Chapter 2: Please Enter the Trap

The night was silent over Hawkstone Castle.

Moonlight poured through the high windows, illuminating the vast stone walls of the keep. While the rest of the castle lay shrouded in the quiet of slumber, the only movement came from the watchful soldiers, their oil lamps flickering as they circled the battlements.

But amidst this stillness, a shadow slipped unseen between the patrolling guards, moving with a predator's grace. The figure paused, gazing up at the window of the room where Damon Blackwood rested. With a swift and practiced motion, the shadow climbed toward the balcony.

Inside the room, Damon lay still, his breathing shallow, almost imperceptible.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the silence—a soft creak.

Crreeeak.

Then came a light thud as something—or someone—landed on the floor.

Thud.

A shadow crept closer, inching toward the bed where Damon lay, unaware. The assassin watched him intently, confusion flickering across his face.

The night before, he had fired a crossbow bolt straight through Damon's heart. He had watched the man die, crumple to the ground in the courtyard. Yet here he was, alive, breathing, and in the castle as though nothing had happened. If the assassin hadn't stayed behind to double-check, he wouldn't have believed it.

But there was no time to dwell on it now. The mission remained the same. The target was still alive, and the opportunity for a second strike had presented itself. This time, the assassin vowed to ensure that Damon Blackwood would not escape.

Without hesitation, he drew a long, gleaming blade from his back.

If a crossbow bolt couldn't do the job, surely this would.

He swung the blade with lethal precision, aiming for Damon's neck. But as the blade descended, Damon's eyes shot open. In an instant, he rolled sideways, narrowly dodging the strike. The assassin's blade sliced through the pillow instead, sending a puff of feathers into the air.

Whoosh.

"Impossible..." the assassin muttered in disbelief.

"Surprised to see me awake, aren't you?" Damon's voice rang out, smooth and calm as ever. He had already drawn his sword and was standing at the ready.

The assassin, realizing the fight was far from over, didn't speak. With a quick flick of his wrist, he twirled the blade and lunged again, aiming for Damon's chest.

"Move!" Damon shouted, and within moments, two more figures burst into the room. Elara Stormrider and a man clad in leather armor rushed in, springing into action.

Together, the trio pinned the assassin down, and within half a minute, the tides of the battle turned. The assassin, realizing escape was no longer an option, gave up all hope of fleeing.

With a swift, forceful motion, Damon knocked the assassin's sword from his hand. He turned to Elara and the other soldier. "Bind him."

Elara and her companion quickly grabbed thick, rough rope from a nearby chest, and within moments, the assassin was securely bound.

Only then did Damon take a moment to examine himself. Standing by the window, he let the moonlight spill over his body, inspecting the strange changes that had occurred.

His arms had sprouted white fur, his nails elongated and sharp, and two canine teeth poked out from his mouth. But as he stood there, stunned, the transformation receded. His body returned to its normal state, and even the wounds from the fight had vanished, healed as though they had never been.

"What is happening to me?" Damon muttered under his breath.

Elara, who had already begun questioning the assassin, turned toward him with a cold, commanding voice. "Speak! Who sent you to kill Damon Blackwood?"

Elara Stormrider was as fierce as she was skilled. Born in the small village of Meckor, far from the heart of the empire, she had always stood out for her remarkable swordsmanship. At sixteen, she had passed the trials to become a rank-one swordfighter, and by eighteen, she had risen to a rank-one intermediate, a feat that would lead her to rank-two—and maybe even higher—in the years to come. She was a rising star among the imperial forces.

Beside her stood a man named Marcus, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. He had watched Damon's transformation quietly, his gaze unwavering.

"Are you alright, my lord?" Marcus asked once the immediate danger had passed.

Damon gave him a long, contemplative look. "I'm fine, Marcus. Help Elara secure the assassin."

"Of course, my lord."

As Marcus left to join Elara, Damon's thoughts drifted back to the man standing beside him. Marcus Aymel, the third son of Baron Opid Aymel, had little to inherit. Unlike his elder brothers, he had no claim to the title of heir. The future had seemed bleak for Marcus—either he would serve as a bureaucrat within his family's estate or go off to live as a wandering knight. But thanks to his father's close friendship with Damon's own father, Baron Rachel Gerard, Marcus had been taken under Damon's wing. Through years of loyalty and service, Marcus had earned his own knight's title and achieved great deeds, securing a legacy of his own.

Damon shook his head, dismissing the thoughts for now. There were more pressing matters to attend to. He followed Marcus and Elara, who were escorting the bound assassin toward the castle's underground prison.

The sounds of clanging chains and hushed whispers echoed through the dark corridors as they reached the dungeon. As they descended into the gloom, the flickering light of a torch revealed the cold stone walls and iron bars of the cells.

With a swift motion, Marcus lit another torch, casting the room into a warm, flickering light. They pushed the assassin into a cell, binding him securely to a chair.

Elara wasted no time. She yanked the cloth covering his face off.

The assassin, a young man with pale skin, sharp features, and striking green-blue eyes, glared back at them defiantly. His yellow hair was cut short, and his gaze held no trace of fear.

Damon studied him with growing curiosity. "I don't recognize you," he said, his voice low but steady.

The assassin remained silent, his eyes unblinking as he stared back at Damon.

Elara frowned, crossing her arms. "You're not going to speak, are you?"

With a snarl, she stepped forward and struck him in the stomach. The assassin gasped, but he still didn't speak.

Elara's eyes flashed with irritation. "You'll talk soon enough. I have my ways."

Marcus stepped forward, his voice calm and measured. "This man is from Osoros, a region to the northwest of the empire. It's not far, but it's not close either."

The assassin's eyes flickered for the briefest of moments. That was all Marcus needed to confirm his theory.

"The Osoros people are a proud and ancient nobility," Marcus continued. "Those skilled in combat, like this man, are often noble-born. But no noble would lower themselves to being an assassin—only fallen knights or disinherited nobles would take such a path."

At Marcus's words, the assassin's cold expression cracked for just a moment, revealing a flash of emotion.

Damon nodded. "He's telling the truth. We'll find out soon enough who's behind this."