A faint noise stirred Nyx from his uneasy sleep, soft and frantic like wind slapping cloth.
[TURN! TURN RIGHT NOW, IDIOT!]
His eyelids fluttered, breath catching.
"Mm… huh…?"
[ROLL OVER, YOU MORON!]
Before his mind had time to understand, his body moved on instinct. Nyx rolled to the side on his grass bed, groggy and confused. And in the very next breath, steel screamed through the air—slicing down right where his neck had just been. The sharp edge hit the earth with a deadly thunk, burying deep into the dirt.
His eyes widened as he sat bolt upright, heart jolting.
"What the…?"
Moonlight leaked through the gaps in the stable roof, casting pale light across the old wooden beams and scattered straw—and through it, Nyx saw them.
Four dark figures, clad in black from head to toe, their faces covered, their eyes invisible in the gloom. No sound came from them. No voices. No introductions.
Only blades.
[They're here to kill you!]
Love's voice rang in his head, shrill and urgent.
Nyx rolled away just as another sword arced through the air. It missed his shoulder by less than an inch.
"WHAT THE HELL!?" he shouted, stumbling to his feet.
There wasn't time to panic. The second attacker came at him from the left, blade thrust forward, silent and precise. Nyx ducked, barely dodging it, the steel grazing the top of his messy black hair.
The third didn't wait. Twin daggers flashed in rapid motion. He struck low, then high, then low again—Nyx twisted, flinched, danced backward. Not from training. From pure, instinctive panic. He tripped over a broken bucket but turned the fall into a roll, crashing into a pile of hay that exploded around him in dusty yellow bursts.
[Don't stop moving!]
Love barked.
"YOU THINK I'M NOT TRYING!?" Nyx shouted.
The fourth assassin didn't speak. He struck quietly from behind, a short sword aiming for Nyx's spine. But Nyx dropped flat to the floor, and the blade swiped the air instead of cutting flesh.
He rolled again, groaning, then leapt back to his feet.
He was trembling.
Sweating.
Confused.
The assassins spread out, surrounding him like wolves.
"What… what the hell is this?" Nyx panted, chest heaving. "I shouldn't be able to do this... I'm not trained…"
[You're not, You only did this because you were scared.]
"I'm just surviving!" he cried, ducking as another blade swung where his head had been a second ago.
Every slash missed by a whisper.
Every stab barely touched his clothes.
And Nyx… just barely lived through every single one.
His breath came in ragged bursts, and every time he moved, pain sparked through his scraped limbs and bleeding arm. But he didn't stop.
They pressed him harder now—two at once.
Nyx leaned back, a sword flashing past his nose. He fell into a crouch, twisted left, and the second attacker's dagger ripped only the hem of his shirt. He vaulted backward over a low hay pile.
He wasn't winning.
But he wasn't dying either.
[Dont think too much...]
Love murmured. [You're not just lucky.]
"I DON'T CARE!" Nyx shouted. "THEY'RE STILL TRYING TO KILL ME!"
One of the assassins growled. He stepped forward, adjusting his grip. They weren't frustrated. They were recalculating.
Another charge.
Nyx ducked. Dodged. Rolled.
Steel flashed again and again.
Air hissed around his ears from missed cuts.
He fell back into the stable's central space, panting, skin burning, limbs trembling from the constant strain. His blood smeared the grass beneath him, warm and wet.
They didn't slow.
They circled again, dark silhouettes in the moonlight.
Nyx's shoulders slumped, but his eyes narrowed.
His breathing was uneven.
His arms hung limp at his sides.
But he was still standing.
Nyx didn't understand. He didn't want to.
"What the hell is this?"
The final charge came.
All four.
Blades gleaming.
Nyx moved.
Like a whisper through wind.
He dodged again, but this time his body didn't shake. He turned at the last second, and a blade passed by his ribs. Another swipe came from the side, and he dropped flat, rolled, jumped to his feet again. His body burned with effort—but also with something else.
A memory?
A reflex?
He didn't care.
Suddenly, everything froze.
The fourth assassin, the quiet one, had disappeared from sight.
Nyx spun, too late.
A glint of metal.
A flash of silver.
A sharp sound.
And then—impact.
A blade drove straight into his side.
His breath caught.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Time slowed.
His legs buckled.
Love screamed something, but it sounded far away now, like echoes under water.
The last thing Nyx saw before the darkness swallowed him is-
It was her.
A figure—a girl—standing still as stone and cloaked in black. But her clothes were not like the assassins'. Hers were cleaner, layered, and carried a quiet authority. Where their garb was designed for shadows and murder, hers spoke of secrecy and command.
Her face was mostly hidden beneath a hood, but he saw enough.
She was watching him.
Unmoving. Unflinching.
And on her chest, something gleamed—something gold.
A symbol?
An ornament?
Nyx couldn't tell.
His vision blurred, doubling, swaying like the world was tilting beneath him.
But his hand moved on instinct, trembling and heavy, reaching toward her.
Fingers brushed her shoulder, warm and solid through the fabric.
Then everything fell away.
His knees gave out.
His hand slipped.
And he collapsed, his hand brushed that golden thing and then the world fading into black as silence took him whole.