Amelia carefully assessed the men standing at attention before her. These were the best she could gather from her conquered territories, and while they might not match her exacting standards of power, she was confident in their loyalty and dedication.
Young humans who had lost everything were always among the most malleable, especially when their anger and frustration could be directed to a real evil. Amelia wasn’t above using her looks to secure their initial acceptance into her little training program, and after that, a bit of good old-fashioned indoctrination did the rest.
She hadn’t even needed to fake crime scenes or twist the facts this time! Count Pollus’ vanguard had been thorough enough in their extermination of the villages which showed even a hint of revolutionary sentiment that her trainees were able to find all the motivation they needed.
Of course, she couldn’t send them off to a suicide mission without instilling a glimmer of hope. It was a necessity, a lifeline that could keep them going in the face of adversity. And it was the truth.
“I have finally tracked down the squad responsible for the massacre at Riverbed. There doesn’t seem to be any reinforcement in the surrounding area right now, and we’re unlikely to have another shot at them like this. I believe they are moving to rejoin the main army. If we let them, we’ll lose our chance.”
By the hate smoldering in their eyes, she doubted anyone would refuse the mission. That was another thing she had to work around. Forcing people to do her bidding wouldn’t be a good look with Leonard, no matter how much easier it would make her life, and so Amelia had been flexing her skills as an orator to convince people it was their idea in the first place. That what they did aligned with her original plans was only a happy coincidence.
“This is not a mandatory mission. There is a very real chance of dying, especially since I will only be able to offer limited support. Our main force will start moving towards Volten soon, and I’ll be needed to ensure safe passage through the Darkwood since the coastline is too open. I will not hold it against anyone if they decide against participating.” No one moved. The interesting fact about humans was that once societal expectations reached a certain weight, the vast majority of them would bend rather than break with the rest, even if it meant walking into certain death. Especially when there were significant benefits attached to those expectations.
Amelia always ensured the elite squad was treated accordingly to their station. Children admired them. Young women swooned at their passage. The regular soldiers looked up to them. It was an intangible trap but no less inescapable for it.
Once she was sure no one would get cold feet at the last moment, Amelia gave the men the specifics and dismissed them. They deserved one last night of relaxation before they did their duty.
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Their steps were unnaturally silent, muffled by the shadows that seemed to pool at their feet. Their eyes could see perfectly, even through the darkness of the night.
No beast barred their passage, spooked by something they couldn’t fully comprehend.
The elite squad moved undisturbed through the furthest reaches of the Darkwood west of Volten. They had all sworn a pact upon being accepted by their Lady that they would see her dream of liberation achieved. That she would lead them to get their vengeance against those who had taken so much from their land was only a bonus.
After marching through a dozen villages with little to no resistance, the enemy had set camp outside the forest, not afraid to be seen. The few who had dared oppose them so far had been barely more than Apprentice farmers, armed only with scythes and rough iron tools.
If they believed that to be all the Revolution had in store for them, they’d be up for a rude awakening.
Amelia’s shadows enveloped the men like a cloak, muffling the sounds of their movement and blending them seamlessly into the darkness. The forest's edge gave way to an open field where the Royalist camp sprawled under the night sky, campfires flickering like distant stars.
The squad paused at the forest's edge, scanning the target. To their dismay, the enemy numbers were larger than expected. Roughly five hundred soldiers compared to the expected three hundred. Some milled about on guard duty, while others rested in tents. Amelia’s intel had been thorough but a few days old, and it seemed the Royalists had bolstered their ranks in the meantime. Despite this, the squad's resolve did not waver. They would do their duty for the fallen at Riverbed and all others who had suffered at the hands of the nobles.
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Without waiting any longer than necessary, they began their infiltration. Shadows danced around their forms, granting them the cover they needed. They slipped past sentries, unseen and unheard, their movements as fluid as water. The camp’s layout opened to them as they moved deeper in.
The squad split into pairs, each assigned to a specific section. The first targets were the sleeping soldiers in the outer tents. A swift slice to the throat, a hand over the mouth to muffle any sound, and another royalist life was snuffed out.
As the assassinations continued, the squad’s confidence grew. Each kill was precise, and each move was calculated. But fate, as it often did, had other plans. A half-asleep soldier stumbling away from the latrines caught sight of the shadows moving as a tent flapped open. His eyes widened, and before the nearest revolutionary could silence him, he let out a terrified scream.
“INTRUDERS!”
The camp erupted into chaos. Soldiers scrambled to their feet, reaching for weapons and shouting orders. The element of surprise was lost, and the quiet mission turned into a desperate struggle for survival.
The elite squad fought fiercely, their training and determination driving them forward. They were all Journeymen, and some were even close to becoming Experts. One-on-one, they were worth three royalists.
