Elias woke to the scent of smoke.

  His instincts screamed before his mind could catch up.

  Move.

  He was on his feet in seconds, the hunting knife already in his grip.

  Across the room, Elara’s breath hitched. She sat up, blinking in the dim firelight, her golden hair tumbling over her shoulders.

  "Elias?"

  He held up a hand, silencing her.

  A sound—faint, but there.

  A muffled cry. A crash. A dying gasp.

  Not normal.

  His pulse quickened.

  Elias crossed the room in three strides, grabbing the short sword from its place by the door.

  “Elara, stay here.”

  She didn’t argue.

  She never did.

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  Elias pushed the door open.

  And stepped into hell.

  The village was burning.

  The night air was thick with smoke and death, the acrid scent of charred wood curling through the wind.

  Bodies lay scattered in the streets.

  People ran, screaming, some clutching wounds, others dragging half-conscious loved ones behind them.

  A woman staggered past, her eyes wide and unseeing, her hands painted red with her husband’s blood.

  A young boy collapsed near the well, an arrow buried deep in his back.

  Elias’s breath came fast, ragged.

  Not possible.

  This was Oakhaven. A quiet village. A place untouched by war.

  He turned—just as the first assassin stepped into view.

  A tall, wiry figure, wrapped in black, a red mask covering his face. His blade dripped fresh blood.

  The assassin’s head tilted slightly, as if considering him.

  Then—he lunged.

  Elias moved without thinking.

  Steel clashed against steel, the force of the blow rattling up his arm. The assassin was fast, moving like a shadow, but Elias had spent a lifetime fighting men like this.

  He twisted, breaking the assassin’s balance, and drove his knee into the man’s ribs.

  A pained grunt—but no scream.

  Even in death, they made no sound.

  Elias pressed the advantage, his blade flashing—cutting deep into the assassin’s side.

  The man staggered, blood seeping between his fingers.

  Then—he smiled.

  A cold, knowing grin.

  As if he had already won.

  Elias barely had time to react before something heavy slammed into his back.

  The impact drove him to the ground.

  He rolled, bringing his blade up—but there were too many.

  Too many hands. Too much weight pressing down.

  A foot slammed into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs.

  Elias gasped, struggling, but another blow to the head sent his vision spinning.

  Through the haze, he saw her.

  Elara.

  She stood in the doorway, eyes wide with horror.

  A dagger was already pressed to her throat.

  Elias tried to scream.

  Tried to move.

  But the blade was already falling.

  And the world went black.