Chapter 12: When The Blade Sings

Because they weren’t men. Not yet. Just two reckless initiates daring to hunt an Ascended.

The halls were thick with the scent of burning oil and iron. The second Ascended—Valthorne’s official—was absent, leaving only their true target behind. It was a rare sliver of weakness in an unshakable house, and Auren and Rhett didn’t hesitate.

They moved like shadows through the grand halls, past silk banners and cold marble. Their hearts thundered in unison, fists tightening around steel. The manor was eerily quiet.

Then came the first obstacle.

A man loomed in the corridor ahead, a giant draped in old scars.

A mercenary, but not just any—this one had the look of a war beast, a lion’s mane of golden hair cascading down his shoulders, twin axes gleaming at his sides. He was no mere guard. He was a killer who had lived through too many battles to count.

He didn’t look surprised. He looked amused.

“Two pups? The hell is this?” The mercenary rolled his shoulders, his voice thick with scorn. “Thought Valthorne had better enemies.”

Auren didn’t answer. Neither did Rhett. Words meant nothing.

The mercenary sighed, drawing his axes. “Fine, then. Let’s make this fun.”

Then he struck.

Faster than a man his size had any right to move, he lunged, axes blurring through the air.

Auren barely twisted away as steel whistled past his ear. Rhett wasn’t as lucky, the edge of a blade grazed his shoulder, slicing fabric and skin. He hissed in pain.

Auren ducked low, aiming a slash at the mercenary’s thigh. A flash of silver, a sudden clang, one of the axes intercepted his strike with brutal precision, knocking his sword wide. Before Auren could recover, the mercenary’s other axe came down like a hammer.

Auren barely rolled in time. The floor where he had stood splintered under the force of the blow.

Rhett moved next, striking from behind, his spear lashing out like a viper. The mercenary pivoted at the last second, catching the spear’s shaft between his axes, locking it in place. With a grin, he yanked it forward, nearly pulling Rhett off his feet.

“Not bad,” the mercenary said. “For a couple of brats.”

Auren surged forward, blade singing through the air. The mercenary was fast, but even he couldn’t dodge two attackers forever.

Auren’s sword bit into flesh, carving a crimson line along the man’s ribs. The mercenary snarled, jerking away, but Rhett was already upon him, tearing free his spear and driving the butt into the man’s gut.

The mercenary stumbled, but he wasn’t done. He bared his teeth, eyes alight with something between rage and excitement. He had been cut before. He had survived worse.

“Now you’re getting it,” he growled, bracing himself.

Then he came at them again, a whirlwind of death. The hall filled with the sharp clang of steel, the dull thuds of flesh meeting fists, the hiss of breath through gritted teeth. The fight stretched long, grueling, neither side yielding. Auren’s arms ached from parrying blow after blow, Rhett’s stance wavered from exertion.

The mercenary was slowing, but so were they.

Then Auren saw it—a mistake. Small, but there.

The mercenary shifted his weight just a hair too far forward after a swing, exposing his side. Auren didn’t think. He moved.

His blade slid between the mercenary’s ribs.

The man froze. A sharp exhale. His eyes flicked downward, disbelieving, to where Auren’s sword had buried itself deep. Blood welled around the wound, dripped onto the floor in heavy splashes.

Rhett didn’t hesitate. His spear drove into the mercenary’s throat, silencing him before he could speak.

A sharp choke. A gurgle.

Then nothing.

The towering warrior swayed. His axes slipped from his grasp, clattering against stone. Then, like a felled beast, he collapsed.

Auren staggered back, chest heaving. His hands were slick, trembling. The body before him was no longer a man. Just another corpse. Their first kill.

Rhett wiped a hand across his face, smearing blood. He looked at Auren, searching his face for something—doubt, regret.

But there was none.

Only the path ahead.

And at the end of that path, waiting in the heart of the stronghold, was the man they came to kill.

Marek Sable.

###

Marek Sable lounged at the grand oak table, one hand idly swirling a goblet of wine, the other resting lazily on the hilt of his dagger. He didn’t rise when Auren and Rhett stepped into the room, didn’t tense, didn’t so much as acknowledge the blood on their hands. He only smiled, slow and knowing, as if he had been expecting them all along.

“Quite the entrance,” he mused, tilting his goblet just enough for the deep red liquid to catch the lantern light. “Valthorne must have truly angered someone to warrant such… enthusiasm.”

Auren’s fingers curled into fists. Rhett said nothing, standing rigid beside him.

Sable exhaled, setting his goblet down with deliberate care. “Now, I’ve seen many things in my time—mercenaries, rebels, old fools chasing ghosts. But you two?” His sharp gaze flicked between them, curious. “You don’t look like soldiers. You look like something else. Tell me, what are you after?”

Auren didn’t answer.

