Rohan stood at the edge of the clearing. The wind carried the faint scent of damp earth and pine, the morning mist curling around him like unseen hands. He barely felt the cold anymore—his body had been tempered by months of suffering, his nerves dulled to anything but survival.

  He was different now. The boy who had once fought with reckless anger, who had let his emotions rule him, was gone. Now, when he moved, he made no sound. His footsteps, once heavy with inexperience, barely disturbed the dirt beneath him. His breathing was so controlled it was almost unnatural.

  His body, hardened through endless pain, had changed. Gone was the thin frame of a desperate street fighter. Now, every muscle was honed for killing. He wasn’t broad like a knight, nor towering like a brute, he was something else entirely. He was lean, fast, and efficient.

  His arms and back were lined with scars, reminders of the brutal lessons beaten into him. His face had changed too. The sharp, youthful features had given way to something colder, more defined. His jaw was stronger, his cheekbones sharper, his skin rough from training under the elements.

  His eyes were the most different of all. Once, they had burned with rage, wild and uncontrolled. Now, they were something worse. Empty, not emotionless, there was no hesitation in them, no fear, only certainty.

  He was like a shadow, a presence that lingered just out of reach, something that felt unnatural in its silence. Even the old man had noticed it.

  "You walk like a ghost now, that's good, the deadliest ones are never seen until it’s too late."

  Rohan hadn’t responded. He had only continued sharpening his blade. Because soon, it would be put to use.

  The old man stood with his arms crossed, watching Rohan from across the room.

  "It's been a year, your training is done. It's time for you to go out into the world."

  Rohan remained still, his grip tightening slightly on the hilt of his dagger. He had known this was coming. Still, something about hearing it out loud made the air feel heavier.

  The old man continued, his voice as firm as ever.

  "You have four months. On that day, I’ll meet you in a village near the Iron Talons’ stronghold. And when that time comes…"

  "We’ll burn it to the ground."

  Rohan finished.

  The old man nodded.

  "Exactly."

  Rohan exhaled slowly, his thoughts already rushing ahead, planning.

  "Why wait? We can take them now."

  The old man chuckled, shaking his head.

  "And that’s the difference between us, boy. You think like a fighter. I think like a strategist.”

  Rohan frowned, but the old man continued.

  "You’re not just going to attack the stronghold. You're going to dismantle them. From the inside, from the outside, from every angle they don’t see coming."

  Rohan listened.

  "For the next four months, you will become a nightmare to them."

  The old man’s gaze was sharp, filled with certainty.

  "You will raid their supply lines. Attack their outposts. Burn their smaller strongholds. Kill their commanders in the night. Make them bleed. Make them fear the shadows.”

  Rohan understood now. This wasn’t just a war. It was psychological destruction.

  "You will be one man forcing an entire army to spread itself thin, they’ll send men after you. Waste resources tracking you. Their ranks will lose trust in their leaders when their strongholds start to fall."

  Rohan's lips pressed into a thin line. It was smart, and it was ruthless. It was exactly the kind of war he wanted to wage.

  He looked at the old man, nodding once.

  "Four months."

  The old man smirked. "I’ll see you at the meeting point, boy. Until then-"

  He stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand on Rohan’s shoulder.

  "Make them suffer.”

  Rohan rode through the dense woods, his movements silent. It had been a year since he had last seen civilization, a year spent in isolation, becoming something deadlier than the boy who had first entered the old man’s dungeon.

  Now, as he neared the first village, he felt something different, a tension in the air. The world had changed while he had been gone. And now, he was about to see just how much.

  The village wasn’t large, but it was active. Too active. Rohan entered just before dusk, keeping his hood low, his steps careful. The streets bustled with people moving supplies, crates of food, barrels of weapons. Men stood at corners with swords at their hips, their eyes scanning the road for threats.

  This wasn’t a peaceful village. This was a border town on edge. Rohan took in everything as he walked, his movements purposeful but not suspicious. He listened. Watched. What he learned was worse than he expected.

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  The war had already begun. Rumors whispered in the marketplace. The Iron Talons had expanded their reach. More strongholds had been built, entire regions taken under their control. Some resisted, but those who did didn’t last long.

  The kingdom’s nobles were divided. Some prepared for war, others hesitated, hoping the problem would resolve itself.

  Prince Lemeir? No one spoke his name outright, they only did in hushed tones, behind closed doors, Rohan heard the truth. He wasn’t just claiming land. He was tearing down the old world piece by piece.

  Rohan stepped into a dimly lit tavern, the scent of ale and damp wood filling his senses. The room was lively but tense. Men drank in silence, casting glances toward the armed guards near the door.

  A place like this would have information. Rohan moved to the bar, sitting down without drawing attention. A heavyset bartender approached, wiping a mug with a rag.

  “What’ll it be?”

  Rohan placed a few coins on the table.

  "Information.”

  The bartender paused. His eyes flicked to the coins, then to Rohan’s face.

  “What kind?”

  Rohan leaned in slightly.

  "The Iron Talons. Their movements. Their commanders."

  The bartender let out a slow breath.

  "That’s dangerous talk, kid."

  Rohan gave him a look.

  "So is keeping quiet."

  The bartender studied him for a long moment, then sighed. He pocketed the coins and leaned in.

  “Word is, one of their officers is passing through in a day or two, not a commander, but someone important. Someone who collects information for them."

  Rohan’s eyes sharpened.

  "Where?"

  The bartender nodded toward a table in the corner where a group of men sat drinking, their voices low.

  “Ask them. They work the roads. If the Talons have a messenger coming through, they’ll know.”

  Rohan didn’t hesitate. He stood, adjusting his cloak, and walked toward the table. If the Iron Talons had an information officer coming through, then Rohan would be there to greet him. And when he did, he’d start tearing them apart from the inside.

