Cain hated drunk people. And even still he sat right between them, resisting the urge to shove the nearest one back into sobriety. His soldiers, who could march across miles of desolate wasteland, who could hold formation under enemy fire, always managed to find an excuse to drink, even for small victories like this. A minor village, a trivial skirmish, a quick retrieval—and already they were sloshing their mugs, laughing like it was the end of a war.
He narrowed his gaze, watching as a few of them leaned against one another, voices too loud, eyes unfocused. Ridiculous.
Just a few hours ago, they’d been disciplined, all sharp eyes and tight lines. Now they were a rowdy mess, stumbling over themselves as if there was anything here worth celebrating. The Item was safe, and that was enough for him, but anything beyond that? Unnecessary.
He looked down, hands curled into fists. We’re soldiers, not some roving band of marauders celebrating stolen plunder. Discipline was everything, the backbone of any worthy force. Without it, you got chaos, weakness, hesitation when it mattered most. And he’d seen enough soldiers fall apart in the field, men and women who had once been sharp and deadly, but who had let themselves grow soft, one night of revelry at a time. The fog of liquor—poison, he corrected himself—was enough to make them forget what they were truly fighting for.
He hated it. He’d seen too many good fighters lose themselves, let their senses dull under the guise of celebration. But this was routine now; each skirmish, each minor success, was another reason to throw back drinks. He turned his gaze to the distant night horizon, the unchanging darkness beyond, and let out a quiet sigh. They were soldiers, yet here they were, behaving like children after a storm.
«Something on your mind, sir?» a voice cut through his thoughts.
Cain glanced over, meeting Valkyrie’s gaze. Her crimson hair, normally pulled back with military precision, was still as orderly as ever, and her posture remained steadfast, though she seemed faintly amused by his brooding expression.
«Another night, another excuse for them to lose their minds,» he muttered, almost to himself. «All it takes is one minor success, and they’re already dragging each other around like this is something to celebrate.»
Valkyrie raised an eyebrow, but her slight smirk showed she was used to his disapproval. «Small victories keep them going,» she said, her tone measured. «You know that. They’re not like you.»
Cain scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. «Not like me? They’re soldiers, Valkyrie. Just as much as I am. Or so they’re supposed to be.» His voice was low, edged with a hint of bitterness. «I’ve seen men lose their edge because of nights like this. Warriors who couldn’t face the next fight because they let themselves go soft, let discipline slip away one ‘small victory’ at a time.»
He glanced at her, half-expecting a lecture in return. Valkyrie didn’t push back, though. She only watched him with that quiet amusement, as if she knew his protests were more ritual than genuine frustration. She had served under him long enough to know that he would be there, scowling on the sidelines, every time they celebrated—yet he never stopped them.
After a moment, Valkyrie tilted her head slightly, as though saying, ‹So be it.› She turned her attention back to the rowdy camp, crossing her arms as she joined him in silent watch.
He let his gaze fall, an image flashing in his mind—of the village, the faces of the people they left behind, the devastation in that red-haired girl’s eyes. «That girl’s death… it was unnecessary,» he murmured, almost to himself.
Valkyrie looked at him, her own gaze a little harder. «Yes. But we can’t change it now. It happened, and it served its purpose.»
Cain nodded, though the thought left a foul taste in his mouth. He clenched his jaw and turned away, glancing at his tent, already set up and waiting for him, dark and quiet.
«Get some rest, Valkyrie,» he said, his voice a bit softer than before. «Tomorrow, we move.»
«Of course, sir,» she replied, giving him a slight smile that faded as he passed her.
Cain slipped through the rows of tents, the dull hum of laughter and drunken cheers fading with each step. Finally, he reached his own tent, drawing back the flap and entering the sparse, orderly space. The familiar silence surrounded him as he set his weapons aside, each motion mechanical, precise. He’d found a kind of solace in routine, in the way each small task could be controlled, kept predictable.
The noise outside had faded now, muffled by the walls of his tent. He settled down, his mind lingering briefly on the mission, on the path ahead. It was enough to think about, he told himself. More than enough.
—-------
Cira moved quietly, a shadow in the vast, broken landscape. Every footfall was deliberate, each step calculated to avoid the brittle remains of branches or the crunch of dried soil underfoot. Cain and his group hadn’t bothered to cover their tracks, and it hadn’t taken much effort to find the direction they’d taken. Even so, she knew that finding them was only half the challenge.
