Silencing the truth

Martis strode through the dimly lit corridors of Nyxthorn's fortress, his steps measured, his mind heavy with the weight of the orders he had been given. Outside, the torches lining the walls flickered against the night wind, casting eerie shadows that danced along the stone pathways. The fortress was eerily silent at this hour, the only sounds coming from distant patrols and the occasional murmur of guards exchanging words.

His orders were clear—eliminate the five men who had accompanied him to the Borderlands. They had seen the truth, and in Kinkland, truth was often more dangerous than the sharpest blade. He had fought beside these men, drank with them, bled with them. And now, he was tasked with their execution.

Martis reached the soldiers' quarters, where the five men rested, unaware that their final night had come. He paused outside the wooden door, gripping the hilt of his dagger, feeling its cold reassurance. His heart did not waver—hesitation was death in his line of work. But still, he lingered for a brief moment.

Inside, the men were speaking in hushed voices. He pressed himself against the door, listening.

"This whole thing sits wrong with me," one of them muttered. It was Varlek, a seasoned warrior with scars that spoke of countless battles. "No bodies, no sign of a fight. It's as if the sands themselves swallowed our men whole."

"It was cursed," another soldier, orlin, whispered. "The Borderlands have never been safe, but this? This was something unnatural."

"Aye," said Rugal, the youngest among them. "And now Nyxthorn is saying we executed the prisoners? Why lie if there was nothing to hide?"

Silence followed. Then, Varlek spoke again, his voice lower, more cautious. "I don't like it. If the council ever finds out we were sent on a false mission, Nyxthorn won't be the only one paying the price. We rode with Martis. We know what really happened. That makes us dangerous."

Martis exhaled slowly. They already understood their predicament. They knew too much, and soon, they would begin to realize what their fate would be. That meant he had no time to waste.

With a practiced motion, he pushed the door open. The hinges creaked, and five pairs of eyes turned toward him. The flickering lantern inside the room cast an ominous glow on his face.

"Martis," Varlek greeted, but there was wariness in his tone. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Martis stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him. His gaze swept across the room, memorizing the faces of the men he was about to kill. He had fought wars with them. Now, he would fight this silent war against them.

"I bring orders from Lord Nyxthorn," he said smoothly. "The council wants no loose ends. You understand what that means."

A heavy silence fell upon the room. The men exchanged glances, realization dawning in their eyes.

Orlin reached for the sword at his belt, but Martis was faster. In a single swift movement, his dagger found orlin's throat, silencing him before he could utter a cry. Blood sprayed across the wooden table, staining the map they had been studying.

Chaos erupted.

Varlek lunged at Martis, drawing his blade in a desperate attempt to fight back. Martis parried, twisting his dagger into Varlek's ribs before kicking him aside. The man collapsed, choking on his own blood.

Rugal and the others scrambled for their weapons, but Martis was ruthless, precise. His blade found its mark again and again, cutting through their defenses like a wolf among sheep. The fight was over in moments, the room filled with nothing but the dying gasps of his former comrades.

Martis stood among the bodies, his breathing steady. Blood dripped from his dagger, pooling at his feet. He wiped the blade on Rugal's cloak before sheathing it.

The bodies would need to be disposed of—perhaps dumped into the river under the cover of night. But for now, his task was complete. The truth had been silenced.

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind the echoes of death.

As he stepped into the corridor, he felt no remorse. In Kinkland, loyalty was fleeting, and survival belonged to those willing to do what was necessary.

And Martis had always been a survivor.