Sylas stood motionless on the damp grass, the remnants of his tears mingling with the first hesitant drops of rain that began to fall from the darkened sky. The moon hung low, its pale light casting elongated shadows across the fortress grounds, illuminating the jagged scar on his face. He touched it gingerly, feeling the rough, puckered skin that still throbbed with a dull ache. His left eye, once swollen shut, now opened slowly, revealing a faint, unnatural red glow that pulsed like a distant ember in the night. The light in his gaze was gone—the purity, the naivety that had once defined him—extinguished like a candle in a storm. What remained was something colder, sharper: a void.
The black cat sat at his feet, its dark green eyes fixed on him with an unblinking intensity. The thin red scar on its right eye caught the moonlight, mirroring Sylas's wound in eerie symmetry. It meowed softly once more, a sound almost swallowed by the growing patter of rain, then rose gracefully and began to pad across the field beside the fortress. Sylas watched it for a moment, the rain now soaking into his bandages, chilling his skin and making the coarse fabric cling uncomfortably
he followed. The cat moved with deliberate grace, its paws silent on the wet grass, stopping whenever Sylas hesitated, turning its head to ensure he kept pace. The field stretched out under the fortress walls, the air thick with the scent of earth. the distant rumble of thunder echoing like a warning.
they rounded a corner of the fortress wall, the cat halted abruptly. Sylas followed its gaze and saw a guard slumped against the fortress gate, he was young, berely 18 maybe. his back leaning on the cold stone, head lolled to one side in deep sleep. Rain trickled down his armored helmet, pooling in the crevices, and his snores were a low, rhythmic rumble barely audible over the downpour. Beside him, propped carelessly against the wall, lay his sword—its blade dull in the dim light, the hilt wrapped in worn leather that was slick with moisture.
The cat approached the sword, its nose twitching as it sniffed the sheath, then nudged the hilt with its paw, the metal clinking softly against the stone. It looked back at Sylas, its eyes gleaming expectantly. Sylas knelt, the grass squelching under his knees, water seeping through his thin tunic. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold steel, feeling the faint vibrations from the raindrops striking the blade. He lifted it slowly, testing its weight in his hand—the balance unfamiliar, the edge nicked from use but still sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood when he pressed his thumb against it experimentally. The sting was a distant echo compared to the fire in his veins.
A smile crept across his face—not one of joy, but of twisted resolve. *Laws are for the lords, is it?* The thought echoed in his mind, laced with the bandits' mocking laughter from the dungeon below.
The rain intensified, pouring in sheets that drummed against the fortress walls and turned the field into a muddy slurry. Sylas rose, gripping the sword tightly, its tip dragging through the grass with a soft, whispering scrape as he turned back toward the dungeon entrance. *You shall be the lords tonight,* he thought, his footsteps steady despite the slick ground, *just long enough for judgement.*
The sword's tip transitioned from grass to stone as he descended the stairs into the dungeon, the scrape echoing off the damp walls like a predator's claws. The air grew heavier, thick with the stench of mildew, unwashed bodies, and the fresh, metallic tang of rain filtering in from above. Sylas moved deeper.
He stopped before the first cell, the one housing the man who had taunted him earlier. The bandit was dozing fitfully, chains rattling with each shallow breath. Sylas tapped the blade against the bars—*ting, ting*—the sound sharp and insistent, cutting through the patter of distant rain.
The man jolted awake, his eyes wide in the gloom. "Who's there?" he snarled, scrambling to his feet as much as the shackles allowed, his voice hoarse from misuse.
Sylas stood still, his voice emerging eerily calm, devoid of the tremor that had plagued him before. "Wrath."
The man pressed against the bars, squinting into the shadows. "Speak louder, mutt!"
In a single, fluid motion, Sylas swung the sword with unnatural strength. The blade cleaved through the iron bars like they were brittle wood, sparks flying as metal sheared and clattered to the stone floor. The cell door buckled and fell inward with a resounding crash. Thunder boomed outside, shaking the dungeon walls, and in the brief flash of lightning that pierced through a high grating, the man saw him fully: Sylas's silhouette framed in the doorway, his left eye glowing a vivid red, a creepy smile stretching across his scarred face, rain dripping from his hair and bandages like blood.
