I shoved myself deeper into the hollow, the bark clawing at my skin and shredding my sleeves. It wasn’t as deep as I’d hoped, the walls pressing in like a vice, but it would have to work. No full-grown man could squeeze in here, and that was all that mattered.

I held still, swallowing against the pounding in my skull where that bastard of a blacksmith had whacked me good. Felt like my brain was leaking into my throat. Should’ve been dead with the size of his arms, maybe. If this was X’s idea of payback for all the scams and cheap sacrilege, he could stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.

My chest hitched with shallow breaths as I gripped the whistle in my palm, its edges biting into my skin. Not heavy, no, it wasn’t the weight that mattered. It was what came next.

Through a gap in the bark, I squinted at the scene outside. The oxen hauled forward, necks straining, veins standing out like rope under hide. Their sides heaved, breaths misting in the cold. Every step punched through the mud with a wet suck, pulling them deeper into the muck as they neared the crossing. The sound of it made my teeth itch.

The wagons screeched like something alive, wheels snarling and skidding in the sludge. Not just creaking—this was uglier. A snapping, grinding mess, like ribs caving in under a boot.

The guards slogged through the mire beside them, spears slung lazy over their shoulders. They didn’t look jumpy, but they had the gait of men who’d seen enough to know trouble could rear its head any second.

I stayed put.

I watched.

I listened.

Every slurp of mud, every shuffle of boots, every goddamn creak of the wagons. If they suspected anything, they didn’t show it. The spears hung loose, their eyes locked on the road ahead. None of them so much as glanced at the reeds, let alone the steel crouched and waiting in the dark.

They hit the first marker—a sagging, split branch barely holding on over the far bank.

Right on time.I started counting.

“The ambush is perfect,” Gambino had said, hand on his thigh. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Liar.

Forty at first—not great, but doable. Then more kept coming. Boots stomping through the muck, faces hard and set. Fifty. Sixty. No, it was pushing a hundred. Maybe more.

Numbers swimming in my head, but I knew one thing for sure: this was a damn slaughter waiting to happen, and we were on the wrong side of it.

And the wagons—something wasn’t right. They groaned under their loads; heavy. Tarps stretched tight over shapes that didn’t look like grain or plunder.

Gambino had sold us on a raiding party. Quick. Dirty. Just enough muscle to snatch what they needed and piss off the local lord we’d been paid to protect. But this? This wasn’t a raid. This was an army. A moving graveyard, and we were about to fill the holes.

The whistle sat cold against my lips, waiting for the signal. One breath from me, and it’d start. Bolts tearing through flesh. Men screaming. Blood soaking the mud faster than it could dry.

Maybe we’d hit them hard enough to win. Take them by surprise, carve them up before they figured out how few of us there were.

Maybe.

Or maybe it’d all go to shit. Two hundred of them, easy, against seventy of ours.

The convoy crept closer, step by goddamn step.

Almost in range.

But what if they knew? What if someone had tipped them off? The thought squirmed in my gut like a parasitic gutworm. Blowing the whistle now could be the end of us—more of our men shredded, their screams feeding the silence while the rest of those bastards marched over our corpses.

The whistle pressed hard against my lips, the metal; biting. I stared through the crack in the bark, barely more than a slit, sharp-edged and black. The reeds stayed still, but I felt the tension in the men crouched there. Crossbows loaded, blades itching for blood. Waiting on me to give the signal.

The river gnawed at the banks, quiet but steady, too calm for the weight settling over everything.

The oxen slogged forward, muscles knotted under muddy hides, their breaths fogging the chill air. Hooves splashed into the shallows with that god-awful sucking sound, wagons creaking and groaning like they’d rather die than roll another inch.

And Gambino’s voice rang in my skull, smug and slimy: “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Easy for him to say, tucked away safe while I rotted in a hollow, watching two hundred well-fed killers close in like they owned the damn world.

The wagons were wrong. The numbers were worse. A trap inside the trap? Hell if I knew. Thinking wasn’t exactly part of my contract.

