The cart rattled through the narrow mountain pass, jagged cliffs looming overhead, their shadows stretching beneath the pale moonlight. A cold wind howled through the valley, the wheels grinding against loose gravel.
The wayfarers sat in stiff silence, faces barely illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Zephyr rested near the back, one leg lazily draped over the other, his gaze distant.
Then, he felt it. A heartbeat out of rhythm.
His instincts roared.
Zephyr twisted just as the faintest whisper of steel sliced past his cheek. A second strike came from the left—he barely evaded it, but a sharp sting bloomed on his shoulder.
Before he could counter, the driver yanked the reins. The cart lurched violently. Another attacker lunged from behind.
Zephyr rammed his elbow into a man's throat, seized another by the wrist, and twisted until the bones snapped. One down. Two remained.
His golden eyes flickered in the dim light, narrowing.
Damn wayfarers! They didn't just sell me out—they set the ambush themselves?!
Horses shrieked. The wooden frame tilted.
Zephyr's world flipped.
What the—?!
The cart collapsed with a deafening crunch, splintering apart as it crashed down the rocky slope. Zephyr hit the ground in a roll, pain jolting through his shoulders. Beside him, one of the wayfarers lay motionless, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
The shadows of the cliffs stirred. Figures emerged—hooded hunters, their weapons gleaming under the moon. A perfect trap.
Zephyr exhaled slowly, rolling his injured shoulder despite the spreading numbness.
So, only three wayfarers, huh? No wonder I escaped the cart. But still… five hunters.
The last wayfarer smirked. "You were too easy to lead, Seeker."
Zephyr chuckled darkly. "You'll regret that."
Then, he flickered.
His presence wavered—his form blurring at the edges. Shadows split, distorted, weaving illusions into the night.
A dagger shot toward his side. He parried, steel ringing against steel. He moved like a phantom—dodging, countering, carving through them like moonlight slashing across the dark.
One hunter swung a poisoned blade. Zephyr let it graze him—just enough to bait the fool in. Then, with a brutal snap, he drove his knee into the man's chest, sending him sprawling.
The others hesitated. Zephyr relished the moment—the desperation in their eyes, the slow, dawning realization.
They had vastly underestimated him.
With one of the hunters staggered back, clutching his chest where Zephyr's knee had slammed into him. Others circled cautiously, eyes flickering between Zephyr's shifting illusions, sweat trailing down his brow.
They're afraid now. Good.
Zephyr let a slow breath slip through his lips, his golden eyes gleaming under the moonlight. The illusions wavered for a moment before snapping back into place—dozens of flickering reflections of him standing amidst the carnage.
One hunter made a mistake.
He lunged.
Zephyr shifted, twisting out of the way with an effortless grace. His fingers found the man's neck—bones and muscles grinding under his grip. A sickening crack.
A choked scream.
Zephyr didn't let go. Instead, he pulled, dragging the man off balance, slamming him face-first into the rocky ground.
A third hunter, desperate, swung a curved blade laced with poison. Zephyr saw it.
Too slow...
He sidestepped, then drove his elbow into the attacker's throat. The man gurgled, stumbling back, dropping his weapon clawing his neck for a breath.
Only two left.
The wayfarer, the last traitor, was among them. He trembled but held his ground, his dagger shaking in his grip. "You—you're not human," he whispered, voice barely audible over the wind.
Zephyr smirked. "And you're a fool."
The final two moved together—one slashing high, the other aiming low. Zephyr let them. He let the blade graze through him, as a wave of heat burned through his body. The wayfarer's lips curled as the blood bathed his dagger.
His vision blurred. The cold night air suddenly felt suffocatingly warm. His pulse pounded in his ears.
"What's wrong?", the wayfarer looked at Zephyr with a satisfied grin. "Finally, the poison kicked in?", he let out a silent laugh.
A dagger flashed through the air—sinking into the wayfarer's back of the throat. A wet gasp. A final, shuddering breath.
The figure of Zephyr vanished into darkness as he emerged from the spot behind the wayfarer.
Zephyr seized the moment, ripping the blade free from his lower abdomen. Crimson sprayed across the dirt.
One left.
The Hunter hesitated, eyes flicking towards his fallen comrades. Zephyr smirked despite the dull ache spreading through his body. "What? Haven't you seen a seeker before?" His voice was hoarse, but his stance remained firm. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
The hunter charged.
This time, Zephyr wasn't as fast. The dagger nicked his arm before he countered, stepping inside the man's guard and slamming his forehead into the hunter's nose. A sickening crack echoed. The man reeled back, dazed—just long enough for Zephyr to carve his blade across his throat.
The body hit the dirt. Silence followed.
Zephyr let out a slow breath. His legs nearly buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright. The heat in his blood was growing worse. His wounds burned—not from the cuts themselves, but from whatever toxin laced the blades.
His fingers trembled as he searched the broken bodies for any clues. But of no use.
"Damn it…" He cursed under his breath, staggering back a step. His vision swam, but he clenched his jaw. He had no intention of dying here.
He still had a long way to go. His golden gaze lifted toward the distant horizon.
Not yet.
The night wasn't over yet.
Then, a thought struck him. A cold realization settled in his gut, heavier than the poison in his veins.
A voice echoed from memory. Never leave loose ends.
Zephyr exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists.
"Was it you, Duke Alistair?"