The old chapel stood cloaked in ivy and forgotten by time.
Once a place of solemn worship, its stone spires now leaned crookedly toward the sky, cracked and worn by years of wind and weather.
Moss spread thick across the roof, and the great bell—once the voice of prayer—hung rusted and silent in its tower.
Wind slipped through the shattered stained glass, scattering colored light across broken pews and dust-choked aisles.
The air hung heavy with the scent of damp stone, mold, and something older… something long left behind.
Then came the sound of boots—mud-caked, urgent, dragging.
The chapel doors groaned open, the sound echoing through the hollow nave like the moan of a restless ghost.
Kael stepped in first, blades drawn. His armor was dented, scorched, and smeared with ash. His breath came hard and fast.
Cassian followed close behind, along with Grey and Leila, weapons gripped tight, eyes sharp.
Lucien came next—trembling, exhausted, his clothes torn, his face pale and drawn.
Captain Alric brought up the rear, limping badly. Blood soaked his side. Garron and Rook had each taken an arm, half-carrying him inside.
“Come on, we're almost there,” Garron said, his voice firm but low.
They crossed the threshold together. Cassian gave the doors a final shove and kicked them closed behind them with a dull boom.
Darkness settled over the chapel once more, broken only by sunlight slicing through the broken windows above.
Lucien slumped against a cracked pillar, catching his breath. “Now what?”
“We hold this ground,” Garron said, voice like stone. “And we stay alive—until Mira gets here.”
Cassian’s eyes scanned the shadows. “I’ll check the perimeter.”
Alric let out a wet cough and dropped to one knee, one hand pressed tightly against his wound.
He exhaled roughly, sweat beading on his brow.
Leaning harder into the pillar behind him, blood still leaked through his fingers.
Kael stepped toward him, concern flashing in his eyes.
“Captain—”
Alric raised a hand weakly. “No. Don’t.”
He looked up at them all—at the prince, at the people still able to run, to fight.
“When the time comes,” he said, voice low but steady, “don’t waste it on me.”
Lucien stared at him, shaking his head. “We’re not leaving you.”
“You will,” Alric said, with a tired smile. “You have to.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Alric leaned his head back against the stone and shut his eyes for a moment. “You must live, my prince. That’s all that matters.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Garron muttered, “You’re not dying here, you stubborn fool. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
But Alric just chuckled, dry and ragged. “Call me whatever you want, my friend. But you know I’m right.”
Leila looked away. Rook tried to speak, but nothing came out.
And Lucien—his hands curled into fists, the words clawing at his throat.
“I don’t care what’s ‘right,’” he said, his voice hoarse but steady.
He stepped forward, kneeling beside Alric. The captain opened his eyes slowly, surprised by the closeness.
“By the name of Lucien Aurelius Virelion,” Lucien said, “I order you not to die.”
Alric chuckled softly, though it turned into a grimace of pain. “You’d make a benevolent emperor someday.”
Lucien tilted his head. “Then stay alive to see that day—all of you.”
Behind them, Kael stood silent, watching. The others shifted uneasily, the weight of the moment pressing down like the dust in the air.
Cassian returned from the far side of the nave, his voice low and urgent.
“Perimeter’s clear—for now. No movement outside. But we won’t stay hidden long.”
Lucien rose, and something cold and certain had settled in his eyes.
“Then we buy as much time as we can.”
He looked to Kael, then to Garron. “We prepare defenses. Seal off the doors. If they come—”
“We make them bleed for every step,” Garron finished with a nod.
Cassian gave a sharp grin. “Now that sounds like a plan.”
The others moved swiftly, slipping into action with quiet determination.
The chapel stirred with the sound of blades drawn, pews dragged, and footsteps on stone.
Alric remained slumped against the pillar, his breathing shallow, his eyes never leaving the prince.
There was pain in that gaze.
But more than that—there was pride.
Lucien felt it. He didn’t have to look to know it was there. Still, he clenched his jaw and kept moving.
Because there was no time left for doubt.
No time for fear.
Only what had to be done—before the enemy found them...
Meanwhile, out in the woods—
The forest was still, save for the quiet crunch of boots over damp leaves.