The chill of night clung to her, the stillness pressing down like a weight. She couldn’t shake the memories of the afternoon—the blood, the broken bodies, and the sound of Lina’s last, ragged breath. Her chest tightened as she pushed those thoughts away. There’d be time to mourn later, maybe, if she even made it back. For now, all that mattered was tracking down the man who had ordered it, who had stared down at Lina’s body with nothing but that infuriating, detached pity in his eyes.
Cain hadn’t even flinched. Not when the young woman had begged, not when her life had spilled out onto the ground. No remorse, no hesitation. Just cold indifference. She could still hear her own Desperate plea for Lina to stay alive. ‹No, no, no, Lina, stay with me..› The words had meant nothing to Cain, and it was that emptiness that drove Cira forward. The Ascendeds blood would be spilled, and she would be the one to do it.
But even now, as the night stretched long around her, doubt crept into her thoughts. She wasn’t a warrior, not like Cain’s group, and she had no allies here. Her hands, though steady, had only ever known the touch of a blade for defense, never for a killing strike. She could feel the weight of the energy blade in her belt, its cold edge pressing into her side, and for the first time in hours, she stopped.
The question gnawed at her. She had never wanted to be the one to end a life—not like this. But everything had changed when she saw Lina fall, when she had been forced to watch a person she had known and cared for bleed out without mercy. Cain had crossed a line. There was no going back from that. And if she hesitated now, then everything would have died in vain.
With a steadying breath, Cira continued her trek. The sound of her boots crunching over the dried earth was deafening in the silence of the night, but she forced herself to ignore it. She couldn’t afford to think about the past, or about what would happen when she reached the camp. There was no room for fear or hesitation now.
She crept through the brush, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the faint glow of firelight ahead. The camp was close.
Cira’s heart rate quickened, and she found herself pausing again, just beyond the treeline. The sounds of voices reached her Hearing aids, muffled but unmistakable. She dropped to her stomach, creeping closer, inch by inch. The moonlight cast long shadows over the clearing, but it wasn’t enough to fully hide her. She moved with precision, forcing herself to breathe shallowly, her gaze fixed on the group of figures by the fire.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
There they were.
The camp was spread out across a patch of dry earth. A fire blazed at the center, its light dancing off the faces of the Ascended. They sat around, drinking, laughing, completely oblivious to the predator in their midst.
Her fists clenched around the Energy Blade’s grip she carried. She couldn’t lose focus now; anger would only make her careless, and she couldn’t afford that. She took another careful step, her feet light, adjusting her weight to avoid any sound. The night was thick and silent, but her senses were sharp, every fiber of her alert for the slightest movement or sound that might signal she’d been spotted.
Patience, she reminded herself. Cain was a careful man, always calculating, always several steps ahead. And yet, he’d been sloppy enough to leave tracks this time. Or perhaps, he thought himself so far beyond the reach of vengeance that he didn’t care if he was followed. That arrogance only fueled her resolve. He should care. He should be afraid.
Then she saw him—Cain. His silhouette was unmistakable, almost towering above the others, moving with a quiet confidence that sickened her. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t laughing. Of course not. He didn't seem Like one to relax, always calculating, always aware of the threat others posed. Yet here he was, openly talking with another of his inner circle, Valkyrie. Cira recognized her, too. She was the one who lended her Weapon to Rian. The two exchanged a few quiet words, and then Cain nodded, dismissing her.
A chill ran down Cira’s spine as she watched Cain turn, heading toward his tent. She was close—so close she could practically feel his heartbeat. Her fingers twitched, her grip on the blade tightening until her knuckles turned white. Every fiber of her wanted to rush forward, to end it now, to make him suffer for what he’d done to Rian and her village. But she forced herself to stay hidden, to wait. If she attacked now, she’d only alert the others, and she’d never make it to him before they overwhelmed her.
Her gaze followed Cain as he moved, calm and unhurried, unaware of the predator in the shadows. He was arrogant, believing himself untouchable, believing no one would dare follow him this far. But she was here, wasn’t she? She’d dared. For Rian, for her village, for every life he’d torn apart, she was here.
As Cain disappeared into his tent, she crouched lower, feeling the energy hum through her, focusing her senses. Soon he would know fear.
