The sea was black as ink, rolling in slow, heavy swells beneath a moonless sky. The scouts, ten in number, clung to their oars, their armor dull and sodden with salt. They rowed in silence, each man shrouded in a veil of unease, for the wind had died, and the night was too still. Even the gulls refused to cry.
The ruined ship was the first thing they saw, its mast rising like a broken limb from the shallows. The hull had been split down the middle, as though by the hands of giants, the wood rotted in places where sea creatures had already begun to feast. The standard of Yainna, once a proud sigil, was reduced to ragged threads, fluttering weakly in the absence of wind. The silence was unnatural.
Ser Roderic, the commander, signaled for the men to disembark. They waded through knee-deep water, weapons drawn, the shore ahead lined with the husks of buildings. The town that had been spoken of—a place where the lord had bought his horse—stood in ruin. Doors hung from their hinges, windows were shattered, and the air carried the stench of rot. But it was not the rot of time. It was fresh.
They moved cautiously, bootsteps soft upon the damp ground. Shadows stretched long beneath the pale lantern-light they carried, flickering against the hollow remnants of homes.
Then, they saw the first body.
A woman, draped over a wooden bench, her throat a torn ruin, her eyes frozen wide in horror. Flies swarmed the wound. Another, a man, sat against the remains of a fruit cart, hands limp in his lap. The front of his chest was caved in, ribs shattered outward as if something had crushed him from the inside.
"All the hells…" muttered one of the younger scouts, gripping his sword tighter.
"Steel ready," Ser Roderic ordered in a hushed voice. "Something unnatural has happened here."
A sound, soft as a whisper, reached them from the alleys ahead. A scuffling, a scrape of bare feet against stone.
"Who goes?" Roderic called.
Silence.
Then the shadows moved.
The figure stepped forward from the darkness, naked but for the remnants of a tattered tunic hanging from his shoulders. His skin was as pale as polished bone, stretched taut over lean muscle, his hair long and tangled with seaweed. In each hand, he bore a dagger, their edges slick with something dark.
He smiled.
And then he moved.
The first scout did not even scream before the blade opened his throat. Blood fountained into the air, hot and red, as the man staggered backward, clutching at the wound, gurgling as he collapsed into the mud. The others raised their weapons, but the pale warrior was upon them, moving faster than a man had any right to.
His daggers flashed, carving through chainmail and flesh alike. He spun, ducked, weaved between their strikes as though he could see them before they came. A second scout fell, his gut spilling open like a split wineskin. A third let out a strangled cry as the dagger found the soft space beneath his jaw, piercing up through his skull.
"Hold formation!" Roderic roared, slashing wide with his longsword.
The warrior twisted, the blade missing by an inch. He stepped into Roderic's guard, moving with inhuman grace, and drove his knee into the knight's chest, sending him sprawling backward. Another scout lunged, a spear thrust forward, but the pale man caught it midair, twisting it in his grip before driving it into the scout's own throat.
Steel rang against steel, blood painted the stones. The remaining men fought with fury, yet it was like striking at mist. The warrior did not block, he did not parry—he simply moved, faster than the eye could track, his daggers weaving death in the moonlight. He was not a man. He was something else.
A thing born of nightmare and salt.
Roderic pushed himself up, gasping, his ribs aching. He saw the warrior cut through another man with a single stroke. Only three of his men remained standing, their breath ragged, their bodies bloodied.
"We are dead if we stay," he rasped, staggering to his feet. "Fall back!"
The remaining scouts hesitated, fear warring with duty, but they obeyed. They turned to flee, stumbling over bodies and broken wood.
Roderic was the last to turn, his sword still gripped tight in his shaking hand. He cast one last look at the pale warrior, who stood amongst the corpses, head tilted, watching them go.
A smile stretched across his blood-smeared lips.
And then he moved.
Faster than a galloping horse, he was upon them. He struck the nearest scout in the back, his dagger plunging deep between the ribs. The man fell, screaming, as the warrior kicked his body aside. The last two ran faster, desperation giving them speed, but it would not be enough.
Roderic whirled, swinging his sword in a desperate arc. This time, the blade met flesh. The warrior hissed as steel bit into his side, carving a shallow wound. But he did not bleed as a man should. What oozed from the wound was dark, thick, and unnatural.
The warrior turned to Roderic, red eyes gleaming in the dark.
And then he lunged.
The force of the impact sent them both sprawling, Roderic's sword skidding from his grip. He gasped as the cold hand closed around his throat, pressing him into the earth.
"You do not belong here," the warrior whispered, voice like the wind through dead leaves. "Yainna is not yours to take."
Roderic struggled, but the grip was iron. The warrior raised a dagger, ready to carve open his throat.
But then, from the horizon, the first light of dawn crested over the hills.
The warrior froze. His grip faltered, and for the first time, something like discomfort crossed his face. His eyes flickered, his head jerking toward the light.
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he released Roderic and stepped away. His movements were sharp, unnatural, like a wolf sensing a hunter. He turned, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone, vanishing into the dark ruins like a phantom of the night.
Roderic lay gasping on the ground, clutching his throat. The last of his men, barely breathing, knelt beside him.
"What… what was that?" one of them rasped.
Roderic did not answer. He pushed himself up, looking toward the ruins where the warrior had vanished. His hands trembled.
He knew one thing.
If this was indeed a war in the rising, This was not a war against men.
This was something else entirely.