My job? Blow the whistle. Not too early. Not too late. That’s it. No grand strategy, no heroics. Just one shrill note at the right time so I could keep sucking air another day.

What I was doing now—turning plans over in my head like I was some warlord—was about as useful as a janitor barging into the boardroom to lecture the suits about profit margins. Stupid. But at least I had the brains to realize it. Not like most people.

The plan wasn’t mine, and neither was the call. But the whistle? That was all me. If they were onto us, sitting quiet wouldn’t save anyone. If they weren’t, blowing it might get a few more of us out alive. Not many, but enough to matter.

The caravan lumbered past the second marker, right where the reeds thinned. Perfect for a clean volley—bolts punching through men and wagons like they were paper. My ribs pressed into the bark, tight and unmoving. My breathing stayed slow. Steady.

My eyes locked on the lead wagon. The oxen strained, shoulders bunched, legs shaking with every slogging step through the shallow crossing.. Whatever they were dragging, it wasn’t light.

The weight hung in the air too, pushing down harder with every second, until the only thing I could feel was the whistle digging into my lips, cold and sharp as a razor.

I blew.

The sound ripped through the air, sharp and final. For half a heartbeat, everything stopped. The guards froze mid-step, the oxen’s ears flicked back, and even the river seemed to hold its breath.

Then the world came apart at the seams.

Crossbows snapped, and the bolts screamed like banshees, gut-wrenching and shrill. The reeds exploded, men tearing from cover, hollering like feral dogs.

They charged with blades up, faces twisted with rage. The oxen bawled louder, panic and pain rolling off them in waves as shafts punched into their thick hides. Legs buckled. They went down hard, slamming into the river and yanking the wagons sideways with a sickening crunch.

The tarps ripped apart, spilling bodies like a butcher’s cart tipped over. Corpses and half-dead men tumbled out, flailing in the muck, clawing at anything solid.

I watched as the first volley hit, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack a rib. Bolts slammed into the front ranks, tearing through flesh and bone like paper. A dozen men dropped where they stood, twitching like slaughtered hogs, their fingers scrabbling at the wooden shafts sticking out of their chests. Blood soaked the dirt, dark and steaming, pooling faster than the earth could drink it.

For a heartbeat, it looked like they might break. Like they’d see the mess and run.

But no. They came harder.

The survivors charged, trampling their own dead without a second thought. Boots crushed ribs, ground faces into the mud until they were just red smears. Spears jabbed out, shaky and wild, but just enough to slow the rush.

Then the lines slammed together, loud enough to shake the air. Shields buckled. Bones snapped. Men screamed. Spears drove into flesh, punching through chainmail, or snapping uselessly in the chaos.

It was a meat grinder. Blades hacked and stabbed, splitting skulls and gutting torsos. Blood sprayed everywhere, hot and thick, painting faces and soaking hands.

One man shrieked, clawing at the pulpy ruin of his face, chunks of skin dangling from his fingertips. Another fell gurgling, a spear shoved clean through his neck, his blood spraying in quick, rhythmic bursts. Shields shattered under the blows, the crack of wood barely audible over the roars and dying gasps.

It wasn’t a fight anymore. It was slaughter, plain and simple.

The line buckled, men bracing with teeth bared, screaming curses and prayers in the same breath. The enemy shoved harder, swords carving through guts and muscle, edges dripping red and gleaming in the dim light. The ground churned under their boots, thick with mud and blood, swallowing bodies like quicksand.

But the guards didn’t break. Not yet. Somehow, they held. Shields split and soaked, arms shaking under the strain, but they held. The line bent like a rusted hinge, groaning under the weight, but it didn’t snap. They shoved back, boots grinding into the sludge, faces twisted with rage and fear. For a heartbeat, the mercenaries stumbled. Just a flicker. Not enough.

The ambush had rattled them but hadn’t crushed them.

I crouched low in the hollow, ribs locked in a vise of bark and breath coming sharp and shallow. The whistle cord stuck to my neck, slick with sweat, swaying against my chest like a jeer. My fingers jerked toward the knife at my side, gripping the cold steel hard enough that it hurt.