The bandit recoiled, his bravado shattering. "What the—"
Sylas stepped forward, the sword gliding effortlessly into the man's right arm, the blade slicing through flesh and muscle like butter until it grated against bone. The man screamed, a raw, guttural cry that echoed through the dungeon, his body convulsing as blood sprayed in a hot arc, splattering the walls and Sylas's face. The metallic taste hit Sylas's lips, warm and coppery, but he felt no revulsion—only a cold satisfaction.
Tears streamed down the man's face, mixing with sweat and grime. "Please! Don't kill me!" he begged, his voice breaking into sobs. "I know where there's buried treasure—you can have it all! Just don't kill me!"
Sylas laughed, the sound low and mirthless, building from his chest like thunder rolling in. It stopped abruptly, his voice dropping to a chilling calm. "Even the wolf will be prey... in the maw of my Wrath."
With a swift slash, he severed the man's arm at the shoulder. It thudded to the floor, blood pooling rapidly on the cold stone, the severed end twitching faintly. The man's screams intensified, piercing and desperate, bouncing off the walls. "Guards! He's trying to kill me! Help!"
Sylas leaned in close, his breath hot against the man's ear, the red glow from his eye illuminating the terror in the bandit's gaze. "Why do you show such weakness now? Aren't you the one who claimed to ravage a village? Where has all that boastful pride gone?"
Another slash, and the left arm came off, the blade whistling through the air before biting deep. Blood spurted in rhythmic pulses, the stench of it thick and nauseating, filling the cell like a fog. The man howled, his body slumping against the wall, chains clanking as he writhed. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"
Sylas's face twisted in fury, his voice rising to a scream that drowned out the storm outside. "Wrong answer!" The sword flashed again, severing the right leg at the knee. Blood spilled like ink. the stone slick and warm underfoot.
"Did you look at the villagers and even have a single ounce of guilt?" Sylas demanded, his chest heaving, rain pounding relentlessly on the world above.
The man, voice weak and gurgling through blood-flecked lips, managed a desperate gasp. "Yes!"
Sylas's eye flared brighter, the red light casting grotesque shadows. "Wrong again." The final slash took the last limb, the left leg, leaving the bandit a bleeding stump, his screams fading to whimpers as shock set in, yet he wiggled in his own gore.
Sylas screamed at him, veins bulging in his neck, the sword trembling in his grip. "Feel more pain, dammit!" The man's eyes rolled back, dizziness overtaking him, but he mustered one last plea. "What did I even do to you?"
Sylas stared down, his left eye the only source of light in the cell now, piercing the darkness like a baleful star. Outside, the rain poured in torrents, thunder cracking like the snap of bones. He drove the sword into the man's right lung, the blade sinking deep with a wet, sucking sound, air hissing out as it punctured. His face inched closer, the heat of the man's fading breath brushing his skin. "Breathe..."
The man tried, his chest heaving futilely, eyes bulging in panic. "I... can't..."
Sylas screamed again, the word raw and primal. "Breathe!" The man inhaled one last time, a ragged, wet rattle as his damaged lung failed, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Sylas stood slowly, pulling the sword free with a slick grind against bone. He looked at the dying man, the glow in his eye dimming slightly. "Why isn't it enough?" Turning back, he pierced the man's eye with a final thrust, the blade driving through skull and brain until it clanged against the stone wall behind, fully impaling him. The body went limp, the light in the bandit's eyes extinguishing forever.
Sylas exited the cell, the sword dripping blood that left dark trails on the stone floor, mingling with rivulets of rainwater seeping in from cracks above. He banged the flat of the blade against the next cell's bars, the clang reverberating like a tolling bell. As whispers of fear rippled through the dungeon, he leaned in close and whispered, his voice carrying like a curse on the storm-wind. Your demise.
From the shadows within the cell, a prisoner's arms shot out like vipers, clamping around Sylas's neck in a desperate stranglehold. Sylas smirked—a futile gambit from a doomed soul. He lifted his hand, chains rattling faintly, and slashed downward in a vicious vertical arc. The iron bars rent apart with a screech of protesting metal, the assailant crumpling lifeless amid the wreckage.
Undeterred, Sylas prowled onward, leaning close to the bars of the next cell. His voice slithered through the gloom like a promise of ruin: "Are you ready? Because wrath is here."