—-----------
Cain stirred, something sharp pricking at the edge of his awareness, a strange pressure near his throat. He opened his eyes, only to be met with the gleam of a blade hovering dangerously close to his skin, its point already pressing in, drawing a fine bead of blood. His gaze sharpened instantly, and in the dim light, he saw her: The Red hairs from earlier, her face twisted with anger, her arm steady as she pressed the blade toward his neck. He had Not even a second to react.
His hand shot up, his fingers locking around her wrist. The mechanical grip of his prosthetic arm closed tightly, halting her thrust just before the blade could drive deeper. Even as he held her off, he felt her strength pressing against him, fierce and relentless, a force he hadn’t expected from her. She was fueled by something raw, something personal, something that lent her an unnatural power that caught him off guard. For a moment, he was struck by the ferocity in her eyes—eyes that burned with a hatred that went beyond anything he’d seen before.
«Didn’t expect me, did you?» she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a low growl as she leaned in, forcing her weight into the blade. Cain felt the pressure increase, the tip digging slightly deeper into his skin, his own blood warming as it trickled down his neck.
He grit his teeth, muscles straining as he tightened his grip on her wrist, trying to force her back, but she didn’t budge. Her strength was relentless, every ounce of her hatred pushing against him, challenging him. For the first time in a long time, Cain felt a flicker of vulnerability, a reminder that even he wasn’t immune to danger, that someone could come this close to him with murder in their eyes.
«Impressive,» he managed, his voice cold and steady, even as his muscles strained against her. «But not enough.»
With a sudden surge of effort, he twisted her wrist, using the leverage of his mechanical arm to pry her grip loose. She fought back, her expression twisted in fury, and for a moment, they struggled, locked in a brutal contest of strength and will. Finally, with a swift push, he managed to break her hold, shoving her back and rolling out of her reach. He pressed a hand to his neck, feeling the sting of the wound she’d left—a small, but pointed reminder of how close she’d come.
Cain straightened, eyes narrowing as he looked at her, his pulse still racing from the sudden wake-up call. She was stronger than he’d thought, more tenacious than he’d given her credit for. And in that moment, he realized she was no mere nuisance. This was personal—for both of them.
Cain’s fingers moved to his neck, feeling the thin, wet line where her blade had cut him. The pain grounded him, narrowed his focus, and he stepped back, calculating his options in an instant. But before he could fully assess, Cira lunged again, wild and unpredictable, her movements so quick and fierce that his prosthetic eye struggled to keep up. The enhanced lens whirred softly, adjusting to the speed, but each time he caught sight of her, she shifted, her attacks furious and erratic, unlike the precise, controlled strikes of the trained Ascended he was used to facing.
She came at him again, slashing forward, her blade flashing in the dim light, and he barely twisted aside in time. Her weapon sliced through the air just inches from his face, the rush of movement stirring the hair near his temple. He could feel her energy pulsing, her sheer determination making her faster, stronger, harder to predict.
Without wasting another second, Cain reached for his own Energy Blade. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he activated it with a swift movement. The weapon blazed to life in his hand, its energy crackling, humming with power. He caught a flicker of surprise in Cira’s eyes—she hadn’t activated hers, a detail he noted with satisfaction. She’d come here intending to kill him, but she’d underestimated the advantage that energy held.
She hesitated for a split second, and Cain took full advantage, swinging his blade in a wide arc. She leapt back, narrowly avoiding the strike, her gaze never leaving his. Her face was flushed, her breathing quickened, but that look of pure, unyielding hatred hadn’t dimmed in the slightest.
«Still think you can take me?» he taunted, his voice steady, even amused, as he took a step forward, his blade angled, ready.
Cira lunged at him again, her movements wild and erratic, each strike coming from unexpected angles, and Cain’s prosthetic eye struggled to track her. Every time he thought he’d found a rhythm, she’d break it, her body twisting, pivoting with a ferocity that was both impressive and dangerous. His eye flickered, recalibrating, the digital display flashing warnings as it struggled to adjust to her unpredictable movements. She wasn’t calculated; she was pure force, driven by instinct and rage, an unrelenting storm that refused to be contained.
He deflected one strike only for her to come at him from a different angle, her blade grazing his shoulder as he twisted away just in time. A low growl escaped him. She was faster than he’d anticipated, driven by a raw, unrestrained fury that made her impossible to predict. His prosthetic eye blurred for a moment, struggling to lock onto her erratic form.