The Hounds and the guards slammed into each other, locked in a heaving, grinding mess. Neither side gave an inch. Swords flashed in the chaos, arcs of blood spraying high before splattering back to the ground. The air reeked of iron and rot, thick enough to gag on.

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It was a coin flip now. Someone would crack, and when they did, the real slaughter would begin.

Gambino’s voice ripped through the noise, sharp and full of spit: “Push, you bastards! Push! Don’t let ‘em breathe!”

My legs moved before my brain caught up, dragging me out of the pit and straight into the mess.

The field was hell—men screaming like animals, steel smashing wood, the ground churned into sludge thick with blood and shit. The line was holding, but just barely, and it wouldn’t hold for long. Jumping in was a death sentence. Staying back? Worse. If we lost, they’d find me and kill me anyway. If we won and I wasn’t in the fight? They’d string me up for being a coward, or worse, have some fun before they finished me off. Either way, I’d end up dead.

A spear punched through one of ours. Quick. Wet. He went down hard, screaming once before the ruddy water swallowed him.

Another guy swung his shield, the edge catching a merc’s skull. It cracked loud, but the bastard still twitched, hand scrabbling at the air like he could grab onto life. Didn’t matter—another one shoved him aside, teeth bared, boots grinding over the corpse like it was nothing.

My hand found the knife, the ivory hilt cold and slimy. My breath was wrong—tight, shallow, like I couldn’t pull in enough air. The mud sucked at my boots, like it wanted to drag me down with the rest of the bodies. A part of me thought about stopping, just sinking into the water and vanishing. But it was too late for that now.

The Hounds were toast. I could see it now, clear as day. The enemy was regrouping, and once they hit back, our lot wouldn’t hold. The bodies piling up in front of them said all that needed saying. If I waited, they’d finish the Hounds and then move on to me.

I forced my feet forward, slipping and sliding in the muck. The knife came free from my belt, light and almost useless in my hand. It wasn’t made for killing—too fancy, too delicate, more decoration than weapon. My grip wobbled, slippery and weak, and I swore it would fall out before I even got close.

Ahead, the line almost shattered, mercs folding like wet paper, crushed under the enemy’s counter charge. Blood sprayed in thick, disgusting arcs, soaking the mud until it turned into a reeking swamp.

Everything stuck—mud, guts, God knows what else. The stink of iron was everywhere, sharp and rancid, burning the back of my throat. Screams ripped through the chaos, quick and jagged. Somewhere, bone snapped, loud enough to churn my stomach.

The noise shoved me forward, legs moving on autopilot, even when every part of me screamed to stop.

This was the job. Signed the contract, took the coin,as meager as it was but now it was time to deliver. No room for excuses or bad days—just pure results. I tried to keep it together, reaching for the same BS I used to peddle back in my office days: “commitment to excellence,” “go the extra mile.” Total crap all of it, but the garbage kept me sane during performance reviews.

Except this wasn’t a desk job. This was a blood-soaked battlefield, and the only metrics that mattered were survival and body count. My tools? A frilly dagger and hands shaking so hard I could barely grip the damn thing.

Somewhere out there, some imaginary HR suit was probably drafting my pink slip: Failed to embody company culture when faced with screaming mercs and arterial spray.

Walking away wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to keep my head attached to my neck. So I kept moving. One heavy, miserable step at a time. My chest burned, each breath sharp as broken glass.

The dagger was slick and hot in my grip, slippery with whatever mess it had carved through. This wasn’t bravery. It was survival, pure and stupid—keep going or die where you stand.

My legs carried me at full sprint for a few dozen yards, carrying me closer to and away from a certain death.

But then I saw him.

Near the rear wagons, some bastard was barking orders over the din of chaos. No armor, just a beat-up leather coat, but he carried himself like nothing could hope to touch him.

His voice cut through the screams and clanging steel, sharp and mean, snapping the guards into place. He wasn’t just shouting to be heard—he was dragging them through the fight by sheer force of will.