Sable chuckled. “Ah, the silent treatment. A classic.” He leaned back, as if this were all a grand amusement. “Let me guess. You lost something, didn’t you? Something important. And you’re here to claim vengeance, or justice, or whatever word lets you sleep at night.”

Auren’s teeth clenched. He hated how easily Sable peeled back the surface, as if he could reach inside his mind and pick apart his reasons.

Sable sighed theatrically, shaking his head. “You know, I once stood where you’re standing now.” He tapped a finger against the wooden table, lost in thought. “There was a time when I thought blood could balance the scales.”

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He swirled his goblet, watching the wine move. “The Red Hawk,” he said suddenly. “Ever heard of them?”

Auren stilled.

Sable didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. His voice dropped slightly, something almost nostalgic creeping into his tone.

“They were a damn fine mercenary band. Cutthroats, warriors, survivors. And I was one of them.” He let the words settle before continuing. “We had a code, you know. Honor among killers, if you can believe it. We fought for coin, yes, but we fought for each other first.”

His smirk faded, just slightly.

“And then we were wiped out. Like insects beneath a boot.”

The room was too quiet. Even Rhett, who had kept still as stone, had shifted slightly, watching Sable now.

“I watched them fall, one by one,” Sable continued, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Friends I had bled beside, laughed with. Cut down like they were nothing.” He exhaled slowly, then looked up, his sharp eyes glinting. “And I learned something that day.”

Auren swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “What?”

Sable smiled. But this time, it wasn’t amused.

“That honor is a fool’s burden.”

He lifted his goblet and drank, savoring the taste. When he set it down, the smirk was back, lazy and dangerous.

“But enough about ghosts. Tell me, boys—who sent you? Whose grudge do you carry?”

Auren said nothing. His heart pounded in his chest. Sable didn’t know. He didn’t know they were Corren’s disciples.

And that meant they had the advantage.

Rhett still hadn’t spoken, but Auren could feel his tension, the silent fury just beneath the surface.

Sable exhaled, shaking his head. “Still not talking? Fine.” He rolled his shoulders, stepping around the table at last. “I prefer actions over words anyway.”

Auren took a slow breath, his fingers brushing against the Ring of the Mantle.

The world flickered.

A battlefield, soaked in blood. Shadows moving before they were cast. Enemies dying before they attacked.

Then it was gone. A fleeting vision.

Sable wasn’t just strong. He was reading the fight before it even began.

Auren’s stomach clenched.

Sable grinned. “Oh? Did you see something, boy?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it now. A sliver of real interest. “You hesitated. I do love when people realize the gap between us.”

Auren tightened his grip on his blade.

Rhett finally moved, spear at the ready. “Enough talk.”

Sable’s grin widened.

“Oh, gladly.”

Then the fight began

The air tensed, thick as a drawn bowstring.

Sable moved first.

One moment he stood at ease, the next he wasn’t there—just a blur of motion, faster than Auren could track. The goblet crashed to the floor, spilling wine like blood as Auren barely twisted in time, steel whispering past his ribs.

Auren lashed out, but Sable was already shifting, already reading him. His knife found the gap first.

Pain ripped across Auren’s side as the blade scored a shallow line. He staggered back, gritting his teeth.

Sable smirked. “Sloppy.”

Rhett was on him in an instant, spear thrusting like lightning. Sable tilted, just enough, just in time. The tip scraped past his cheek, drawing a thin red line—but Sable’s grin didn’t falter.

Instead, he stepped inside Rhett’s guard.

His fist shot forward, slamming into Rhett’s ribs like a hammer. A sharp crack. Rhett gasped, reeling back.

Auren lunged, his sword carving a silver arc. Sable turned with the motion, letting the blade slice empty air before punishing the opening with a brutal elbow to Auren’s jaw.

Auren hit the ground hard.

Sable exhaled, flexing his fingers, watching them with idle amusement. “Two on one, and this is all you’ve got? No wonder Valthorne’s still standing.”

Auren pushed himself up, wiping blood from his mouth. His vision swam, but his fury burned sharper than the pain.

He met Rhett’s eyes. No words. Just understanding.

They moved together.

Auren feinted high—Sable saw through it, but that was the point. Rhett was the real strike. His spear snapped forward, aimed for Sable’s heart.

But Sable already knew.

He twisted at the last second, dodging the fatal blow. But not completely.

The spear tore through his side, cutting deep.

Sable’s breath hitched.

Then he grinned.

“Not bad.”

He grabbed the spear. Wrenched it forward. Rhett barely had time to let go before a dagger sliced past his face.

Sable staggered back, hand pressed to his wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, but he only laughed.

“Much better.” His voice was still confident, but there was something else there now. Something excited.

He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders, as if shaking off the pain. “I was hoping this wouldn’t be boring.”

Auren tightened his grip. The fight wasn’t over.

It had just begun.

The temperature shifted.

