A Blade in the Dark

The village lay in the valley below, nestled between the trees like a wounded animal waiting for the knife. Smoke curled from the rooftops, but it was not the warm breath of hearthfires—it was the acrid stench of unchecked pillaging.

Hakon crouched on the hillside, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The blacksmith's words echoed in his mind: Bandits have taken it for themselves.

He had expected as much. Without warlords to protect the land, without strong men to enforce the old ways, the weak suffered. The Five Kings sat on their thrones, feasting and drinking, while the world rotted around them.

Hakon exhaled slowly. The bandits were not his true enemy. But they would serve as his first test.

His ribs still ached with every breath, but his grip was steady. He adjusted the ragged cloak around his shoulders, ensuring it hid the worst of his injuries, then descended into the village.

The first corpse he found was a boy, no older than fifteen. His body was half-buried in the mud, eyes glassy, throat cut.

Hakon did not stop. He did not pray. The dead did not need words—they needed vengeance.

He reached the village square as the last light of day faded. A group of bandits, six in total, had gathered near the well, laughing and drinking stolen ale. Their leader, a brute of a man with a scarred nose and an iron-studded club, was seated on a broken cart, his boots resting on another corpse.

Hakon stepped into the torchlight.

The laughter died.

Scar-Nose grinned, baring yellowed teeth. "You're either lost, fool, or very, very stupid."

Hakon tilted his head. "I could say the same to you."

The bandits exchanged glances. Then, Scar-Nose chuckled and stood, his club resting casually on his shoulder. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But this village is ours now. Unless you've got something to offer, you'd best turn around and walk the other way."

Hakon's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. He could feel the weight of the moment, the stillness before the storm. The last time he had stood against men like these, he had led armies. Now, he was alone.

But he did not need an army.

He needed only steel and fury.

Scar-Nose's grin faltered. "What, cat got your tongue?"

Hakon moved.

He drew his sword in one fluid motion, closing the distance before the bandit leader could react. The blade slashed across Scar-Nose's throat, opening him from ear to ear. Blood sprayed across the muddy ground.

The other bandits shouted, scrambling for weapons.

Hakon did not wait. He ducked beneath a wild axe swing, driving his blade into the man's gut before twisting it free. Another lunged at him, but Hakon sidestepped, catching the attacker's wrist and wrenching it sideways until bone snapped.

Three left.

One tried to run. Hakon threw his sword. The iron blade spun end over end before burying itself between the man's shoulder blades.

The last two hesitated. One of them, a younger man, barely more than a boy, dropped his weapon and fell to his knees.

"Mercy," he gasped.

Hakon stepped forward, retrieving his sword from the corpse. He stared down at the kneeling bandit, the weight of his oath pressing heavy upon him.

Mercy.

Osric had not shown him mercy. Edwyn had not spared his men. The Five Kings had left him bleeding in the mud, nameless and forgotten.

Hakon raised his blade—

And stopped.

This boy had not betrayed him. This boy had not placed heads on pikes.

Hakon lowered his sword. "Go."

The young bandit scrambled to his feet and ran into the darkness without looking back.

The last bandit, the only one still holding a weapon, tightened his grip and lunged. Hakon turned in an instant, his blade flashing. A single stroke ended it.

The square was silent once more.

Hakon wiped the blood from his blade. The villagers, those who had survived, peeked from their hiding places, staring at him with wary eyes. He met their gazes but said nothing.

He did not need their thanks. He did not fight for them.

He fought for vengeance.

And this was only the beginning.