Danger

Wes sat by candlelight, playing chess against Chad. It was their usual nighttime routine. The dim flickering glow cast long shadows across the table, stretching the pieces into jagged silhouettes.

As expected, Chad won. But this time, it had been a drawn-out game—at least.

Chad worked out, but not like Wes. Wes tried to encourage him to take training more seriously, but Chad preferred his own way of doing things, spending more time on his projects and ideas than physical training.

The night dragged on. Wes found himself restless.

Sometimes, his thoughts drifted to his grandmother. She had died in the initial mana surge. He missed her. His cousin from Simon's side had died too—her house had collapsed in the first quake, taking her entire family with it.

His own family was one of the few to come out unscathed.

He sighed, rubbing his face. From the other room, his sister's cries broke the silence.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her to settle. Then, suddenly, the alarm bells rang out.

The deep, rolling clang echoed through the settlement. Wes shot upright.

His father moved immediately, grabbing his spear and heading toward the door. "Stay here," Simon ordered, his voice firm as he disappeared into the night.

He left with other men to defend the settlement, to see what had triggered the alarm. Two guards remained behind, standing watch outside the house, spears in hand, scanning the darkness. The flickering lanterns lining the walls cast long shadows, but something felt off. Too quiet.

His mother was already up too, a dagger in one hand and a scavenged crossbow in the other.

"Wes, get back," she said, her voice tense as she moved toward the door.

Wes stepped away from the window but still watched. He looked past the guards, scanning the darkness, when something caught his eye—a figure standing between them.

For a second, Wes thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then, the figure moved.

A blur of motion.

One of the guards barely had time to react before his head snapped to the side with a sickening crack, his body crumpling instantly.

The second guard lunged, spear thrust forward—too slow. The man caught it, yanked him forward, and drove a dagger up under his chin. Blood sprayed against the lantern-lit walls as the second guard collapsed, twitching violently before going still.

Wes' stomach turned cold.

"Mom, we—"

The door exploded inward.

Wood and iron splintered apart, shards flying through the air as the force of the impact sent dust and debris scattering across the room.

From his spot near the window, Wes barely flinched—his attention locked on the man who stepped through the ruined doorway.

And the moment the man entered, his eyes locked onto Wes.

Not a glance, not a sweeping scan of the room—his focus was absolute.

He ignored everything else.

His mother fired the crossbow.

The man didn't even look at her.

His hand shot up, fingers closing around the bolt midair, as if catching it was an afterthought. He let it drop to the floor with a dull clatter, never breaking eye contact with Wes.

Wes' blood went cold.

His mother didn't hesitate. She rushed him, dagger flashing in the dim light. Wes had seen her train—she wasn't the best, but she was fast, precise.

It didn't matter.

The man moved like a shadow, fluid and effortless.

A flicker of motion—he grabbed her wrist mid-strike, twisting.

A sickening pop echoed through the room. His mother let out a sharp, strangled cry as her dagger tumbled from her fingers, her wrist bending at an unnatural angle. She dropped to her knees, clutching her arm.

And yet, the man never looked away from Wes.

Wes couldn't breathe.

The man was tall—at least 6'4", his presence effortlessly commanding. His black hair was neatly kept, falling just slightly over his forehead, framing a face that was almost unnervingly refined.

Sharp, fine features. Handsome, but in a way that felt calculated.

His build was balanced—neither too slender nor overly muscular, the kind of frame built for both power and speed.

His clothes were functional, leather reinforced in places, worn but well-kept, like someone who traveled often but still valued efficiency over appearance. His skin was pale, almost unnatural under the lantern light.

But what struck Wes the most were his eyes.

Not just dark—black.

Like staring into the void itself, something bottomless and consuming.

Then he smiled.

It wasn't cruel. It wasn't mocking. It was the kind of smile someone gave when they were about to close a deal, like a businessman moments away from success.

He stepped toward Wes.