden's blade came crashing down toward Finn's face. The wind of it whipped his hair across his brow.
Finn didn't flinch. He caught the blow on the stolen sword—
Clang!
The inferior weapon shattered, fragments spinning away.
Caden's lips curled in triumph. "Pathetic—!"
The word never finished.
Finn's bare hand closed around the broken edge of the blade. Metal shrieked as it scraped against his palm—sshhrrk!—but his skin gleamed faintly, unmarred, like polished stone.
He twisted his wrist. The shard spun, flashed, and flew—faster than lightning.
Pffft!
The broken blade drove straight through Caden's open mouth, punching out the back of his neck. He froze, eyes wide, disbelief etched on his face before he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Three men. Dead in less than a breath.
The shrine fell silent. Even the flames seemed to hold their breath.
Every pair of eyes—bandit and fiend alike—snapped toward the young man once dismissed as a dying weakling. Shock. Fear. Awe.
Yoric "The Dire"'s grin vanished. His pupils shrank to pinpoints as he stared at Finn, expression hardening from amusement to alarm.
Finn let the broken blade clatter to the ground—ding!—and brushed invisible dust from his hands. He turned slowly, surveying the room, meeting each terrified gaze in turn before stopping on Yoric.
He didn't side with the Five Fiends. He didn't flee. He simply stood there, calm and absolute.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but carried like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through every heart.
"Robbery," he said.
He paused.
"Everything of value—gold, jewels, that so-called map. Hand it over. Don't bother hiding anything."
His eyes gleamed in the firelight, cold and sharp.
"I'll know."