In a silent forest, where most animals had gone to sleep, a streak of black smoke rose, emanating from a distant fireplace. The flames crackled, their beauty rising with each passing second. Sparks flew across the area violently, enough to startle but not sufficient to harm.
Around the fireplace sat various men, their masks laid across the grass behind them. The new moon prevented any celestial guidance for the travelling men, leaving them to create an artificial source of light from natural elements.
Their entire bodies were clad in dark cloaks, with strange symbols and ornaments wrapped around their necks, wrists, and even ankles. The men were young, all appearing to be in their mid-twenties or early thirties, with either brown or black hair.
They sighed after a hard day’s work, the blood on their gloves barely dried.
Black daggers rested atop the logs they were sitting on, ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice. Their eyes stared into the fire as they contemplated each life decision that had led them to this point.
Some used to have children, while others had families waiting for them at home. One of the men had made plans with his friends, excitedly waiting for the weekend to come. How had they ended up in such a state, where they took the joys out of the lives of others?
How could they enjoy themselves or grieve in peace when they were the ones inflicting the same pain onto innocents, simply for the pursuit of higher power and authority? In a cruel world run by money, even if they didn’t fully believe in the cult’s teachings, it was the only way they knew to make a living.
Most of their allies within the organization, the Cult of the Feathers of Celica, were killed off during two raids put together hastily by one of their psychotic leaders. One seemed simple on paper, which was to infiltrate a Magic Academy located in a small, isolated city.
But what the report failed to inform them of was that the Sword Saint was present. Although these specific men were not on site, their allies who somehow returned were never the same, mumbling insanities, having faced what seemed like death incarnate.
Only a few days later, they were given instructions to infiltrate Atrila’s castle. It seemed like an impossible task at first, but after Lucia was given authority to activate her ultimate spell, hope rose amongst the cultists.
They imagined this would be their big break, their path to promotion. But alas, there were even fewer survivors during that raid than the one at the Magic Academy. Reading the reports, it was stated that their friends and allies were not only blown up from the inside through ice magic, but that a large beam of light destroyed the curse in one fell swoop.
“We should probably go to sleep soon. I don’t doubt our boss will want us to prepare for the next raid early,” one said, while throwing the last bit of firewood onto the flames.
Their next task was a smaller one: to kill and finish off members of the Church of Eudoxia.
Truthfully, there was no real reason to infiltrate random churches, but since the Church of Eudoxia was the primary opposing religion of the cult, they felt an internal responsibility to assert dominance over it.
It was clear the other side didn’t feel the same way, barely training their staff members and focusing solely on vocal preaching rather than persuasive, hurtful methods.
But having lost so much, the men needed a sense of duty, a reason to keep going.
All carried somber looks on their faces, their eyes glinting as they stared at the slowly dying flame while the wind howled loudly enough to rustle the trees in front of, beside, and behind them.
Their bodies began to wind down, the blood on their gloves and daggers drying out as their eyelids grew heavier. It was time to head to sleep. One yawn came after another, chaining like infected lightning until it reached the end of the line.
One of the men laid out a roll of blankets. Being on such a remote, stealth mission, they couldn’t exactly ask for or afford tents to rest in. Booking an inn in a nearby city would be the same as giving their cover away, so they decided to camp out in the forest.
“Alright lads, we’ll leave the fire running, and we can just set up our blankets next to the flames so we keep ourselves warm.”
The others nodded, standing up from their logs and packing their items. Each of them picked up their masks, shoving them into their cloak pockets. They took off their gloves, laying them next to the flames, just close enough for the heat to dry the blood.
As they conducted their nightly routine, a confident, annoyed voice spoke from the trees.
“So ya talk like normal people. Act like normal people.”
“But ya still kill like beasts.”
Like a theatrical cue, the wind slammed harder against the world, the trees barely masking the ominous voice and preventing the cultists from locating its point of origin.
Each one of them gripped their daggers, their eyes scanning every treeline. Eventually, the four of them moved back to back, covering for each other in case their intruder decided to strike.
But not a single silhouette appeared before them. Were they imagining things? Or perhaps it was a test from one of their superiors, which was a common occurrence back at their home bases.
Not letting their guards down, they slowly spun in a circle, their breaths heaving with crippling anxiety and nervousness. Whether it was a test or not, they would have to fight for their lives. In this dog-eat-dog world, they needed to be alert for whatever could come at them.
There was no moonlight to protect them, and yet a bright glint sparkled before one man’s eyes, followed by the sharp hiss of pierced air rushing past them.
What followed was the sound of crunching bones and squeezing flesh. The three remaining men turned, only to see their fourth sliced into two pieces. His body slid in opposite directions, his upper half going forward while his legs fell backward.
His expression wasn’t even one of surprise, as there had been no time to react to such a swift attack. As his body hit the ground, sudden rushes of blood spewed from where his flesh and veins had once connected, spilling the last remnants of his life onto the soil beneath.