Auren felt it first—not just the cold bite of battle, but something deeper, heavier. The air grew thick, pressing against his skin like unseen hands. A weight settled in his chest, his breath suddenly harder to draw.

Sable exhaled slowly, and the world around them changed.

His domain unfolded.

The lantern light dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally along the stone. The walls seemed to pull away, twisting into an expanse that shouldn’t exist—a battlefield frozen in time, figures locked mid-motion, their eyes hollow, their bodies half-formed specters of the past.

Auren was staggered. This wasn’t just illusion.

Sable spread his arms, blood still dripping from his wound. “Welcome,” he murmured, voice carrying an eerie reverence. “To the final moments of the Red Hawk.”

Auren and Rhett braced as the battlefield came alive.

Ghostly warriors surged forward, wielding weapons of flickering light. Their strikes were real,Auren barely dodged a phantom blade, the air hissing where it passed, cold as death.

Rhett twisted away from another, his spear passing harmlessly through a specter—only for another to seize his wrist, solid as flesh.

This was Sable’s power. Not just foresight. Not just reading the fight.

He was making them fight the past. His past.

Auren’s pulse thundered. They couldn’t win like this.

Sable strode through the chaos, untouched by the ghosts. He watched with a smirk, eyes glinting like a predator savoring the hunt. “Do you feel it?” .he smirked, “The weight of history? Every moment leads to another, and I’ve seen them all.”

Auren ducked a strike, slashed through mist, only for another specter to take its place. His chest tightened. They were being worn down, second by second.

And Sable hadn’t even drawn his blade yet.

Then, fire.

A roaring blaze ripped through the battlefield, scattering the ghosts.

Sable’s smirk widened. “Finally.”

His spirit beast stepped through the flames.

A stag wreathed in fire, its antlers searing brands against the darkness, its hooves leaving embers in their wake. It snorted, the heat of its breath curling the air.

Auren clenched his teeth.

Fine.

They had beasts too.

With a sharp whistle, Seig descended.

Lightning split the air as the great eagle swooped down, talons gleaming, wings crackling with energy. It shrieked, the sound tearing through the unnatural battlefield like a war cry.

Sable’s stag lowered its burning antlers.

Seig dove.

The beasts clashed.

Fire met lightning.

Sable finally drew his sword.

Auren twisted the ring of the mantle.

Power flooded his veins.

Time to end this.

The world twisted.

Auren felt it in his bones, in his blood—a sickening pull as the Shifting Mantle awakened, its power flooding through his veins. His body blurred, half his own, half something other. His muscles tensed with strength that wasn’t his, his instincts sharpened beyond human limits.

Marek Sable’s domain cracked.

The battlefield had been his. His power let him see the fight before it happened, predicting every move before they made it. But now—he couldn’t see. The Mantle shifted Auren beyond the boundaries of expectation, made him something that even Sable’s foresight couldn’t grasp.

Sable’s eyes widened as Auren moved—faster, sharper, unpredictable.

A sword swing that should have been met with a perfect counter came an inch too fast. A sidestep that should have dodged a spear strike instead brought him straight into its path.

For the first time, Marek Sable was fighting blind.

He hissed in frustration, lashing out in desperation, but Auren was already past his guard.

The Mantle carried him forward, weaving through Sable’s defenses like a phantom. Every time Sable thought he had him, Auren was already somewhere else—another shape, another step ahead.

The domain shattered.

The air trembled as Sable stumbled back, his ability torn apart at the seams. His advantage was gone.

And Auren struck.

His sword tore through flesh, sinking deep into Sable’s side. The mercenary let out a sharp gasp, staggering, but he still had fight left. He always had fight left.

With a snarl, Sable swung a desperate, brutal strike. Auren twisted, shifting mid-movement, the Mantle’s power flowing through him one last time. His body blurred—half his own, half a flicker of Corren’s stance, learned from countless days of training.

Auren’s blade found Sable’s heart.

For a moment, the mercenary simply stood there, mouth slightly open, disbelief flickering across his face. His fingers twitched, grasping at the empty air.

Then he exhaled, a broken, breathless laugh.

“Hah… You actually did it…” His voice was barely a whisper. He looked at Auren, not with rage, not with fear. Just understanding. And maybe, just maybe, respect.

Then his body collapsed.

Silence.

The Mantle faded. Auren swayed, his limbs suddenly weak. The cost of the power weighed on him now, his strength drained, his body hollow. Rhett was at his side, gripping his arm, steadying him.

Auren clutched his headband, the bloodstained cloth ,the last keepsake of his father's memory.

It was over.

But the weight in his chest did not lift.

Sable’s blood pooled at his feet, soaking into the stone. The same way Corren’s had. The same way so many others’ would.

Auren let out a shaky breath. “Guess we proved it, huh?”

Rhett glanced at him. “Proved what?”

Auren wiped the blood from his blade. “That vengeance doesn’t change a damn thing.”