Brute

A shallow slash across her thigh.

She gasped, turning to strike—but again he was gone.

Another sting—her upper arm.

Then her side.

Each strike was surgical. Intentional. He never aimed to kill—only to cut. To carve reminders onto her skin. If it were anyone else, they might have strayed from marking her beautiful skin. Not Nightshade. It was exactly what he was aiming for.

He was kind, so kind that he took it upon his shoulders to protect his people. He didn't use his gift for the pleasures of the world. For now.

But he was also ruthless, he had already warned her, but it seems only blood could clear the eyes of the mage knight.

He was only limited by the things he wanted to protect. After all, how could you hurt a ghost? Something that could phase through attacks. Unless it wanted to make itself tangible.

He was toying with her.

Lisa roared and brought down her sword, releasing a spiral of flame that turned the earth to molten glass. "ENOUGH!"

The explosion sent embers flying skyward like red stars.

Smoke billowed thickly.

Stillness.

And then—

A soft whisper of air behind her. "Not yet"

She turned too late.

Another cut—this time across her lower back.

She dropped to one knee, breathing hard. Her armor hissed, hot with sweat and blood. Her vision swam, but her grip remained firm.

"I am not done yet," she growled.

"Good," came the voice from the smoke. "Neither am I."

She didn't wait.

With a cry, she launched into the air—her sword spinning with flame as she came down like a meteor. Fire exploded from the impact, lighting up the entire field.

But again, Nightshade was gone.

She felt it in the air—the moment he slipped past her defenses again.

Too late.

A sharp sting across her shoulder.

Then the back of her knee.

She stumbled, sword shaking in her grip.

How was he moving like this? His power… it wasn't overwhelming. It wasn't even loud. But it was perfect. Precision, speed, calculation. No wasted steps. No wild swings.

Where her firestorm consumed everything, he danced between raindrops.

And then—

Silence.

She stood, shaking slightly, her body marked with a dozen shallow wounds. Her face marked, her beauty tainted. Blood flowed from every corner of her body like a sponge soaked with water.

Her breath came fast. Her vision narrowed.

Across from her, he stood again—calm, untouched.

This time, he came straight at her. As if to prove he could win in a sword fight, even without being elusive. His blade,

It gleamed under the moonlight.

He moved.

Too fast.

She raised her sword, but her hands were trembling.

Nightshade appeared before her—his blade flashing upward.

She barely caught the motion.

Her sword moved to block, but—

Steel met steel.

The force pushed Zac back, but his sword skills made up for it. After a flurry of strikes, he was inside her guard.

He raised the blade again.

For a split second, Lisa froze.

Her body wouldn't move. Her breath caught. She saw the trajectory of the blade, her neck.

She knew—this was the end.

The blade came down—

She shut her eyes.

And—

Nothing.

No pain.

No final breath.

Just—

Air.

She opened her eyes.

He was gone.

The field was quiet again, the smoke fading slowly into the sky.

She looked down.

A single strand of her hair drifted to the ground, cleanly sliced.

She stared—speechless.

He could have killed her.

Without hesitation.

Without effort.

She sank to her knees, not from defeat—but from realization. She was no match for the nocturnal fiend.

Far away, A room pulsed with heat, thick with the scent of wine, sweat, and perfume. Velvet curtains billowed slightly with the breeze sneaking through the arched window, carrying in the faint sound of music and distant laughter from the lower halls. Inside, the chamber was soaked in gold and crimson—silken sheets tossed carelessly over a massive bed, goblets scattered among fruit trays, and pillows like islands on a sea of chaos.

Brute—the infamous right hand of Duke Caspian—reclined with a predatory grin carved across his face. Towering and scar-laced, his muscles rippled with every lazy motion, and his pale gold hair fell just above his thick shoulders. His bare chest gleamed with sweat under the flicker of lanternlight. One arm was draped over a giggling brunette, the other around a strawberry-blonde whispering something in his ear. At his feet, a dark-haired girl with red lips and sly eyes kissed along his shin, trailing upwards.

"Tell me," Brute said, voice deep and rough as gravel, "which of you thinks you could seduce a prince and steal his sword before breakfast?"

All three women laughed, eyes gleaming with intoxicated delight.

"I could," purred the blonde.

"No, I could," said the brunette, biting her lip.

Brute threw his head back in a hearty laugh, tipping a silver goblet to his lips and letting wine spill down his chin. "You three might be worth keeping around after all."

Knock. Knock.

The sudden sound made his jaw twitch.

He glanced toward the door, but waved lazily. "Ignore it."

Knock. Knock. Knock. Louder. Firmer.

The woman at his feet froze, then sat back on her heels.

Another pause.

Then a voice. "Commander Brute. It's urgent."

Brute's nostrils flared.

"Of course it is," he muttered, rising slowly like a beast disturbed in its den. He yanked a fur-lined cloak off the edge of the bed and threw it over his shoulders, scowling. "Somebody better be bleeding."

He stomped to the door, flung it open—and found Lisa standing there.

The captain's uniform she wore was smeared with soot and blood. Her braid was frayed, her lips chapped from the night air, and the faintest trace of ash marked her cheek.

Brute didn't blink. "Well?"

Lisa bowed slightly, though her voice remained composed. "It's Nightshade. We lost him."

A moment passed.

Brute blinked once. His fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe.

"You what?" he asked quietly.

"We surrounded him near the warehouse district," she said. "He misled us—drew us one direction and doubled back. He took out four of my men non-lethally and vanished before we could catch him."

For a moment, nothing.

Then Brute turned, strolling back into the room. The women had risen to gather their robes, silently edging toward the corner, trying not to draw attention. They knew what was coming.

"The Duke trusted you," Brute said as he paced, his voice sharpening. "He said you were sharp. Efficient. Loyal. I vouched for you. And now?"

He spun on her.

"Now, the streets are still whispering about some hero in a mask, and your little squad is limping back like beaten dogs."

Lisa said nothing. There was no use defending herself.

Brute strode to a table, picked up a goblet, and hurled it. It smashed against the wall, wine staining the stone like blood.

He took a breath, chest heaving. Then he paused… and slowly grinned.