A lone Crimson Crow crouched near a bent fern, gloved fingers brushing against a streak of red smeared on the bark of an old pine.
Blood.
Still fresh.
He rose slowly. His eyes narrowed behind the mask, scanning the undergrowth.
A second assassin appeared beside him, silent as fog. “You found something?”
The first one nodded. “They passed through here. One of them is bleeding.”
The second crouched, examining the faint imprints in the moss—heavy footfalls, uneven, staggered. “Wounded. Limping.”
The first turned toward the deeper woods, where the trees thickened and shadows lengthened.
“They’re close,” he murmured.
Behind them, more Crimson Crow operatives melted out of the brush, wordless and ready.
The squad leader raised a clenched fist. The group halted in perfect silence.
Dozens of them now—each with weapons glinting dully in the filtered sunlight.
They moved like shadows, communicating only with glances and hand signs.
The blood trail curved along a narrow ravine, where roots jutted like claws from the earth.
One of the assassins knelt again, brushing aside a cluster of crushed leaves.
“Boot print,” he whispered. “Big. Could be the one carrying the injured man.”
The leader nodded and pointed forward, toward the ridge above.
“North slope?” someone muttered.
The leader grinned beneath his mask. “There’s an abandoned old chapel up there, if the map’s right.”
He raised three fingers—count of entry paths. Two flanking, one frontal. The group split instantly.
As they advanced, the forest began to thin. The underbrush gave way to rocky soil, and the trees grew sparser.
Then—19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkFgHm6Ysea
Thwip.
An arrow whistled from the chapel and struck one of the assassins clean through the eye. He crumpled, dead before he hit the ground.
“Ambush!” another hissed, drawing his blade. “It came from the chapel!”
Without hesitation, the remaining Crimson Crow operatives fanned out and surged forward toward the chapel.
“Incoming!” Leila called from the second-floor window, yanking back the crossbow string as she reloaded. Her voice echoed through the chapel.
From below, Garron’s deep bark rose over the noise. “Everyone to your positions!”
The chapel came alive—calm tension bursting into motion.
Cassian dashed to the entrance, twin blades already out. He flipped a pew on its side and ducked behind it. “We hold the line! Nothing gets through!”
Grey spun his daggers once, his eyes gleaming beneath his mask. He disappeared into the shadows of the archway. “Let’s give them hell.”
Rook crouched by the main door, sliding two small vials into the grooves above the hinges. “Surprises ready,” he muttered with a smirk.
Garron stood like a fortress before the entrance, broadsword resting across his shoulder. “We just need to hold until Mira gets here. So don’t die.”
Kael lingered in the center of the chapel, standing behind a half-toppled altar, sword gripped tightly in both hands.
Lucien stood beside him. His posture was tense but upright.
Above, Leila fired another bolt.
Thwip.
A second assassin dropped.
But they were coming fast—too fast to stop them all.
Leila’s eyes swept the treeline. “Three squads—two flanking left and right!”
Cassian didn’t flinch. “Ready.”
Alric remained in the corner, pale and barely conscious—but the sword in his hand never wavered.
The first assassin burst through the front doors with a heavy kick—only to trigger the hidden vials.
BOOM.
A blast of crimson flame and concussive force erupted in his face, flinging him backward into the dirt with a sickening crack.
Smoke curled in the doorway.
Then the next wave came.
They crashed into the chapel through the windows, blades flashing in the light that filtered through shattered glass.
Cassian met them head-on, blades whirling in tight arcs, parrying and striking in fluid motion.
Grey emerged from the shadows behind the first attacker, dagger sliding clean across a throat before vanishing again.
Rook rolled over the altar and tackled one through a bench, knife stabbing up under the ribs.
Garron stood unmoving until one reached him—then he swung. One blow split wood and bone alike.
Kael deflected a strike and staggered back. Lucien stepped in and thrust his sword into the assassin’s chest.
Above, Leila let another bolt fly.
Thwip. Thwip.
She didn’t watch them land. Her fingers were already loading the next.
Every shot was a beat in the countdown.
Every breath, a borrowed moment.
They just had to hold—until Mira arrived...
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