The wind carried the scent of rain over the valley.

  It had been a dry summer, and the people of Oakhaven welcomed the coming storm. They had no reason to fear it.

  The village was quiet, nestled against the great hills, its streets winding between wooden cottages and lantern-lit paths. The harvest had been good this year. The fields were full, the people content.

  Fires burned in hearths, their warm glow spilling through shuttered windows. Families ate together, laughter drifting through the cool night air. Children whispered stories of ghosts and monsters, daring one another to run between the trees at the edge of the woods.

  They were safe.

  Oakhaven had never seen war.

  They had never needed to.

  That was about to change.

  The first figure emerged from the treeline, a shadow against the swaying pines. Then another. And another.

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  They moved without sound, their forms wrapped in tattered cloaks and red-painted masks.

  They carried no torches. They did not need light to see.

  They did not speak.

  A silent hand signal—a flick of the wrist—was all it took.

  The first killer moved. The village watchman never saw the blade coming. Steel whispered through flesh, a quick, surgical strike—severing his throat before he could make a sound.

  He staggered forward, a choking gurgle escaping his lips, eyes wide with shock. The assassin caught him before he fell, easing him to the ground.

  No noise.

  No alarm.

  Just one life snuffed out, as if it had never existed. The Crimson Hand was inside Oakhaven now. And no one would wake in time.

  They struck as one.A dozen men, moving through the streets like wraiths, knives flashing in the torchlight.Doors were pushed open.Throats slit before a cry could escape.Blades plunged into sleeping bodies, twisting, tearing, silencing.

  A woman woke to the touch of cold steel against her lips. She gasped, eyes wide, but the assassin’s hand clamped over her mouth—the dagger sinking deep into her chest before she could even struggle.Her husband’s eyes snapped open—too late.The blade found his heart before he could move.Blood pooled across wooden floors.

  The killers moved house to house, their rhythm never breaking.

  Strike. Silence. Move on.

  It was not war.

  It was extermination.

  Then—a child screamed.

  The silence shattered.

  A woman’s voice rang out next, shrill and panicked.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  The quiet erupted into chaos.

  And Oakhaven burned.