Even from where I stood, I could tell he was no amateur. Every gesture was sharp, every move precise. No wasted effort. A man who’d been through this before and knew exactly how to pull his sorry crew together. Leader, no question. He was rallying the scraps of their defense, patching their broken lines like it was nothing.

The knife in my hand felt laughably light, more like a joke than a weapon against someone like him. But if I could take him down…if I could against all odds take the bastard down, it’d be more than just survival—it’d be a golden ticket.

Bringing him down wouldn’t just justify my paycheck; it’d shoot me straight to the top. This wasn’t just a fight anymore—it was a damn performance review.

A bold move like this? It’s what gets you noticed. "Eliminate barriers to success," right? Well, that cocky son of a bitch was the biggest barrier standing in my way, and I was about to cut him out of the equation.

I staggered forward, legs dragging one after the other, the thought of murder the only thing pushing me forward.

Ahead, the enemy commander kept barking orders. His voice a whip, driving his men into formation on the crumbling left flank. Shields locked tight, spears bristling, they surged to hold the line.

He needed to die.

I hit the shallows, mud and water sucking at my boots as I pushed toward him, slipping and sliding with every step.

One of ours—a Hound—rushed past me, sword raised and yelling like an idiot. The commander didn’t even flinch. He stepped into the swing, rammed a short sword straight through the guy’s chest, and spun away like it was nothing. Blood sprayed everywhere. The Hound hit the dirt, choking on his own lungs.

That was my opening.

I pushed harder, closing the gap. He hadn’t noticed me yet, too busy yelling orders and swinging that sword of his in tight, brutal arcs, keeping our men off him.

His back was wide open to me.

Perfect.

This was it—my shot, my one chance to gut this bastard and actually make a difference. The knife felt pathetic in my hand, but it would do. Every muscle in my body screamed, every nerve was ready to go. I raised the blade, all instincts yelling the same thing: kill him.

I lunged, aiming for the sweet spot between his shoulders. My blade struck home, sinking into flesh. For a moment, he froze, his breath catching in a jagged hiss. His body buckled slightly, and I thought—just for a heartbeat—that maybe I’d done it.

But then he roared.

The sound was feral, guttural, and raw, vibrating with pain and fury. His hand shot up, gripping the handle of the blade I’d left in him. Blood ran freely down his back, dark and thick, but he barely seemed to notice.

He spun on me, his face twisted with rage, eyes burning with something primal. Before I could step back, he lashed out. His fist slammed into my chest like a battering ram, sending me sprawling onto the ground. The air whooshed out of my lungs, leaving me gasping and dazed.

"That," he growled, wrenching the knife from his back and tossing it to the ground, "was a mistake."

I didn’t let the bolt of pain barely slow me. I snarled and charged, ramming into him full force. The hit caught him off balance, and we both went down, slamming into the churned, stinking mud.

I clawed for control, my hands scrabbling at his sword arm, desperate to pin it down. His coat was slick with water and filth, my fingers slipping as he twisted beneath me. Then his elbow smashed into my ribs—hard, brutal, like a hammer driving a nail. Air punched out of me, and my vision went white with the pain.

Before I could regroup, he shoved me with a strength that felt inhuman, like something out of a nightmare. The mud shifted beneath us, stealing what little leverage I had. He threw me off like I weighed nothing, and I hit the ground hard, the splash of cold water soaking me to the bone. My lungs screamed as I struggled to drag air back in.

The knife—where the hell was the knife?

I didn’t get the chance to look. His hands were on me before I could blink, iron-strong, locking around my throat. His grip bit into my skin, rough and closing, shoving me backward as my legs crumpled.

The river surged around me, icy and vicious, smashing against my head. Bitter, filthy water flooded my nose and mouth, choking me as the current roared in my ears.

I thrashed hard, panic burning in my chest, my lungs screaming for air. My nails tore at his wrists, ripping at the tendons, but it didn’t matter. The man barely even flinched.

"Thought you’d get it done quick, huh?" he snarled, voice cutting through the roar of the river and the sound of me drowning.

