Chapter Text
The Shadow of Death strikes during the night.
Wystan knows something is going on as soon as he wakes to shouting, clamoring voices. Groaning, he flips his blanket off and swings his legs over the side of the cot, rubbing a hand over his face as he stumbles to the opening of the tent. The sun has barely risen, but it’s still bright enough that he has to blink multiple times before the silhouettes scurrying around the camp are distinguishable as actual people.
“Hey.” He snatches at the sleeve of the first person that walks by close enough. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the Captain, sir.” He’s a young one, and too frazzled by whatever’s happening to realize or care that Wystan’s no sir. “He’s…dead.”
A wrinkle forms between Wystan’s eyebrows. “What? How?”
They’re in a war. Deaths happen on a near daily basis. But not in the middle of the night, in the midst of the camp. And not the man that’s been leading every other soldier here.
The private glances around and lowers his voice. “They say it was The Shadow. Slipped into his tent in the middle of the night and…” He makes a slicing motion across his throat with the side of his hand.
Everyone in this war knows about The Shadow of Death. An assassin, possibly the best that’s ever lived. No one’s ever seen his face, at least no one who has lived to tell about it. The closest anyone has ever gotten is an occasional report of a dark shadow slipping away into the night.
And of course he works for the other side. Kedosa has mercenaries, like himself, and probably even an assassin or two, but no one like The Shadow. No one else in that line of work has lasted so long, pulled off so many jobs, without being caught.
It’s Wystan’s first encounter with his work. He’ll be surprised if it’s the last.
There’s obvious turmoil going on in the general vicinity of the late Captain’s tent - the first and second lieutenants, namely, discussing something quite furiously, while multiple lower-ranking soldiers linger and gawk.
This is what they wanted, he thinks. To cause chaos, to remove the leadership and watch everyone flounder. The Captain’s absence doesn’t bother him, personally. His orders come from someone else entirely, he only has to make sure that he doesn’t get in the way of whoever is in charge here - and vice versa.
But these two need to get their act together, and soon, if they don’t want the rest of the camp panicking.
As if on cue, a scout thunders into the clearing on horseback. “Ethorcon soldiers coming! Ten minutes out!”
Ah. This is what they wanted. Attacking at dawn, when not everyone is yet up and going, is a strategic move by itself. Attacking right after killing the leader is even better.
‘Better’ from a certain perspective, of course. Not his, and not anyone else’s in this camp, that’s for sure.
To her credit, it only takes the First Lieutenant a few seconds of wide-eyed staring before she gathers herself and starts barking out orders. Gritting his teeth, Wystan turns back into his tent, slides into his boots, and snaps all of his armor into place with practiced speed. His rifle gets slung across his back, while two smaller guns strap to each hip. A cache of bullets for all of them weighs heavy on his chest.
Minutes later, he’s jogging north with a dozen other soldiers. As they pass the Captain’s tent, he can’t help but stare, wondering what kind of gruesome scene lies inside, glad that it won’t be his job to deal with it. A new officer will take the man’s place within a few days, and the First Lieutenant will be able to step back down.
It almost seems like a pointless effort, sometimes. Kill one man, another takes his place. Wipe out an entire guard, and there’s another right behind it. Years upon years of killing and dying, all for what? A tiny piece of land that no one wants to share.
Wystan isn’t one to judge, though. War is his business, and it’s a profitable one. As long as he’s the one doing the killing and not the dying, the idiots can fight over anything they want, and he’ll be there with his guns, smarts, and good looks to help.