chapter 13.2

The night remained eerily silent, save for the soft whisper of the wind rustling through the trees and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures. The sky stretched endlessly above them, a vast expanse of darkness dotted with silver stars, their glow barely cutting through the heavy gloom. The campfire that had once crackled with warmth was now reduced to a pile of dying embers, flickering weakly in the cold embrace of the midnight air.

Alcard's eyes snapped open.

He hadn't woken from a nightmare, nor had discomfort pulled him from sleep—it was something far more dangerous. A primal instinct, honed through years of survival, had sent a warning through his entire body. Without making any sudden movements, he remained lying down, his sharp gaze scanning the perimeter of their small clearing. His right hand inched slowly toward the hilt of his sword, fingers wrapping around it with practiced ease.

Something was moving in the darkness.

The faintest rustle of leaves. The barely audible crunch of soft footsteps against damp earth. It was almost imperceptible, but to Alcard, trained to recognize even the subtlest shifts in the world around him, it was as clear as a ringing bell. Shadows flickered between the trees, elusive yet undeniable. They were not alone.

Remaining as still as possible, he whispered—his voice so low it barely disturbed the air.

"Arwen." His tone was calm, yet edged with warning. "Do not move."

A slight stir from behind him, a faint intake of breath. She had been deep in sleep, but Alcard's voice, laced with quiet urgency, pulled her instantly to wakefulness. Though still groggy, she did not question him. Her body tensed, though she remained motionless, sensing that something was wrong.

Alcard rose slowly, deliberately, ensuring that no sudden motion would betray their awareness. He positioned himself in front of Arwen, his presence a silent shield between her and whatever lurked in the darkness.

Then, from the depths of the forest, three figures emerged.

Their movements were precise, silent, deadly. Their faces were obscured by dark cloth, leaving only their cold, unreadable eyes visible beneath the moonlight. They did not speak. They did not issue threats or demands. They simply moved. And that, more than anything, made them even more dangerous.

In a single, fluid motion, they rushed forward—straight for Arwen.

But before they could close the distance, Alcard's blade was already in motion.

A gleam of steel flashed in the darkness, forcing one of the assailants to retreat mid-strike. Their movements faltered momentarily, hesitation creeping in as they realized their target was not as unguarded as they had hoped.

"Get up, Arwen!" Alcard's voice cut through the silence, firm and commanding. "Stay behind me, now!"

Startled but quick to react, Arwen scrambled to her feet. Though her heartbeat thundered in her chest, she did as he ordered, positioning herself directly behind him, gripping the edge of her cloak to stop her hands from trembling.

Alcard's crimson eyes narrowed, his gaze locked onto the three assassins who had now spread out, circling them like wolves closing in on wounded prey.

"You've picked the wrong target," he said, voice low, lethal.

And then, the fight began.

One of them struck first—a dagger slicing through the air, aiming for his left side. Alcard shifted just in time, his body moving with a fluidity that came from years of battle. He twisted to evade, his sword slashing outward in a counterattack that forced the assassin to leap backward.

The other two did not wait. They attacked in tandem, their strikes coordinated and calculated, pushing Alcard into a defensive stance. He stepped back strategically, ensuring that he remained between them and Arwen, his sword dancing between offense and defense with lethal precision.

"Do not move from behind me," he instructed sharply, his focus never wavering from the enemies before him. He could not afford any mistakes. One slip, and Arwen would be vulnerable.

He studied them with cold calculation. Their technique, their movements—this was not the reckless brutality of bandits or common mercenaries. These were trained killers, disciplined and efficient. Each strike, each feint, was executed with precision, as if rehearsed countless times. They were not here by chance.

They had come for Arwen.

A knife came too close—Alcard deflected it with a sharp flick of his wrist, steel meeting steel in a harsh, ringing clash. In that brief moment of contact, his eyes caught something—an insignia, barely visible beneath the folds of their dark clothing. A pattern too deliberate to be mere decoration.

Recognition dawned.

"Who sent you?" His voice was quiet, but the weight of his question hung heavily in the air.

The assassins gave no answer. They did not need to. Their silence confirmed what Alcard had already begun to suspect.

This was no ordinary attack.

This was a hunt.

One of the assassins lunged again—Alcard reacted instantly, sidestepping and striking low, his blade slicing through fabric and flesh. The man stumbled, gripping his wounded side, but the other two pressed on without hesitation. They were willing to die for this mission.

That only confirmed Alcard's worst fears.

This wasn't about ransom. This wasn't about a mere noble feud.

Someone wanted Arwen dead.

The battle continued in brutal, unrelenting clashes of steel. Though Alcard held the advantage in skill, even he knew he couldn't keep this up indefinitely. The assassins were relentless, unyielding in their pursuit. He needed to end this—quickly.

Then, as if the realization had struck her as well, Arwen did something unexpected.

From behind him, she reached into the folds of her cloak, retrieving something small, metallic—a throwing knife. Alcard barely caught the movement from the corner of his eye before she hurled it with surprising accuracy.

The blade found its mark, embedding itself into the shoulder of one of the assassins. The man hissed in pain, his grip on his weapon faltering for just a moment.

It was all Alcard needed.

Seizing the opening, he struck with ruthless precision, his blade cutting through the darkness—swift, final. The assassin collapsed, lifeless.

The remaining two did not hesitate. They exchanged a brief glance, and then, without a word, they retreated—vanishing into the shadows of the forest.

Alcard did not pursue them. Not yet. Instead, he turned immediately to Arwen, his expression unreadable.

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, breathing heavily, but there was steel in her gaze. "I'm fine."

Alcard exhaled slowly, lowering his sword but keeping it in hand. He scanned the dark treeline, making sure there were no more surprises lurking in the shadows.

Then, after a long silence, he muttered, "This was no random attack."

Arwen swallowed hard, nodding. She had already come to the same conclusion.

Someone powerful had sent those assassins. And whoever it was, they were willing to go to great lengths to see her dead.

Alcard glanced at the lifeless body at his feet, then back at Arwen. His expression darkened, his mind already racing through the possibilities.

"This is only the beginning."

The embers of the dying campfire flickered once more, sending a trail of smoke into the cold night air.

And somewhere in the distance, hidden within the vast expanse of the forest, unseen eyes still watched.

Waiting.

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