What glinted amid the flame’s light was a long metallic weapon with a sharp, triangular tip. Its white surface was now stained with dark red human remains, inlaid with golden streaks that made the weapon seem almost elegant.
However, what concerned the rest of the cultists more, as their legs trembled in fear, was the fact that the weapon dissolved into small particles of golden dust, disappearing from the world completely as if it had never existed in the first place.
They ruled out their own leaders as possibilities. The cult was known to use either magic or small black daggers. If someone were attacking them with real metallic weapons, then it had to be an enemy infiltration.
It was impossible that it was a knight, as heavy armor would have alerted the cultists even from a mile away. Another possibility lay before them: one of the Queensguard. But with them often being stationed in major cities, they ruled that out as well.
Slowly but surely, their options thinned, leaving them unable to narrow down the culprit. Lost in thought, another glint fell from the sky. This time, the cultists dodged the blow successfully, scattering across the grass.
Immediately, all three remaining cultists sprinted toward the trees. Even if they couldn’t see their attacker, there would be little chance of being spotted if they used nature’s cover to their advantage.
It was a classic philosophy of “you can’t see us, I can’t see you,” but what they were up against was not an ordinary human. If anything, their frantic response only made it easier for their assailant to strike.
As one of the cultists ran with all his might, he heard two screams echoing from the southwest and southeast of him. The screams occurred within the span of a second, hinting to the last remaining cultist that they must be under attack by multiple people.
Running in a zigzag, the cultist hoped to outmaneuver his attacker and potentially make it to a populated area. If his attacker was someone related to the knights or even the government, then he would use a hostage in the city to drive them out.
In the case that it was a rogue assassin, he would simply consult the knights in the city for help. For him, this plan was foolproof.
But one possibility that he was being hunted by one, extremely fast individual hadn’t crossed his mind.
Suddenly, the cultist’s legs gave out, sending him tumbling over a row of tree trunks. His lower body felt a sudden rush of cold as his legs stopped responding to his brain’s commands. Slowly, his eyes scanned the state of his body, only to be greeted with both of his legs lying severed in the distance.
Blood streamed rapidly from where his knees used to be. He let out a painful, guttural scream, tears streaking from his eyes just as fast as the blood.
“I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!” His screams fell on deaf ears, masked by the trees, which seemed to smile at his demise.
“Bet that’s what the people ya killed thought too.”
Small, slender hands suddenly slapped onto the stumps of his legs, burning them with a golden light. Like searing a piece of steak, the smell of smoking meat quickly invaded the cultist’s nostrils as he saw the silhouette of his attacker before him.
The stranger seemingly cauterized the wounds before pointing their long, triangle-tipped weapon at the man. He was still in shock, unable to utter even a word as the pain flooded every corner of his mind.
“So tell me right now. Where the hell’s Quintella?”
Beneath the annoyance and irritation was the sound of a girl’s voice. It was hard to tell through the constant overload of noise, the sound of his screams, the howling wind, and now even his attacker’s voice blending into it all.
Taking a step forward, the silhouette became clearer and clearer, the cultist’s eyes finally adapting to the dark environment surrounding him.
His eyes widened as a rush of cold air swayed her hair gracefully. It was a face he had seen only once before, though with different traits. He had once been considered lucky, envied by others for seeing their all-powerful leader at a conference.
It was a sight few would ever behold, as most cultists would, at most, see the faces of their lower-ranking leaders, or, if lucky, the big boss’s personal bodyguards and lieutenants.
To the man, it was unmistakable, undeniable. The beautiful silver hair, the accented eyes, and the cruelty displayed before him. But something felt off, similar yet different. Unlike the supreme leader he was familiar with, the person before him had shorter hair, coming down only to her shoulders.
Furthermore, rather than being blessed with crimson red eyes, his attacker’s piercing glare was light blue. The biggest giveaway was the height, the person before him nearly three heads taller than the leader he knew.
But his mind was unable to process the differences. Like a child calling out for his mother, the cultist raised his arm, trembling with fear. His voice was raspy and stuttered with every word, gurgling as blood rose to his throat before falling back down.
“Mother Tella, save me.”
“Mother Tella, save me. Please”
“I’ve been good, I’ve done all you asked.”
“Please, Mother Tella.”
A rush of wind followed as he felt the cold sting of metal pierce his chest. He saw the person clearly now, sharing the same facial structure and hair as his idol. Clicking her tongue, his attacker glared daggers at him.
“I’ll have ya know somethin’.”
“This face you’re so familiar with. The one you love so much.”
“It’s stolen… from me.”
Snuffing out all remnants of hope, the fourth and final cultist slumped forward, falling into the sweet yet cold embrace of death.
“Useless-ass, braindead cultists.”
“No-life, pathetic fuckin’ degenerates.”
Annoyed, the attacker pulled out her weapon as it dissolved into golden specks of dust once more. She then slowly walked away, unbothered to clean up the mess she had made, vanishing into the dark of night.