The air reeked of blood and torn flesh— fresh and raw. Elim's head rested on Phera's thighs, his body limp and unconscious. Dikil crouched over him, with a blade in hand, he carefully sliced away the shredded fabric of his clothes, exposing the gastly tear on his skin.
Beside him, Irel hovered a hand above the deep stab wound etched into Elim's side. His voice was calm, almost detached.
"obere," he muttered, activating a spell to slow the bleeding.
The gash was vicious, an obvious kill-shot, meant to be fatal. His entire body told the story: bruises, broken skin, it was the unmistakable trail of someone stabbed and thrown off a ridge.
The blonde-haired boy rummaged frantically through a worn leather bag, pulling out flask. He passed it to Irel without a word.
Irel uncorked it, pouring a sharp-smelling liquor into the wound. Elim flinched violently, groaning through clenched teeth as blood bubbled from his mouth. Irel sprinkled the rest of the liquid over the bruises. It wasn't enough— not nearly, but it would keep him alive for the time being.
They had no time to waste. Since Elim wasn't conscious yet, the others returned to their tasks, trusting he'd live long enough to speak later.
Phera gently slipped her legs out from under him as the boy placed a small pouch of clothes under Elim's head for support.
"Watch him closely," she said, her tone sharp as steel. "If anything changes, call me...Quietly."
She didn't wait for a reply— didn't even look back— before striding off to join the other two men standing near the fire.
Irel opened a magic scroll, its surface lined with faint sigils. He handed each end to Dikil and Phera, who stood closely to him at each side. With two fingers, he touched the central glyph and whispered,
"Vox visho."
A faint glow rippled through the parchment as a pulse of mana surged into it, staining the sigil a dull brown. A cold, dispassionate voice emerged from the scroll.
"SPEAK."
Irel inhaled lightly, never breaking focus. "As you instructed…" he began, maintaining a steady stream of mana into the spell, "…we've monitored the Budenmore knights and their tactical patterns. Their strength is rooted in their loyalty to the Grand Duke. Though that loyalty appears to be driven by fear, it set—"
"SHUT UP."
The voice cut in, sharper now displeased.
"We asked for vital information. Not your interpretation. Is this your level of competence?"
Irel's jaw twitched. "It's just—"
"It's just what?" The voice interrupted again, laced with disdain.
"It's that you're all a pack of useless street dogs."
Dikil clenched his fist. He'd heard nobles speak like this before— casually tossing away months of work with a few dismissive words, as though their status came with divine right even though none of them had ever bled in the dirt., nor would they be able to do the very tasks they discredit. He gritted his teeth, said nothing. Survival, for mercenaries like them, meant swallowing their pride over and over.
"What about the Grand Duke?..." the voice continued. "...any signs of weakness?"
"No, sir," Irel replied, flatly.
"Change in metabolism? Any discoloration of the skin?"
"None."
There was a long pause.
"What about camp rumors? Any unusual shifts in speed or strength? Anything… unnatural?"
Irel exhaled quietly. "The Grand Duke has never been human, sire. Apart from his inhuman strength, speed, and bloodlust… there's nothing new. In fact…" he hesitated, bitterly amused, "he's as normal as the Grand Duke could be."
Silence fell. It wasn't the kind of silence that invited peace— but the kind that made the air feel heavier, like something sacred or dangerous had just been disturbed.
Even the fire seemed to still.
The atmosphere cringed, recoiling around Irel's words as if they carried a curse.
'As normal as the Grand Duke.'
A phrase that shouldn't exist. An oxymoron in itself.
No one spoke. Not even the voice from the scroll. For a second, even it was stunned— whether by the audacity or the terrifying truth in the words.
Dikil's jaw clenched. Phera glanced at Irel, her brows slightly furrowed, and the young blond boy swallowed hard, as if the phrase alone had dried up the air around them.
Then the voice returned, clearly trying to shake off the unease, but this time, more hesitant.
"…What about his disposition? Did he seem… sadder, maybe? Depressed?"
All four of them stilled, unable to comprehend the question.
They had never questioned the motives behind their assignments— but this… this was different.
"Not exactly, my lord," Irel said slowly, clearly unsettled, trying to make sense of the new line of inquiry.
"Hmmm… what about sleep? Any changes in his sleeping habits?"
Irel blinked. "Now that you mention it… there were rumours within the camp. I confirmed it multiple times. The Grand Duke doesn't sleep."
"Yeah…" Dikil added, scratching the back of his head. "He just either disappears or… y'know, extracts information from prisoners to pass time."
'Extracts information,' he scoffed internally. A gentle phrase for torture.
"That's not new information!" the voice snarled. "You're a pack of incompetent dogs! Dogs!"
They didn't respond. There was nothing to say. Nothing worth saying.
"Anyway," the voice continued, trying to mask the awkward pause, "did you do what I asked?"
"Yes, my lord... but the poison doesn't seem to be taking effect," Irel replied, slightly hesitant.
"It wasn't poison. And it's fine—as long as it's done, you'll be paid. Were you seen?"
"No, sir," Dikil answered calm and confident, like a man who had nothing left to lose, as he was the one who carried it out.
"Very good. Return to the capital in three days, through the Chimore Gate. My men will handle the payment."
The sigil on the scroll dimmed… then faded.
A silence followed, as the tensed atmosphere began to lighten up.
Then—
"Well… that was fun."
The voice came from behind.
Cold. Crisp. Familiar… but wrong.
They turned around.
And there he stood.
Elim.
No longer unconscious.He was holding a dagger to the boy's throat.
His expression was blank, as his hollow eyes studied them.
But the voice that came next…
wasn't entirely his.