secrets.

The torches in Lord Nyxthorn's chamber flickered, casting jagged shadows against the stone walls. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made even seasoned warriors tread carefully. Martis stood before him, his face void of expression, though his mind was far from calm. It had been days since his return from the Borderlands, and the news he had brought back had left a storm raging within the ruthless lord's mind.

Nyxthorn sat upon his iron chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. His dark, calculating eyes bore into Martis like daggers. The room was empty except for a few elite guards standing at attention near the entrance—his most trusted men, the only ones allowed to witness this conversation.

"You are telling me," Nyxthorn began, his voice as cold as steel, "that an entire convoy of my soldiers disappeared without a trace?"

Martis stiffened. "Yes, my lord. When we arrived, there were no prisoners, no bodies, nothing. Only the wreckage of our convoy. The sands had swallowed all evidence."

Nyxthorn exhaled sharply through his nose. He stood abruptly, pacing the chamber like a restless beast. His position in the Kinkland Council was not secured by wisdom or political maneuvering—it was secured by blood, by fear, by his ability to silence threats before they took form. If the Overlord caught wind that he had failed to deliver the prisoners, if he knew that the enemy had somehow slipped through his fingers, Nyxthorn's head would be the next one on a pike.

The Overlord tolerated no failures.

"You should have searched deeper!" Nyxthorn snapped. "You should have burned the sands, ripped apart the dunes until you found something!"

Martis clenched his jaw but did not argue. There had been nothing left to find. The desert had swallowed its secrets whole.

Nyxthorn halted his pacing, eyes narrowing. He could not allow this disgrace to taint his name. He needed a cover, a lie strong enough to bury the truth forever.

After a moment of silence, he turned back to Martis, his voice low and deliberate.

"Send word to the capital," he ordered. "Tell them my men executed all the Delian prisoners upon capture. Tell them we slaughtered them like animals and left their bodies to rot as a message to the Delian scum. That should be enough to keep the council satisfied."

Martis hesitated for the first time. It was a dangerous lie. If the truth ever surfaced—if someone, somehow, discovered that the prisoners had not been executed but instead had vanished—the council would demand Nyxthorn's head.

"My lord," Martis began carefully, "if they question why there are no bodies—"

Nyxthorn's glare cut him off. "Do you think the Overlord will send his precious nobles to the Borderlands to sift through sand and bones? No. They will accept my word because they fear me. And more importantly, they fear the consequences of failure."

Martis lowered his gaze. "As you command, my lord."

Nyxthorn returned to his chair, reclining slightly, his mind already moving to the next problem. A lie was only as strong as its keepers, and there were too many mouths that had seen the truth. The soldiers who had gone with Martis—they had seen the empty convoy. They knew the truth. That could not be allowed.

"You will deal with the men who rode with you," Nyxthorn said, his voice void of emotion. "Make sure none of them breathe a word of what they saw."

Martis barely reacted, though a cold weight settled in his stomach. He had known this order was coming. Nyxthorn was not a man who left loose ends.

"Kill them discreetly," Nyxthorn continued. "Accidents, disappearances—it does not matter. Just make sure they do not live to speak of this."

Martis nodded once, accepting the task as though it were nothing more than another mission. But deep inside, something twisted in him. These were his men. Warriors who had fought beside him, who had trusted him. And now, he was to silence them like common traitors.

But there was no place for hesitation in Kinkland. If he did not obey, someone else would be sent to do it—someone who would not think twice about adding Martis to the list of casualties.

The room fell into silence once more. The decision had been made, the orders given.

Nyxthorn exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Soon, the council will move on from this matter. The Overlord has more pressing conquests to focus on. Once this lie settles, no one will question it. No one will care about a handful of Delian wretches."

Martis said nothing.

Nyxthorn leaned forward, his eyes sharp as a blade. "And you, Martis—you will ensure that this matter stays buried. Do not fail me."

Martis met his gaze. "I never do."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, his mind already calculating the blood he would have to spill before the night was over.