His grip tightened, shoving my head deeper into the freezing current. "Sneak in, stick me like a pig, and walk off all righteous? Pathetic."

"You’re not the first dumb bastard to try, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. But you’ll die just as useless as the rest."

He slammed my head into the riverbed, sharp rocks tearing at my scalp. The water surged over me, biting cold, choking, shoving filth down my throat. His weight bore down hard, pinning my arms in the sludge as the current yanked at them like it wanted to rip me apart.

“You’re nothing,” he spat, voice flat, like it was already decided. “A little maggot with a blade.” His lips curled into something close to a sneer. “What do you think? Should I let you up? Watch you crawl? Or should I make you beg for breath you’ll never get?”

His hands crushed down on my neck, cutting off the last scraps of air. My chest bucked, ribs jerking like it could force the river out, but it just poured in deeper, colder.

The moonlight above was gone, swallowed in muddy streaks. Bubbles broke free from my lips, weak and frantic, gone before they reached the surface.

“Come on,” he hissed, leaning in, his grip like iron. Each word was low and haunting, drilling into me like nails. “Struggle harder. Show me if there’s anything in you worth killing.”

The fire in my lungs tore through me, ripping up my chest, hammering into my skull. Every nerve lit up, screaming bloody murder. My body bucked, legs kicking like a cornered animal, clawing for something, anything. He didn’t move. His hands stayed locked around my neck, iron-tight, grinding bone against bone.

The river clawed at me, stronger now, yanking at my legs like it wanted to tear them clean off and drag me under. My fingers found his wrists, latched on—not fighting, not even trying to break free. Just holding on, stupid and desperate, like that would make a damn difference.

It didn’t.

The blood in my ears thundered, drowning out the roar of the current. My body gave up—arms useless, legs stiff as wood, just dead weight for the river to claim. My chest burned hotter, a furnace about to blow, and when my mouth opened, the water rushed in.

It hit like ice and filth, thick and foul, slamming down my throat again and again, shoving its way deeper.

It wasn’t just cold—it was alive, writhing, choking, digging in like it meant to kill me from the inside out. My body jerked once, a pathetic spasm that only let it push deeper. My lungs begged for air, but the scream stuck in my head, nowhere to go.

All that was left was the river, crushing and endless, and my heart, hammering slower, weaker, until even that started to quit.

The black swallowed me whole, slow and pitiless. It crawled in, choking out the scraps of light, smothering everything that wasn’t cold, crushing, and wrong.

My chest gave one last, pitiful heave, then quit…

…and then his grip slipped.

Air tore its way back in shuddering gasps, shredding my throat as I sucked it down. I wrenched my head out of the water, coughing hard.

Every breath burned, wet and rotten, but I kept dragging them in. My eyes stung like hell, the world a smeared mess of spinning shapes.

I wasn't yet out of danger and I turned to look through hazy, blurry eyes.

The man loomed over me still, chest heaving, his shadow thick, ominous, like a weight pressing down.

His hands, the same ones that had been squeezing the life out of me seconds ago, hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do next while his mouth hung open, a snarl frozen halfway to a scream.

Then I saw it.

Steel. Jammed deep in his ribs, just under his heart. The blade’s hilt barely poked out, but the blood kept pouring; surging hot and fast, soaking his coat and splattering into the mud like a leaky faucet.

He staggered, one hand clawing at the wound, like yanking it out would undo the damage.

It didn't.

The commander spun, his lips working, spitting half-formed curses that didn’t make it past his teeth.

Then his knees gave out. He hit the mud like a sack of meat, eyes blown wide as the blade ripped free from his side. The river claimed him without ceremony, dragging him under with a slurp, leaving only a ripple and the sharp stink of blood behind.

Then the shadow shifted, water sloshing as a blade too big for the scrawny hands holding it scraped against the river bed.

The tip dragged, gouging an uneven trail along the shallows.

Their arms shook like they'd snap, but the look in their eyes? Hard as iron, dead steady.

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