Bodies falling like leaves

Zac was simply gone.

No footsteps. No trace. Just an empty spot in the circle where a boy had once sat.

He melted into the tall grass outside the camp, eyes already focused far ahead.

Tonight wasn't about escaping.

It was about justice.

Across town, nestled within a taller stone fortress and guarded by two squads of elite armored sentries, lay the Central Hold—a larger, more fortified prison where the true enemies of the realm were kept. Or, more often, those claimed to be enemies.

Two men inside were scheduled to be crucified at sunrise.

Two commoners. Wrong place. Wrong time. Accused of hiding stolen gold and refusing to confess .

Zac had only heard their names mentioned in passing muttered under a breath by a half-drunk soldier outside the interrogation tent. But the words had sunk in deep.

"Dawn. Two of 'em. Council's making an example. That hooded bastard's got 'em running scared."

It didn't take much investigation to find out these were

two innocent men.

And a clock ticking down to dawn.

Zac's pace quickened as he reached the outskirts of the main road. The lamps had been dimmed. Patrols were tighter. Even from this distance, he could sense the change in atmosphere. Nobles locking their doors earlier. Guard shifts doubled. Archers on rooftops.

They were expecting him.

Not here, at the outer camps. No. There. At the fortress. At the site of tomorrow's execution.

Good.

Let them prepare.

Let them huddle behind their stone walls and sharpen their blades.

The shade of the night was about to decend on them. This time he was angry, anger pent up from the day's events and the events throughout his life. They won't be able to see him this time either, until he appearedon the rooftops.

He slipped into the treeline near the edge of the wall, tracing the map in his head. The main fortress had three entrances, but only one that mattered—the south tower, where prisoners were kept before public execution.

Zac's fingers twitched.

Tonight would be different.

He wouldn't leave a message. Wouldn't brand a wall or leave coins behind like trophies.

Tonight was not for the show.

It was for those two men.

And for the people who still believed someone was watching.

He reached over his cape and pulled over the hood.

Thee boy named Zac vanished.

Only Nightshade remained.

The wind howled across the towers of the Central Hold, biting at armor and chilling the bones of even the bravest guards. Torches flickered. Shadows danced. Somewhere high above, something shifted against the stars.

Then the shouting began.

"He's here! Prepare for battle!"

"Don't let him get away this time!"

All heads turned skyward.

There he stood—Nightshade, cloaked in darkness, perched on the jagged edge of the highest spire. Standing sharper than a sword. If he hadn't been well known some might have mistaken him for a smirking statue. His black cape rippled like a banner of death, silhouetted against the full moon. His boots balanced easily on the tip of the stone no wider than the pin of a needle, and his eyes glinted cold blue beneath his hood. The ultimate Aurafarmer.

Then came the laugh.

Low. Unhurried. Menacing.

It drifted down the tower like smoke, wrapping around the guards' necks, seeping into their ears, squeezing their chests. No beast ever made that sound—only a man who had walked into death's door and slammed it shut behind him.

A young soldier dropped his spear. Another backed away, murmuring prayers to gods who weren't listening.

"Alert the Twelve Knights!" someone screamed.

But it was too late.

Nightshade moved.

Not with the grace of an angel, but with the fury of a falling star.

He dove.

A black streak plummeting toward the earth—arms folded, cape trailing, the wind screaming around him.

The fall should've killed him.

The height was absurd, bone-shattering. No man could've survived it. But Nightshade wasn't just a man. Filled with trickery like a magician doing tricks everyone was capable of but not aware enough to replicate—sorcery.

He slammed into the stone courtyard below with the force of a meteor, dust and rock exploding outward in a ring of smoke and force.

BOOM.

The ground shook.

Cracks spiderwebbed beneath his feet.

A shallow crater etched itself around his boots.

Smoke rose in curling tendrils as he straightened from the impact, completely unharmed.

And then—

"CHARGE!" roared the knight at the head of the force.

The voice belonged to Sir Gallan, a Third-Star Knight and commander of the Central Guard. He pointed his blade forward with fire in his eyes.

Dozens of soldiers surged in.

All the twelve knights welded level one magic swords. They were waiting for Nightshade, others would fear a trap, yet he came. It seemed like traps looked no different from wedding invitations for one to come and show off their swag. Or Aurafarm.

They came from all sides—swords raised, shields locked, war cries in their throats.

Nightshade exhaled once. Calm.

Then he drew his sword.

It wasn't a new weapon, but it still shone in the moonlight, black as midnight, humming faintly with dormant energy. No jewels. No flashy edge. Just clean death forged into steel.

He moved.

Like a blur—followed by blood.

A soldier screamed and dropped.

Another stumbled, throat slit before he saw the blade flash.

Nightshade ducked beneath a swing, spun inside a spear thrust, and cracked an armored jaw with his elbow. The man flew back three paces before crumpling in a heap.

He didn't stop moving.

Every strike he made was clean. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

Slice. Thrust. Evade. Counter. Repeat.

He flowed through them like a shadow on fire, dancing between their blades, harnessing the power of his father's sword skill. His smirk etched into the lower parts of his hood

They tried.

Oh, they tried.

Swords came from every angle—high, low, behind. Arrows were loosed. Spells cast. Shields slammed toward him like battering rams.

But not a speck of blood touched his suit.

Not a thread cut. Not a mark made.

He fazed through them, body slipping through or around. just inches from steel, like wind refusing to be caught. His movements weren't human. They were practiced. Perfected. Dangerous.

The Twelve Knights stood watching from the far end of the courtyard, lining the prison wall like statues. Their helms gleamed silver, their blades drawn—but none stepped forward yet.

They were waiting.

Calculating.

Letting the foot soldiers test him first.

But that turned into a massacre.

Nightshade was no longer sparing limbs or pausing to wound. Not tonight.

Tonight, bodies fell like leaves from a tree caught in a storm.