Rohan stepped into the mansion, his dagger steady in his grip. The grand halls, once filled with laughter and whispered deals, were now a battlefield. The scent of blood mixed with the heavy perfume of the noblewoman’s extravagant lifestyle, creating a sickening contrast.

  A mercenary was the first to spot him, sword raised. Rohan didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, dodging the clumsy swing and driving his dagger into the man’s throat. A wet gurgle escaped his lips as Rohan yanked the blade free, letting the body fall to the marble floor.

  The second attacker came fast, a larger man wielding an axe. Rohan moved with precision, dodging downward strike and slashing across the mercenary’s exposed wrist. The man howled, dropping his weapon, and before he could react, Rohan buried his dagger into his chest.

  Two down, more to go.

  The sound of steel clashing deeper in the mansion told him the battle wasn’t over yet. His benefactor was still alive, for now.

  Rohan pressed forward, slipping through the shadows, cutting down any mercenary who stood in his way. His movements were controlled, each kill precise. There was no wasted effort, no reckless swings. He wasn’t the wild beast they remembered. He was something worse.

  He reached the upper levels, where the fighting was at its peak. The noblewoman, was backed into a corner, a rapier in her grip, her silk gown stained with blood. Three mercenaries surrounded her, one already wounded.

  She spotted Rohan over their shoulders, her lips curling into something between relief and amusement.

  “Took you long enough!”

  She murmured.

  Rohan didn’t respond, he moved.

  The nearest mercenary turned, but Rohan was faster. He tackled him, forcing his dagger into the man’s ribs before twisting the blade. The mercenary choked, dropping instantly.

  The other two turned to him, momentarily distracted, giving the noblewoman the opening she needed. With a swift thrust, she ran her rapier through one of them.

  The last man hesitated, eyes darting between them. He made the mistake of trying to run.

  Rohan didn’t let him.

  He caught the man from behind, dragging him down, and with one brutal strike, slit his throat. The body slumped against the floor, lifeless.

  Silence settled over the room, save for her ragged breaths.

  His benefactor lowered her rapier, inspecting the scene with a slow nod.

  "Well... that was unpleasant.”

  Rohan wiped his dagger against a fallen mercenary’s cloak.

  “Who sent them?”

  Her smirk faltered. She met his gaze, and for the first time since he had met her, there was something in her eyes that looked like uncertainty.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Rohan stepped toward her, his dagger still dripping with blood. His breathing was steady, but his mind was racing.

  “There was a noble meeting with cloaked figures, I followed them after the last party. They were planning this.”

  His benefactor wiped a drop of blood from her cheek, her expression unreadable.

  “Which noble?”

  “Lord Avaric, he-”

  The sound of rushing footsteps thundered through the hall.

  Rohan snapped his head toward the doorway just in time to see a wave of mercenaries flooding toward them. Twenty men. Swords, axes, daggers gleamed under the dim candlelight, their eyes filled with intent.

  "Shit."

  His benefactor exhaled, gripping her rapier tighter.

  He planted himself in the doorway, dagger in one hand, a stolen short sword in the other. If they wanted her, they had to go through him first.

  The first attacker lunged. Rohan sidestepped, slashing across his throat before kicking the body into the next. A blade came at his ribs, he twisted just enough to take a shallow cut before driving his dagger into the attacker’s armpit.

  Two down.

  Another came from the right. He blocked the strike with his short sword, pivoted, and slammed his knee into the man’s gut. As the mercenary staggered, Rohan drove his dagger into his eye.

  Three.

  A fourth attacker swung wide but too slow. Rohan ducked, slicing deep into the man’s thigh before finishing him with a brutal stab to the throat.

  Blood sprayed across the floor, but they kept coming.

  A blade slashed across his shoulder. He hissed in pain but didn't stop moving. Another opponent rushed in, Rohan turned the attack against him, using his momentum to impale him on his own blade.

  Five. Six. Seven.

  They began hesitating. He saw it in their stance, the way their hands shook around their weapons. He wasn’t supposed to still be standing.

  Another charged, and this time, he wasn’t fast enough. A dagger buried itself into his side.

  Rohan gritted his teeth, ripping the weapon out and slamming the hilt against the mercenary’s face. He didn’t let himself feel the pain, he couldn’t. One by one, he cut them down.

  His movements became brutal, his strikes precise. He was bleeding, wounded, exhausted, but he didn’t stop.

  By the time the last man collapsed at his feet, the entire hallway was painted red.

  Rohan stood in the center of it all, chest rising and falling, his body screaming in pain, but his grip on his weapons still firm.