Her blade sliced close again, nearly catching his shoulder as he sidestepped and countered with his Energy Blade, the force of his swing sending sparks against the tent walls. She wasn’t fast enough to dodge fully this time, and he caught her on the side, though it was a glancing blow. She snarled, unfazed, as if the hit only fueled her anger further.
Cain forced himself to adapt, to tune out the confusion his eye was experiencing. Little by little, his vision adjusted to the rhythm of her wild style. He began to see patterns in her chaos—the slight shift in her stance before she leaped, the way her weight shifted when she prepared to feint. His movements became more precise, cutting off her attacks just enough to keep her at bay, but even as he gained the upper hand, she still fought with an intensity that tested him.
Cain managed a few clean strikes, one that glanced her thigh, another that nicked her forearm, and each time she stumbled, he expected her to falter. But she only gritted her teeth and pressed harder, pushing through the pain with a relentless focus that both impressed and infuriated him.
The fight moved around the tent, his strikes tearing through its fabric, the dull glow of the campfire outside casting uneven shadows across them as they clashed. Cain’s eye had nearly adjusted to her now, and he could predict her movements more accurately, though her sheer unpredictability kept him from fully pinning her down. He went for a quick jab aimed at her midsection, but she twisted away and threw herself at him with raw, brutal force, catching him off guard. They collided, grappling in a deadly struggle for control as they tumbled against the tent wall.
The tent ripped open as they rolled outside, crashing into the cold night air. Dust and embers from the campfire whirled around them, the firelight casting their figures into sharp relief. Cain could hear the startled shouts of his comrades nearby, but he didn’t look away from her even for a second. He could feel the weight of her pressing down, her breath ragged and fierce as she fought to pin him, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her weapon. The blood from his neck trickled down, mixing with sweat, a hot reminder of just how close she had come.
—--------
Her hands found his neck, fingers digging in with a fierce, almost desperate grip. She could feel his pulse pounding beneath her hands, could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes as she pressed harder, her whole body leaning into the hold. She was close, so close to taking him down, feeling the life leave his body under her grasp.
But before she could tighten her hold, a sharp, brutal force collided with her ribs—a powerful kick from his leg. Pain exploded through her side, and she felt herself wrenched backward, her fingers slipping from his neck as the impact sent her sprawling across the ground. She hit the dirt hard, a few meters away, the wind knocked from her lungs. Cira gasped, her vision blurring for a moment as she struggled to catch her breath, her ribs aching with each shallow inhale.
A few meters away, Valkyrie stood, her posture poised and calm, as if the strike had been nothing more than a casual reminder. Cira could see the smirk tugging at the corner of Valkyrie’s lips as she took a step forward, each movement radiating lethal precision.
"You should’ve known better than to take him on alone," Valkyrie said, her voice low and mocking. The taunt was clear, and it stung worse than the pain in her side.
Cira wiped blood from her mouth, her gaze hardening. She couldn’t back down now—not with Cain still there, not with everything she had fought for hanging in the balance. She took a slow, deliberate breath, the world sharpening as the adrenaline surged again, flooding her senses.
Cain was watching them both now, standing in the background, his eyes narrowed, waiting.
Cira’s hands clenched into fists, her resolve hardening like iron. She would not fail—not now. Not after everything. With a snarl, she pushed herself to her feet.
Cira’s heart hammered as she dashed toward her Energy Blade, the weapon gleaming just out of reach. She reached for it, fingers closing around the hilt, and for a brief moment, the sharp, familiar hum of power surged through her as she lifted it high, ready to strike. Her muscles screamed in protest, the ache in her ribs a constant reminder of Valkyrie’s blow, but she ignored it. There was no room for weakness now. She woul finish this.
But before she could make a move, the night was torn apart by a series of explosions, their deafening blasts rattling the ground beneath her feet. The earth shook with a force that knocked her off balance. The camp was thrown into chaos as the sound of gunfire and shouting echoed through the night. A soldier, one of Cain's men, screamed into the confusion. «The Godhunters! They’re attacking us!»
Cira’s mind raced. The distraction—this was her chance. But before she could move, before she could take advantage of the chaos, something hard and unforgiving struck her from behind, knocking the breath from her lungs and sending her crashing into darkness. The last thing she registered before the world went black was the distant sound of soldiers shouting and the flicker of a figure moving swiftly through the smoke-filled air.