The Smile of Death

In the darkness of the forest, a figure approached, its deliberate footsteps echoing between the trees. A rhythmic, calculated clapping sound sliced through the silence, followed by a voice—gentle, yet dripping with condescension:

"You've truly caused a plethora of confusion, haven't you?"

The voice was melodic, carrying an air of tranquility and authority, as if the speaker possessed all the time in the world.

Warwick and Darius immediately assumed combat stances. Warwick, unarmed, bent his knees, planting his feet firmly into the ground, fists raised—a stance honed by years of battle. His body leaned forward ever so slightly, poised to unleash raw force at a moment's notice.

Darius, in contrast, radiated pure menace. His eyes burned with a crimson glow as his nails extended, sharpening into claw-like talons. His breaths grew heavier, more primal.

Both had reached the same conclusion: Dracknum's reinforcements had arrived sooner than expected.

The young noble, still hunched over the parchment, felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. Yet, he dared not stop. He dared not lift his gaze. He knew that if he halted now, he would face the wrath of not just the two mercenaries—but something far worse. His only option was to continue, even as every fiber of his being screamed at him to run.

As the figure emerged from the shadows, its form began to take shape. Warwick didn't wait. He struck the air with brutal force, the motion generating an explosive gust of wind that shot toward the silhouette.

Clank.

The attack met something metallic, ringing through the night like a distant bell.

"Steady now, steady," the figure uttered, tone almost indifferent.

"You are all frightfully impulsive. Everything in its proper time."

At last, the moonlight unveiled the stranger. He was tall and slender, his long, midnight-blue hair cascading past his shoulders, immaculately aligned as if meticulously arranged with each passing second. His golden eyes gleamed with a calculated sharpness, and his pale, flawless skin seemed almost translucent under the silver glow of the moon.

Resting in his hands was a claymore—a massive two-handed sword. But unlike ordinary weapons, this was a masterpiece. Its blade, subtly tapered, was adorned with intricate golden inscriptions that began at the base and extended halfway up its length. The weapon's guard was equally opulent, decorated with fine details that seemed like jewels sculpted by a divine artisan.

Moving with an almost exasperating calm, the man adjusted his long coat—a heavy, dark fabric embroidered with subtle patterns. Detaching the sword's guard from his belt, he did something that caught both mercenaries off guard—he sat down, almost casually, leaning against a nearby tree.

He rested the sword across his knees, as though it were nothing more than a mere accessory, then pulled a white handkerchief from his coat and, with meticulous, almost obsessive precision, began polishing the weapon's guard.

Warwick and Darius exchanged glances, their perplexity evident. The man's demeanor was anything but that of a combatant—he looked like someone about to attend a ball. Every detail of his appearance and mannerisms exuded disdain for the rough environment surrounding him.

Yet neither mercenary dared to lower their guard. Something was wrong. If he was alone yet this composed, there had to be a reason.

"I must say," the man finally spoke again, his tone edged with boredom, never once pausing in his cleaning,

"You are, indeed, most deserving of enthusiastic applause."

He briefly lifted the handkerchief, examining the blade with a critical eye before resuming his polishing.

"From the detonation of the portals that grant fast passage to the villages skirting this forest, to the veritable symphony of diversions you so cunningly orchestrated—one must admit, it is a true magnum opus of chaos."

His voice was refined, laced with an eloquence that clashed starkly with the untamed wilderness around them.

Warwick let out a low growl, his stance shifting to something even more aggressive. "What? Who the hell are you?" he snapped, thrown off by the man's peculiar way of speaking.

The man lifted his gaze, fixing Warwick with a look of quiet condescension. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Ah, how unbecoming of me," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, as if genuinely contemplating the question.

"Think of me as nothing more than an observer—one who delights in witnessing the spectacle you have so meticulously orchestrated. However," he paused, resuming his methodical polishing of the sword,

"my patience is not inexhaustible, and I fear you have already subjected it to far too many trials."

Darius took a step forward, his voice a low, rumbling growl.

"If you came here to stop us, you should've brought reinforcements."

The man chuckled softly—a quiet, almost melodic sound.

"Reinforcements? Oh, Darius, spare me. Do you truly believe I would resort to something so... vulgar?"

Darius froze at the mention of his name.

"Surprised? How delightful." The man's smile widened, yet it carried no warmth—only a chilling detachment.

"I always do my homework."

Warwick clenched his jaw, every muscle in his body coiled tight, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

"Enough with the games," he snarled. "Either you tell us what you want, or we settle this here and now."

The man tilted his head again, as if weighing the offer. He let out a soft sigh, tucking the handkerchief away before resting both hands atop the sword's guard.

"What I want, Warwick?" His voice lowered, nearly a whisper.

"It is quite simple—nothing at all."

With deliberate slowness, he lifted the sword, its tip now aimed at the two mercenaries, the smile never fading from his lips.

"But if violence is what you seek," he continued, the blade catching the twin glows of the moons,

"then it falls upon me to enlighten you on the burden of your actions."

....

The Crothyna remained motionless, her golden eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through my soul. That smile… It wasn't just unsettling—it played with my mind, savoring every drop of my fear as if it were a delicacy.

I couldn't look away, no matter how desperately I wanted to. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart pounded so violently that I feared she could hear it.

It was the first time I had ever felt something akin to the crushing energy that emanated from Leopold and Alexander's father. It wasn't as overwhelming as theirs, yet it was unmistakable. The dark, muddied aura that bled from the Crothyna was grotesque. It pulsed irregularly, as if it were alive—but flawed, broken in a way that felt fundamentally wrong.

