Time had lost meaning.
Cassian drifted between the waking world and darkness, his body a battleground of pain. His wounds burned, his breathing was shallow, and each heartbeat was a painful reminder that he was still alive. He couldn't tell if it had been hours or days since the massacre at the bandit camp.
But something was wrong.
The scent of blood was still thick in the air, but there was something else now—herbs, the faintest trace of smoke, the sterile tang of clean bandages. He shifted slightly, and a sharp sting flared through his ribs. Bandages. Fresh. Someone had tended to him. Someone had been here.
The realization sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins. His fingers twitched toward his side, searching for the black dagger he had taken from the last bandit—the one who had begged, had sobbed, had died choking on his own breath.
It was still there.
His fingers curled around the hilt, its worn surface warm against his skin. The metal seemed to drink the moonlight rather than reflect it, a weapon forged not for battle but for something far darker. It felt right in his hand, as if it had been waiting for him.
He exhaled slowly. If they had wanted him dead, they would not have wasted time bandaging his wounds. But that did not mean he was safe.
A sound. Soft. Almost imperceptible.
Footsteps.
Cassian forced his body to still, despite the ache that clawed at his bones. His vision swam as he turned his head, scanning the ruins of the camp. The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows against the wreckage. Bodies lay where they had fallen, stiff and lifeless, their final expressions frozen in horror.
And at the edge of it all, half-shrouded in darkness—someone stood watching.
Unmoving.
The firelight caught the glint of something. A blade? Armor? He couldn't tell. His grip on the dagger tightened, but before he could fully focus, the figure melted into the night, disappearing as if they had never been there at all.
Not a dream. Not a hallucination.
Someone had saved him. And now, they were gone.
But why?
His mind raced through the possibilities. A survivor from the attack? A rogue bandit? No. That didn't fit. Whoever had done this had tended his wounds with precision. The bandages were clean, the cuts properly wrapped. Not the work of a vagrant scavenger or some half-hearted mercenary.
This wasn't an act of kindness. This was a message.
Cassian exhaled, forcing himself to think past the exhaustion. Someone had chosen to intervene. That meant he was still a piece on the board, still part of a larger game—one he didn't yet understand.
His fingers traced the bandages over his ribs. The work was practiced. Calculated.
Whoever had done this had a purpose.
And Cassian needed to find out what it was.
For now, there was nothing he could do but let his body recover. But once he could stand again—once the strength returned to his limbs—he would find them.
Even
if he had to carve the answers from their flesh.
The next time Cassian woke, the sky was painted in deep shades of purple, signaling the approach of dawn. A cold wind whispered through the ruins of the camp, carrying the stench of blood and decay. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. A day? Two?
Pain still gripped his body, but the worst of it had dulled. His wounds were healing—slowly, but surely. Whoever had tended to him had left supplies within reach: fresh bandages, a water skin, and a small bundle of dried rations. Not a feast, but enough to keep him alive.
He forced himself upright, biting back the groan that threatened to escape. His ribs protested, sharp pain flaring with each movement, but he refused to yield. Weakness meant death.
The world tilted for a moment, his vision blurring. He braced himself against the cold earth and waited for the dizziness to pass.
Survival demanded action.
His fingers instinctively found the hilt of his dagger—the same black blade he had taken from the last bandit he had killed. Its weight was familiar now, its eerie, light-drinking metal a silent promise in his grip. A weapon forged for something far darker than simple battle.
He exhaled, steadying himself.
The ruins of the camp stretched before him in the dim light, bodies scattered like broken dolls. Some had died quickly. Others had suffered. The scent of rot was thickening, yet no scavengers had come to pick the remains clean. That meant he was not far from civilization. The air was too still, too quiet.
His benefactor—whoever they were—had not left any sign of their presence beyond the supplies. No markings, no message, nothing but the unspoken truth that Cassian's survival had not been an accident.
Someone wanted him alive.
But why?
He forced himself to move, testing his limbs, assessing the damage. His left side was stiff, ribs bruised or cracked beneath the bandages. His muscles ached with exhaustion, but his body obeyed. That was enough.
His first priority was understanding his surroundings. His second—securing more than just the dagger at his side.
There had to be something left worth taking.
Cassian scanned the wreckage with a predator's eye. A rusted sword lay near a fallen bandit, its edge chipped, its handle slick with dried blood. Useless. A shattered shield, a snapped bowstring, a corpse clutching an empty quiver—nothing worth the effort.
Then, something else caught his attention.
Near the remains of the campfire, half-buried beneath the bloodstained dirt, a small satchel lay undisturbed. Not bandit gear. Something else.
Cassian forced himself to his feet, gritting his teeth as pain flared through his ribs. He staggered but did not fall.
Each step was a battle, but he reached the satchel and crouched, opening it with careful hands.
Inside: a waterskin—not empty. A handful of dried meat, wrapped in cloth. A small pouch of coins, though he didn't care for those now. And at the bottom, tucked between the folds of fabric—
A single vial of dark liquid.
He lifted it into the dim light, studying it. The glass was smooth, the contents thick. Not water. Not wine. Something else entirely.
