A Blade for Every Chain

The sound of water splashing against porcelain echoed softly within the inn room, mingling with the scent of rose oil and fresh soap. Selena's fingers moved slowly through her now-clean hair, pausing now and again to trace the soft scars along her arms. The warmth of the bath was unfamiliar, indulgent even, but she relished it, knowing it may vanish like a dream.

Across the room, the window remained cracked, the breeze carrying in the low murmur of Silverhaven's nightlife. Lanterns flickered outside. Laughter drifted up from passing tavern. The city was alive, but far removed from the cold iron and misery of the slave pens.

Selena leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

Below, at the hearth, Red set aside his sword and rose silently to his feet. He moved with the practiced quiet of a predator-gauntlet brushing against his belt only briefly to check the balance of his blades. No one in the inn noticed him leave. No one ever did.

The streets of Silverhaven were painted in hues of copper and indigo, lanterns casting dancing light on the cobblestone as Red walked with purpose. He passed through the alleys like a shadow, unseen, unchallenged. His long cloak swayed behind him, and the faint sound of his boots was swallowed by the hush of the night.

He made no detour, no hesitation.

The Westgarde Trading Office sat hunched at the edge of the merchant district, its iron gates closed and locked for the night. A single torch burned above the archway, and two guards leaned lazily against the gate, passing a flask back and forth.

Guard 1: That girl still alive, you think? The one that wouldn't sell?

Guard 2: Dead by now, probably, No loss. Wasn't much to look at anyway.

The sound of leather scraping against stone was their only warning.

A blur of black descended from above, the shadow from the rooftop slamming into the first guard with the weight of a falling star. The man's throat opened with a clean line of steel, spraying crimson across the gate. Before the second could scream, Red's second swords caught him low, severing his spine in a flash of obsidian light.

Both bodies hit the ground in silence.

Red stood over them, twin swords drawn, steam rising from the blood that now stained his armor. He reached forward, grasped the gate's central lock, and twisted, metal groaning as it snapped beneath his grip.

The doors swung open.

Inside the slave office, five more guards patrolled the upper corridors. Two sat around a dice table in a side chamber; another patrolled the second-floor landing. The remaining two were asleep in the barracks toward the rear.

None of them heard the first blade whisper through the dark.

Red moved like a ghost, sliding through shadow, his footsteps silent over wood and stone. The dice clattered off the table as one man slumped forward, a dagger embedded in his neck. The second tried to rise but Red was already there, a gauntlet crushing his windpipe before the sword silenced him.

He ascended the stairs, blending into the shadows. The patrolling guard turned just in time to glimpse a flicker of steel, then his head parted from his shoulders.

Red left him crumpled against the wall.

In the barracks, the remaining two guards snored atop their bunks. Red approached without urgency. One blade rose and fell, then again. Clean. Surgical. Merciless.

He did not speak. He did not hesitate. They had signed their fate the moment they allowed chains to be fastened around a girl's wrists.

At the heart of the compound, the slave master's quarters glowed with candlelight.

Gregor Varn, a bloated man with gold rings and sweat-slick hair, lounged in a velvet chair, reading a ledger with a cup of spiced wine in hand. He muttered to himself, lips curling with disgust.

Gregor Varn: Damn losses… worthless girl, couldn't even fetch a copper…

The candle flickered.

Then extinguished.

Gregor looked up, frowning.

Gregor Varn: who's there? If this is one of you..

The darkness moved.

Red emerged from the shadows like a wraith. His armor gleamed faintly, his face still hidden behind the polished black visor. The room's air grew heavy.

Gregor stood, stammering.

Gregor Varn: W-wait, you! You bought the girl! She's not your concern anymore! You can't just...

Red didn't answer. He stepped forward and flicked his sword in a silent arc.

The desk split in half. So did Gregor's hand.

The fat man shrieked, crumpling to his knees.

Gregor Varn: You… you'll answer for this!

he spat, blood gushing. 

Gregor Varn: The Merchant Guild Will..

Red raised his sword, and then stopped. He pulled a scroll from his belt, sealed in red wax. He let it fall at Gregor's feet.

Gregor squinted at the parchment. The crest was unmistakable.

A black dragon wrapped in flame, the emblem of the Midnight Pact, the most feared bounty guild in all Natharas.

Gregor Varn: You… you're an enforcer…

Red said the first and only word he would speak that night.

Red: No.

The Sword sang.

And Gregor Varn's head fell from his shoulders.

By dawn, the Westgarde Trading Office burned. The fire was slow and surgical, just enough to erase records, not enough to endanger the city. Red vanished into the alleyways long before the guards arrived. He left no sign, no witness, no mercy.

Those who preyed upon the weak would find only death in his shadow.

Back at the inn, Selena had finished her bath and now lay curled on the soft feather bed. Her hair, still damp, clung gently to her cheek. She had changed into the white tunic Red had bought her, the fur-lined cloak now draped over her like a warm embrace. Her breathing was steady, her chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.

She didn't stir when the door clicked open.

Red stepped inside silently, wiping the last flecks of blood from his gauntlet with a clean cloth. He sheathed his swords in one smooth motion and crossed the room without a sound.

He stood beside her, watching.

She was safe. Whole. Resting.

He placed the cloth in the basin, then turned toward the second bed.

He didn't sleep. He never did.

But tonight, for the first time in many years, he closed his eyes.