Amelia's shadows provided some cover, but the sheer number of enemies quickly overwhelmed them. Blood sprayed in the moonlight, and the once-quiet night was filled with the clang of steel and the cries of the dying.
Realizing they were trapped, the squad’s mindset shifted. If escape was impossible, they would make their stand here, taking as many of the nobles’ dogs with them as they could. The fight became frenzied, each revolutionary embracing their rage and sorrow, striking with wild abandon.
Blood from the two factions mingled on the trampled earth as the elite squad fought with an almost animalistic ferocity. Amidst the melee, the leader of the elite squad, a young man named Fred, who had once served in the Tidal Creek town guard and had cut his teeth against the Incursion, clashed blades with the royalist commander, who was a young noble with long blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He wielded a rapier with supernatural grace. His movements were fluid and precise, which looked out of place next to the brutal, unrefined combat surrounding him. Fred recognized his skill immediately and braced himself for a difficult fight.
Their swords met with a ringing clash, the enemy’s rapier darting and weaving with incredible speed. Fred parried and countered, his longsword moving in powerful arcs. Yet, despite his strength and experience, he was driven back, step by step. The shadows came to his aid more than once, allowing him to dodge what should have been skewering blows with only minor cuts.
The commander’s moves were calculated and precise. A feint to the left, a quick thrust to the right – Fred barely deflected the blows in time, only to find himself in an unfavorable position, with his left side blocked by a tent. A shadow tugged him away before his head could go flying.
Fred gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip. He feigned a retreat, drawing the commander in, then lunged forward with a mighty swing. The noble sidestepped gracefully, his rapier flashing out to pierce Fred’s shoulder too fast for help to come. Pain flared, but Fred refused to give in. He roared, swinging wildly, forcing the commander to take a few steps back.
Around them, the battle raged on. Revolutionaries sold their lives dearly, each determined to take down as many royalists as possible. Jaren, a rogue with a knack for stealth attacks, leaped from behind tents and drove his dagger into the neck of an officer, only to be impaled by a spear moments later. Nearby, Mara, a fierce adventurer, held off three soldiers with her twin blades, cutting them down one by one before a sword to the back ended her life.
Amelia observed the unfolding carnage through her shadows fifty miles away. Despite having known what would happen once she gave them this mission, her heart ached for her men. It was surprising in a way. She had believed herself free of such weakness. And yet, she didn’t interfere beyond making sure enough enemies died to send a message.
With the royalists having certain proof that a significant force of rebels was operating near Volten, threatening to take the third largest settlement in the duchy and possibly using it as a staging ground to assault Hassel, their focus would inevitably shift to securing Hetnia’s eastern coast, giving Leonard the crucial time he needed to reach Treon.
Back in the fray, Fred’s strength was waning. The commander’s relentless assault left him battered and bleeding. With a final, desperate effort, he swung his sword in a wide arc, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. His opponent dodged effortlessly, stepping inside Fred’s guard. His sword flashed, and Fred felt a cold, sharp pain in his chest.
The world seemed to slow as he staggered, the rapier buried deep in his heart. He looked into the noble’s icy eyes, seeing no trace of emotion. Fred tried to bring his sword down one last time with a final, defiant roar, but his strength failed. The commander withdrew his blade, and he collapsed to the ground, his life slipping away.
The royalist commander stood over Fred’s body, surveying the battlefield. The revolutionaries were dying, but not without a fight. His cold gaze swept over the chaos, calculating the cost of this unexpected skirmish.
To him, Amelia knew, this would look like a failed assault. It wouldn’t be hard to extrapolate that a commando of the level she had sent required significant resources to build and so couldn’t have been too far from the main army. Even though they had failed in their purpose, they had extracted a bloody toll. The royalists couldn’t afford to stay in the open. They’d need to march back to the Hassel, and once he was informed of what had happened, Amelia knew Count Pollus would move his army east to crush the rebellion around Volten.
She took no joy in the deaths of her men. Even now, watching them go down one by one, throwing themselves onto lances and swords just to kill one more enemy, filled her with unexpected pride.
But this was a negligible loss on the chessboard of the great game. Indeed, the moment she confirmed that it would lead to her desired outcome, she could even consider it a win.
Once the last of her men died, Amelia retreated her senses, the unnatural darkness dispersing without a trace. Only one Nightstalker remained behind, hidden in the commander’s shadow, from where it would observe and report.
Opening her eyes, Amelia sighed. She got up to pour herself a goblet of Lantean wine she had requisitioned from a noble’s mansion and took a moment to remember the men who had died for their sacrifice.
The moonlight, filtering through the open flap of her tent, hit her eyes just so, granting them an unnatural glow. Her lips opened, and she swallowed, savoring the floral, slightly tannic red.
“Thank you for your service,” She whispered.