Poison? Medicine? He couldn't tell. But it had been left behind, untouched, while everything else had been burned or looted. That alone made it worth keeping.
Cassian slipped the vial into his belt, along with the coins. Food and water would sustain him for now, but information would keep him alive longer.
He would need to leave soon. Staying here meant waiting for whoever had done this to reveal themselves, and he had no intention of being someone else's pawn.
Whoever they were, they had a purpose.
Cassian intended to find out what it was.
But first, he had to move.
He could not stay i
n the ruins of the past.
He had to rise.
And he would.
The wind carried the scent of death.
Cassian moved through the ruins of the bandit camp, his steps slow, measured. His body ached, but his will pushed him forward. He had lingered here long enough. If whoever had saved him was watching, they had chosen not to reveal themselves. That meant he was on his own.
He needed to leave.
He needed food, shelter, and above all, a plan.
His gaze fell upon the corpses littering the ground—bandits who had once laughed and jeered at his suffering. Now, they were nothing but rotting flesh and shattered bones. He crouched beside a fallen man, stripping him of a tattered cloak. It smelled of sweat and blood, but it would do.
As he wrapped it around his shoulders, his fingers brushed against the hilt of the black dagger he had taken from the last bandit—the one who had begged, had sobbed, had died choking on his own breath.
The dagger's edge was chipped, its surface worn, but beneath the grime, the metal seemed to drink the moonlight rather than reflect it. A weapon forged not for battle, but for something far darker. It felt right in his hand, as if it had been waiting for him.
Cassian did not question it.
He searched the dead, taking a half-eaten loaf of bread, a rusted belt, and a few coins that might still hold value. The spoils of the fallen. It wasn't much, but it would keep him alive.
Then, in the distance, he heard something.
A faint, wet cough.
His head snapped toward the source. Beyond the wreckage of the camp, near an overturned cart, a man lay sprawled on the ground. His robes, once fine, were torn and soaked in blood. His breaths came in shallow, rattling gasps.
A merchant.
Cassian approached cautiously, his fingers tightening around the dagger's hilt. He had seen too many desperate men play dead only to strike when their victims let their guard down. But this one was barely clinging to life.
The merchant's eyes fluttered open, glazed and unfocused. His lips moved, whispering something Cassian couldn't hear.
Cassian knelt beside him, his instincts warring with his curiosity. He had no reason to help this man. Yet, something made him lean closer.
The merchant's cracked lips parted.
"The cave… in Blackwood… hidden… forgotten…"
Cassian's breath caught.
"What cave?" he demanded.
But the merchant was already gone. His final words slipping into the cold wind.
Cassian stared at the lifeless body, his mind racing.
A cave. Hidden. Forgotten.
He didn't know what lay inside. But if there was even a chance it held something valuable—something that could help him survive—he had no choice.
He would find it.
And he would take whatever it had to offer.
The outlaw town of Varath's Hollow was a place where gold ruled and blood spilled easily.
Cassian stood at its entrance, pulling the stolen cloak tighter around his shoulders. The town was nothing more than a cluster of makeshift buildings, half-buried in the jagged hills of Vordania's outskirts. Merchants peddled stolen goods, mercenaries sharpened their blades, and criminals bartered lives as if they were mere currency.
He moved carefully, avoiding eye contact, blending into the filth of the streets. He needed supplies—food, medicine, a disguise—but stealing in a place like this was a death sentence. A flayed corpse hung from a wooden post in the town square, a warning to thieves.
Cassian wasn't stupid.
If he wanted something, he would take it with his mind, not his hands.
He found his mark—a fat, bejeweled merchant seated behind a stall of exotic wares. His rings alone were worth a fortune. But Cassian wasn't after gold. He needed information.
He approached with the practiced ease of nobility, his voice smooth, confident.
"Strange place for a man of fine taste," he mused, eyeing the merchant's wares.
The man squinted at him, wary. "What do you want?"
Cassian let the silence stretch before speaking. "The Blackwood."
The merchant stiffened.
"You're either mad or desperate," he muttered, glancing around as if someone might be listening. "That place is cursed."
Cassian smiled.
"Curses don't scare me. What do you know?"
The merchant hesitated, then leaned in. "Few who enter the Blackwood return. Those who do… they're never the same. There's something in there. Something old."
Cassian's heart quickened.
"A cave?"
The merchant's face paled. "You're serious."
Cassian didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The merchant sighed, rubbing his temples. "If you're determined to die, follow the old trade route. It'll take you to the Blackwood's edge. But once you step inside…" He shook his head. "You're on your own."
Cassian slid a few stolen gold coins across the table—plundered from the dead merchants on the roadside, their previous owners long forgotten.
Cassian didn't waste time. He gathered his stolen supplies—a few dried rations, a waterskin, and fresh bandages—before slipping back into the shadows.
The Blackwood awaited.
But as he moved through the crowd, he felt it again.
A presence.
Watching.
His hand drifted to his black dagger.
He wasn't alone.
But neither was whoever followed him.
Cassian smirked. If they wanted to play, he would let them.
For now.