  Behind him, his benefactor let out a slow, almost disbelieving laugh.

  “You really are something else.”

  Rohan staggered, blood dripping from his wounds.

  “We need to move.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  He muttered, forcing himself forward. They weren’t safe yet.

  Before they could move, eight more mercenaries stormed into the hall, weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the carnage Rohan had left behind.

  His benefactor stepped forward, about to say something, but then she froze. Her breath stopped as she looked at him. Rohan wasn’t the same.

  His face, once controlled, once sharp with precision, had twisted into something entirely different. A grin. Wide, unhinged, predatory. Blood dripped down his face, mixing with the sweat and dirt, his eyes wild and unfocused. He looked… like a beast let off its leash.

  Then he moved, not with careful steps, not with the precision he had honed over time. He ran straight at them.

  The first mercenary barely had time to raise his sword before Rohan was on him, tearing into him like a rabid animal. He tackled the man to the ground, driving his dagger into his throat again and again until blood sprayed across his face.

  The second tried to strike from the side, Rohan didn’t dodge. He took the cut across his ribs, ignoring the pain, grabbing the man’s wrist and snapping it with one savage twist. The mercenary screamed, until Rohan plunged his blade into his mouth, silencing him forever.

  The others hesitated. They weren’t fighting a man anymore. They were fighting something else.

  The third mercenary lunged. Bad choice. Rohan caught the blade with his bare hand, blood pouring between his fingers, and ripped it from the man’s grasp. He turned the weapon back on its owner, driving it into his gut before shoving him aside like a discarded rag.

  His benefactor still stood behind him, stunned. She had seen killers, assassins, men with blood on their hands. But she had never seen this.

  Rohan wasn’t fighting to survive anymore. He was killing because he wanted to.

  The fourth mercenary tried to run. Rohan snarled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall so hard his skull cracked. The body crumpled instantly.

  The remaining four mercenaries were terrified. One of them dropped his weapon and tried to beg. Yet Rohan didn’t care. He cut him down in one fluid motion.

  The others fought, but they had already lost. He toyed with them, taking wounds he didn’t need to take, letting their blades cut into his skin just to see the horror in their eyes when they realized he wasn’t stopping.

  By the time the last one fell, Rohan was covered in blood, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his grin still stretched across his face.

  Silence.

  Then, his benefactor finally found her voice.

  “…What the hell are you?”

  Rohan blinked.

  The bloodlust still pulsed in his veins. The animal in his chest still clawed at him.

  But her words cut through the haze.

  His grin faded.

  His breathing slowed. His grip on his dagger loosened. Rohan stood there, his body slick with sweat and blood.

  His benefactor still hadn’t moved. She was staring at him, not with fear, but with something worse. Recognition.

  “…What the hell are you?”

  She repeated, her voice quieter this time.

  Rohan blinked, the haze of rage slowly peeling away. He looked down at himself, at the fresh wounds criss crossing his arms, at the corpses around him, their eyes still frozen in terror.

  He had lost control, again.

  His breathing slowed. His fingers twitched, aching from how tightly he had gripped his weapons. His knuckles were white. His nails were broken, and caked in blood.

  Rohan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stand straight, to shake off whatever had gripped him in the fight. He wiped his dagger against his tattered sleeve and finally met her eyes.

  “We need to go.”

  He said simply.

  She didn’t move, just studied him, as if she were trying to understand what she had just witnessed.

  “Do you even hear yourself? Look at yourself.”

  He turned toward the hallway instead, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  “If we stay, more will come. We’re running out of time.”

  She hesitated, then let out a slow breath.

  “Right.”

  He didn’t look at her as they moved through the corridors, stepping over bodies, avoiding the places where the blood was the thickest. For all her confidence, she didn’t speak again.

  As they walked through the dimly lit hallway, Rohan’s boots splashed in the blood pooling beneath the bodies he had left behind. His grip on his dagger tightened, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  Why does this always happen?

  Every time he saved someone, every time he won, they looked at him like this. Afraid.

  When he saved Talia, she had recoiled at his touch. And now, her, the woman who had dragged him into this world, was watching him like he was the monster, not the men he had just killed.

  The thought gnawed at him. He had done what was necessary. He always did. So why did they always look at him like that? Before he could spiral deeper, she spoke.

  “We can’t stay here, I have a place. A guild.”

  Rohan turned to her, his mind snapping back to the present.

  “A guild?”

  She nodded.

  “Not like your mercenary bands or the pit fighters. This is different. They deal in information, protection, and alliances. They can keep us hidden.”