  Rohan didn’t waste time. He moved through the dimly lit tavern with purpose, his footsteps silent but firm. The men at the table barely noticed him at first, too focused on their drinks and hushed conversation. But when he pulled out a chair and sat down, their attention snapped to him.

  Four of them, rough-looking and armed. Smugglers, mercenaries, or scouts, it didn’t matter. The largest of the group, a thick-necked man with a scar running down his cheek, scowled.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Rohan leaned back slightly, unbothered.

  “I heard you might know something, about an Iron Talon officer traveling through here.”

  The men exchanged glances. The scarred man chuckled, shaking his head.

  “You must be new around here. We don’t talk about the Talons to strangers.”

  Rohan’s gaze stayed locked on him, cold and unwavering.

  "Then let's stop being strangers.”

  The man’s smirk faltered. The way Rohan spoke, the way he carried himself, it didn’t match his age. There was something else behind those eyes. Another man, leaned forward.

  "What’s it to you?"

  Rohan exhaled slowly.

  “Let’s just say I have business with them.”

  The scarred man narrowed his eyes.

  "And what kind of business would that be?"

  Rohan let the silence stretch, just long enough to make them uneasy. Then, he spoke, his voice steady, sharp as a blade.

  "The kind where people stop breathing."

  The table went still. The younger man’s fingers twitched toward the hilt of his knife. The scarred man’s smirk returned, but this time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Sounds like you’re looking for trouble, kid.”

  Rohan’s lips barely moved.

  "No, I’m looking for a name."

  The scarred man’s smirk widened, but his hand drifted toward his belt. A bad move. Rohan was already in motion. His dagger flashed under the table, pressing into the man’s side before he could react. The others stiffened, hands freezing on their weapons.

  The scarred man grunted, realizing his mistake. Rohan’s voice didn’t change.

  "Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

  The man hesitated, then exhaled.

  "You don’t mess with the Talons, boy."

  Rohan pressed the blade deeper.

  “I already have.”

  Another silence.

  "Fine."

  He leaned back slightly, submitting.

  “There’s a courier. Name’s Marek. He’s passing through tomorrow night. Stays outside the village, doesn’t trust the locals.”

  Rohan pulled the blade away, standing up.

  “And?”

  The man rubbed his ribs where the dagger had pressed.

  “And he’s always got two bodyguards. Mercs. Good ones.”

  Rohan adjusted his cloak.

  “Not good enough.”

  The scarred man watched him, something unreadable in his expression.

  “You’re a dead man if you go after him.”

  Rohan turned slightly, his eyes shadowed beneath his hood.

  "No, he is."

  And with that, he walked out, leaving the table in stunned silence. Tomorrow night, the real hunt would begin.

  Most of the locals had retreated indoors, locking their doors as the chill of evening settled in. Only the faint flicker of torchlight lined the roads, barely cutting through the darkness.

  Rohan waited. His hood was drawn low, his body pressed against the cold stone wall of an alley corner. He had been here for hours, unmoving, watching and waiting, and finally, they came.

  Three figures approached down the road, their boots crunching softly against the dirt path. Marek, the courier, walked in the center, flanked by two armed mercenaries.

  They were talking, but Rohan wasn’t listening. He was already moving. The first merc never saw it coming.

  Rohan slipped from the shadows, his dagger flashing in the moonlight as he drove it deep into the man’s throat. The merc gurgled, hands flying up, but Rohan had already ripped the blade free.

  The second merc spun, reaching for his sword but it was too late. Rohan slashed his dagger across the man’s wrist, severing tendons. The sword clattered to the ground.

  The merc staggered back, clutching his ruined hand. Rohan buried his blade in the side of his skull, his body collapsing without a sound.

  Marek froze, the entire exchange had happened in seconds. One moment, he had two armed guards. The next, he was alone. His breathing quickened. He turned to run.

  Rohan grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the alley wall. Marek choked as his back hit the stone. He clawed at his wrist, but the grip was like iron. He dragged him deeper into the alley, out of sight, out of reach.

  When he finally released him, Marek collapsed to the ground, coughing, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall.

  "W-wait, you don’t know who I work for!"

  Rohan crouched in front of him, his dagger dripping with blood

  "Yes, I do."

  He reached out and broke one of Marek’s fingers.

  "And now you’re going to tell me everything.”

  Marek panted, shaking, his face pale. Rohan grabbed his hand, twisting another finger.

  "Start talking."

  Marek sobbed.

  "I-I don’t know much! I just deliver messages!"

  "Who sent you?"

  Marek swallowed hard.

  "A-a lieutenant! From the stronghold!"

  Rohan leaned closer, his dagger hovering just over Marek’s eye.

  "Which one?”

  Marek flinched.

  "Varek! His name is Varek!"

  Rohan filed the name away.

  "And what was your message?"

  Marek hesitated, Rohan twisted his already broken finger causing Marek to scream again.

  "Supplies! The stronghold is getting low! They need more steel, more food, they’re preparing for something big!"

  Rohan’s gaze darkened. The stronghold was stockpiling supplies. That meant they were expecting an attack, or planning one.

  "Where was the message supposed to go?"

  Rohan pressed.

  "A Talon outpost, two days east! They have runners there, they relay information to the stronghold!"

  Rohan stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he stood.

  Marek gasped in relief.

  "Th-thank you-"

  Rohan slit his throat. The body slumped forward, lifeless. No loose ends.

  Rohan cleaned his blade on Marek’s cloak, sheathed it, and stepped back into the shadows of the alley.

  He had his next target, the outpost, and when he got there, he’d make sure they remembered his name.