And yet, its incompleteness did nothing to make it less terrifying. Quite the opposite. That very defect seemed to reflect something deeply insidious about her nature, something that only made her feel more unpredictable, more dangerous.

My body refused to obey me. I was frozen, my muscles locked as though they had been rooted to the earth itself. The small creature at my side trembled, but it made no sound. Its wide, unblinking eyes were locked onto the Crothyna, and for the first time, I saw something in them that wasn't just raw instinct. It was fear.

The Crothyna tilted her head slightly, her smile stretching into something even more grotesque, a near-surreal distortion of amusement. Her golden eyes gleamed with calculated malice—she knew exactly what she was doing.

"Little one." The white wolf's voice echoed in my mind, taut with tension. "She's testing you."

'Testing? As if I were nothing more than prey?' The thought surfaced, but it lacked my usual conviction.

The Crothyna took a step forward. Her paws met the leaf-covered ground in near silence, yet the sound of her movement rang heavy in my ears. Each step carried a weight beyond the physical, as though the very air around her had been charged with violent intent.

I forced my body to respond, but all I managed was a dry swallow, my gaze still locked onto hers.

Finally, she stopped just a few paces away. Her posture was relaxed, almost casual—but every fiber of my being knew it was a deception. She was the embodiment of the perfect predator, and I was entirely at her mercy.

Her golden eyes, devoid of warmth, raked over me from head to toe. She was evaluating me, deciding whether I was worth the hunt… or simply beneath her notice.

Then, the white wolf moved. She stepped between us, her luminous fur catching the crimson glow of the moon. A low growl rumbled from deep within her chest—a warning, unambiguous.

"Do not move, little one," she murmured, her voice quiet yet unyielding. "She wants you to react. She wants you to make a mistake."

My gaze flickered briefly toward the white wolf, but it was drawn back to the Crothyna almost instantly. Ignoring her was impossible. It was as if she commanded the very space around us, as though every shadow, every whisper of sound, belonged to her.

She parted her mouth slightly, and a strange noise slipped out. It was neither a growl nor a roar—something caught between laughter and a muffled scream. A sound so unnatural it sent a shiver through every inch of my body.

"Why isn't she attacking?" I murmured under my breath, my voice barely more than a stray thought escaping my lips.

"She doesn't need to," the white wolf's voice resonated in my mind, thick with tension and certainty. "She already owns this space. Every second she waits, she breaks you down a little more."

My stomach twisted at her words—because that was exactly how it felt. The Crothyna's smile, the way she remained utterly motionless yet suffocatingly present, was unbearable.

"Little one," the white wolf's voice cut through the silence again, sharper this time. "You need to run."

I turned to her, confused. "But how are we supposed to escape?" My voice trembled despite myself.

"I will distract her." The certainty in her voice was unwavering, her golden eyes locked onto the creature before us.

"But what about you?" I pressed, my words laced with worry. "How will you get away?"

"Do not concern yourself with me," she said firmly. "I have my ways. Take the little one and leave this place."

For a moment, I remained frozen. My entire body trembled, a tight knot forming in my throat. I knew she was right. I knew there was no other choice. But knowing did nothing to make the decision any easier.

My fists clenched, nails digging painfully into my palms. My gaze darted between the Crothyna, still watching me with that twisted, unbearable grin, and Dr. Wolf's unmoving body in front of me.

"Even so," I whispered, my voice cracking with grief, "I refuse. We are a family. We fight together." My words carried the weight of my pain, the burn of unshed tears.

"LITTLE ONE!" The white wolf's voice erupted in my mind like the lash of a blade. "He wouldn't want to see you like this! You know this is the only choice we have!"

Tears streamed down my face, unchecked, as my gaze fell upon Dr. Wolf—his body still fresh with blood. Beside him, the small creature cowered, looking up at me with wide, pleading eyes, silently begging for safety.

"DAMN IT!" I roared, my voice shattering the silence, heavy with frustration, grief, and helplessness.

Without another thought, I scooped the pup into my arms, holding it tightly against my chest. Summoning every last ounce of strength I had left, I ran.

I ran like never before—lungs burning, legs screaming in protest—but my mind was locked onto a single, unshakable goal: escape.

But then, to my horror, the Crothyna moved.

She lurched forward with terrifying speed, her golden eyes locked onto me, that grotesque grin stretching even further—as if my decision to flee was exactly what she had been waiting for.

And just as she was about to reach me, the white wolf struck.

A savage howl split the night as she lunged, a flash of pale fur cutting between us.

The impact was deafening. The force of their collision sent a shockwave through the trees, their clash so violent it made the very ground tremble beneath me.

"RUN, LITTLE ONE!" Her voice rang through my mind, fierce, desperate.

I didn't look back.

My body moved on its own, driven by raw instinct and adrenaline. I held the trembling pup close to my chest and ran—faster, harder, through the twisted shadows of the forest.

The sounds of their battle echoed behind me, but I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop. Every step tore me further from that nightmare, but still, my chest ached, my heart weighed down as if I were leaving something irreplaceable behind.

The twin moons cast pale light over my path, illuminating the darkness that seemed to close in from every side. Every shadow felt like a threat, every whisper of wind a warning. But I kept running.

Because I had to honor her sacrifice.

Because the pup in my arms trusted me.

Because, more than anything else

I was running to survive.