Silencing the truth 2

Martis stood for a moment in the doorway, surveying the carnage he had wrought. Five men lay sprawled in pools of their own blood, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. Comrades once, but in Kinkland, there was no place for sentiment—only survival.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of death, and though his heart remained steady, he knew that mere silence would not be enough to erase this treachery. Nyxthorn's secret had to be buried completely.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the oil lamp resting on the wooden table. Blood had splattered onto its surface, but it still burned, its small flame flickering as if unsure of its own existence.

Martis tilted the lamp, letting the oil spill onto the floor, over the bodies, across the dry wooden planks that had long absorbed the sweat of weary soldiers. The thick scent of oil mingled with blood and death, turning the room into a chamber of inevitable destruction.

Stepping back, he drew a flint striker from his belt. One spark was all it took. The flames hungrily devoured the oil-soaked floor, licking up the walls, consuming the heavy curtains in an instant. The fire caught fast, roaring to life, an inferno that would leave nothing but ashes.

Martis watched for only a moment. The heat grew intense, sweat beading on his forehead as the fire spread with frightening speed. He turned and slipped into the corridor, shutting the door behind him as if it would contain the chaos within.

By the time he emerged into the cool night air, the fire had begun to rage in earnest. Smoke curled from the windows, dark and thick, carrying the scent of burning flesh. The fortress would soon awaken to the alarm of fire, but by then, the story would be simple: an accident, a tragic blaze consuming five unfortunate soldiers in their sleep.

No loose ends. No whispers of doubt. Only fear and silence.

Martis adjusted his cloak and disappeared into the night, his mission complete.