  Rohan considered her words.

  “And you’re part of this?”

  She smirked, though there was an edge to it now, something guarded.

  “I have many affiliations. This one happens to be useful.”

  He studied her for a long moment, then exhaled. If she had somewhere safe, it was better than wandering the streets with a target on their backs.

  “Fine, lead the way.”

  She turned on her heel, and they moved quickly through the mansion’s side exit, slipping into the darkened streets.

  Rohan's breathing was steady, but his body was beginning to fail him. The pain was catching up. The stab wound in his side burned like fire, every step sending a sharp jolt of agony through his ribs. He could feel the wet warmth of fresh blood seeping through his clothes.

  His benefactor led the way, her movements precise and calculated, her eyes flicking to every shadow, every alley. She knew this city, but so did the people hunting them. The moment they turned a corner, Rohan felt it.

  The shift in the air, the silence. They weren’t alone. A dozen figures emerged from the alleys, stepping into the dim glow of the street lanterns. Cloaks draped over their shoulders, hands resting on weapons. Waiting.

  Rohan gritted his teeth, they weren’t here to negotiate. His benefactor muttered a curse under her breath, her fingers twitching toward her rapier.

  “They’re faster than I thought.”

  Rohan exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on his dagger. They had no choice.

  “We can’t run, not with me like this.”

  She hesitated. He could see the calculations running through her mind, weighing the risks. But she must have known it too. There was no escape.

  The leader of the group, a tall man with a scar running down his jaw, stepped forward.

  “You’re bleeding, boy, you should lie down and let this be easy.”

  Rohan let out a low, dry chuckle.

  “You first.”

  The man’s smirk dropped. Then they attacked.

  The first man lunged, too predictable. Rohan moved to his side and slammed his dagger into the man’s throat, twisting as he yanked it free. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones, but he was already turning, already striking again.

  A second opponent swung a short sword at his ribs. He wasn’t fast enough. The blade sliced across his already wounded side, sending a fresh wave of pain up his spine. Rohan bit down the scream and countered with a brutal slash across the man’s face, sending him stumbling back.

  Another came at him from behind. Too slow. Rohan ducked under the attack and drove his elbow into the attacker’s stomach before slamming his dagger up into his ribs.

  The fourth man got close enough to tackle him. Rohan let it happen. He hit the ground hard, pain flaring through every wound, but he had been in worse positions. He used the momentum. He drove his dagger into the man’s side again, again, again, until the body went still.

  He shoved the corpse off him, staggering to his feet.

  His benefactor was fighting too, cutting through opponents with precision, her rapier flashing under the lantern light. But there were too many.

  Rohan swayed, his vision darkening at the edges. His body was breaking. But he wouldn’t let his body fall yet. He raised his dagger again, ready to kill until there was no one left standing.

  Rohan steadied himself, his grip on his dagger tightening. His legs felt heavier than before, his wounds screaming at him to stop. But he wouldn’t stop. Not until the last one fell.

  Another mercenary lunged, but before Rohan could react, a blade flashed through the air.

  The mercenary froze mid-step, a long dagger buried in his throat. He gurgled, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing to the ground. Three figures emerged from the darkness.

  The remaining attackers barely had time to react before the new arrivals struck. One of them, a tall woman wielding twin daggers, moved like a ghost, slipping between mercenaries and cutting them down with cold efficiency.

  The second, a man with dark hair and a scarred face, pulled a crossbow from his back and loosed two quick bolts. Both found their marks.

  The third, an older, hooded figure, didn’t move. He simply watched as the last mercenary tried to flee, only for the dagger-wielding woman to slit his throat from behind.

  Rohan stood there, swaying slightly, his breathing ragged. His benefactor was already wiping blood off her rapier, watching the newcomers with wary eyes.

  The older man finally spoke. His voice was calm and measured.

  “You’re lucky we got here when we did.”

  Rohan clenched his jaw, still gripping his dagger.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  The woman with the twin daggers smirked.

  “The ones who’ve been watching you.”

  The older man nodded.

  “We’re part of The Veil. And right now, you need us more than we need you.”

  Rohan exhaled sharply, his body threatening to give out. He had no strength left to argue.

  The scarred man with the crossbow gestured to a nearby grate in the street.

  “Come. We’ll talk somewhere safer.”

  Rohan looked at his benefactor, who simply sighed and rolled her eyes.

  “Well, at least tonight isn’t boring.”

  Without another word, they followed the strangers into the underground tunnels, leaving the bloodstained streets of Duskwatch behind.