Chapter 4: Shadows and Steel

The forest was restless.

Leaves trembled as the wind slithered through the trees, whispering secrets to the night. The scent of damp earth and pine clung to the air, and somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

Phileo moved without a sound, his long hair brushing against his cloak. His senses stayed sharp, his body poised like a coiled wire. Even without his weapon drawn, he was always ready.

The chapel was close.

He had chosen this place carefully—far from prying eyes, abandoned for years. Its stone walls were weathered but strong, a relic of a past long forgotten. A fitting place for a conversation that could change everything.

But something felt wrong.

He wasn't alone.

A faint shift in the air. The near-silent rustle of fabric against bark.

A presence.

Phileo didn't stop walking, but his hand subtly moved closer to the hidden dagger at his belt. He had learned long ago to trust his instincts.

And right now, they were screaming.

A snap of a twig.

Then—movement.

Phileo turned just as a blade sliced through the darkness. His body moved before thought, twisting away as steel barely missed his ribs.

The attacker lunged again.

This time, Phileo blocked, his arm deflecting the strike before countering with a precise kick to the ribs.

A grunt.

The hooded figure staggered but recovered fast, already repositioning. Their stance was steady, balanced—trained.

Not a common thug.

Phileo exhaled through his nose. "I don't have time for this."

The figure didn't respond.

Instead, they moved.

A flurry of quick, precise strikes, their sword cutting through the air with purpose. Phileo dodged with minimal effort, his footwork fluid, his movements measured. He let them think they had the advantage.

Then—

He struck.

With the slightest shift in weight, he closed the distance and grabbed their wrist, twisting the blade from their grasp. The sword clattered to the ground.

In the same motion, Phileo drove them back, pinning them against a tree. His free hand pressed against their chest, firm but controlled.

The hood fell.

A woman.

Her breathing was steady despite the fight.

She didn't struggle.

Didn't look afraid.

Instead, she smiled.

That set Phileo on edge more than any blade.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, she moved—not to attack, but to pull a dagger from her belt.

Phileo tensed, ready to disarm her.

But she didn't strike.

Instead, she flipped the dagger in her grip and drove the blade—not into him, but into the ground between them.

A message.

Phileo didn't move immediately. He studied her, reading the intent behind her eyes.

Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she vanished—melting into the trees like a shadow.

Phileo waited until the sound of her steps disappeared entirely.

Then, slowly, he crouched.

The dagger gleamed under the pale moonlight, its handle bearing an engraving he hadn't seen in years.

His fingers curled around the weapon.

This wasn't a random attack.

This was a warning.

And Evelyne was in more danger than he thought.

Phileo remained crouched, his fingers tightening around the dagger's hilt. The engraving on its handle was unmistakable—a symbol from a past he had tried to leave buried.

His pulse was steady, but beneath the calm surface, unease coiled like a viper.

The Order.

No other group would dare send such a message.

He rose to his feet, eyes scanning the darkness where the woman had vanished. Whoever she was, she had been trained to fight him specifically. That meant someone had told her exactly what to expect.

And that someone wanted him to know.

Phileo exhaled sharply.

"Noted."

He slid the dagger into his belt before turning back toward the chapel. The night was far from over.

Inside the Chapel

The heavy wooden doors groaned as he pushed them open. Dust swirled in the moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass. The air inside was still, thick with the scent of old stone and forgotten prayers.

And at the center of it all—

Evelyne.

She stood near the altar, her cloak draped over her shoulders, her simple white dress catching the soft glow of the moon.

She turned at the sound of his approach, her eyes sharp yet unreadable.

"You're late."

Phileo didn't answer immediately. He studied her—the way she held herself, the way she tried to mask her emotions.

She was good at hiding them. But not from him.

Not tonight.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Evelyne hesitated.

Then—

"I know you're hiding something from me."

His jaw tightened. So she had noticed.

She crossed her arms. "You always show up when I need you, but you disappear the moment I ask questions." Her voice was steady, but there was something else beneath it.

Frustration.

Phileo met her gaze. "And yet you still called for me."

Evelyne inhaled sharply. He wasn't wrong.

Silence settled between them.

Finally, she shook her head. "I found something," she said, pulling a folded piece of parchment from her pocket. "A letter."

She hesitated before offering it to him.

Phileo took it without a word, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

The ink was old, the words carefully penned.

And the signature at the bottom made his blood run cold.

He clenched his fist, crumpling the letter slightly before forcing himself to relax.

Evelyne watched him carefully. "You recognize it."

It wasn't a question.

Phileo exhaled slowly. "Where did you find this?"

"In my mother's old things."

That made him pause.

Her mother.

The woman he had—

Phileo forced the thought away.

Evelyne's gaze bore into him. "Tell me what you know."

He was silent.

For years, he had kept the truth buried.

But now, standing in this ruined chapel with Evelyne watching him so closely, he wondered—

Could he keep it hidden much longer?