The city streets of Stonewall Haven had grown quieter by the time Aldrich reached the edge of the market district. Lanterns swayed in the evening wind, casting uneven pools of yellow light across the cobblestones. People had begun closing stalls, tucking away goods, speaking in lower voices. But Aldrich's focus was elsewhere.
He had followed the whispers, the trail of Saelari scouts who had unknowingly stepped into the path of the storm that was Aldrich Yagurah.
Five of them: two women, three men. Names that would soon be etched in the ledger of their deaths:
Kyra — slender, quick, dagger at her hip, hair the color of pale ash, eyes sharp as a hawk. Selene — muscular for a woman, twin blades always ready, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. Darin — a brute of a man, sword slightly curved, teeth clenched, not too bright, but strong enough to kill a dozen untrained men. Luthor — lean, wiry, a trickster with a rapier, always moving, always calculating. Tavian — the largest of the three men, broad shoulders, thick arms, carrying a short sword and a dozen hidden blades.
They had no idea who was following them. To them, Aldrich was just another shadow among many in Stonewall Haven. And yet, every step they took, he mirrored from a distance, moving through alleyways, hopping low roofs, slipping through shadows with the silent precision of a predator who had been forged by fire and blood.
First, they went to a bar tucked between the marketplace and the southern wall. Aldrich lingered outside, watching them laugh, drink, and share stories. Their conversation was careless, unaware.
Then, as night deepened, they slipped into a brothel—a minor Saelari front, the kind used for meetings and extortion disguised under the guise of pleasure. Aldrich waited, unseen, while the voices inside shifted from laughter to plotting.
Finally, they left, heading north toward the forest that guarded the passage to the main Saelari compound. Aldrich followed silently, his black trench coat blending with the night, the bandanna across his forehead concealing the sharp intensity of his eyes, the YAGURAH sword swaying slightly against his back.
He paused briefly on the edge of the forest, listening to the wind rustle through the trees. The memory of a scholar's words came to him from a book Eldran had once read aloud by the fire:
"Revenge is a mirror, reflecting not what was done to you, but what you choose to become in its shadow. Fury is the hand that cleanses the mirror."
Aldrich clenched his fist. The words resonated perfectly with the storm in his chest. Tonight, the mirror would break. Tonight, the hand would strike.
He stepped from the shadows.
The five Saelari scouts had paused mid-step, the forest opening up before them like a trapdoor of destiny. The moonlight illuminated their faces, confident, unaware, careless.
Aldrich stepped forward, placing his right foot deliberately on the forest floor. His sword rose slowly from his back, tip pointing at them.
"My revenge," he said, voice low, steady, and cutting through the night, "starts here."
There was a pause—a heartbeat, two—before chaos erupted.
Kyra and Selene reacted first, throwing daggers attached to strings, spinning them through the air with deadly precision. Darin and Tavian drew swords in a brutal, overconfident charge. Luthor circled, rapier flashing.
Aldrich moved with the fluidity of a storm given form.
He leapt back, spinning his katana in a wide arc, slicing the air, deflecting the incoming daggers. Sparks flew as steel met steel. His body was a dance of lethal rhythm: step, parry, strike, evade. Every motion measured, instinctive, perfected over nine years of relentless training. He sidestepped Tavian's overhand swing, letting the man's momentum carry him forward, and drove the tip of his sword into the side of Tavian's ribs. The man dropped his blade with a grunt, doubled over, but Aldrich didn't pause.
Kyra's second dagger whistled past his cheek. Aldrich's hand shot out, catching the string mid-flight, yanking the blade from her grasp. Before she could recover, his katana sliced downward, leaving her incapacitated on the ground, a crimson line tracing her shoulder.
Selene charged with twin blades. Aldrich met her head-on. The clash of steel rang through the forest. He twisted under her swing, spinning to use her own momentum against her, disarming her with a sharp flick of his wrist. Her second blade flew uselessly into the shadows.
Darin, overconfident and slow, was next. Aldrich sidestepped, slashed across the chest in a single motion, dropping him to the forest floor with a scream that echoed among the trees.
Luthor's rapier was nimble, but Aldrich's hand was faster. A flick of the wrist, a controlled step, and Luthor felt his arm locked, his blade trapped. One precise strike to the leg, and Luthor went down, writhing, useless.
Only Tavian remained. The brute had survived the initial onslaught, panting, clutching his side, eyes wide with fear—and disbelief. Aldrich stepped toward him, voice low, calm, almost serene.
"You will tell me," Aldrich said, pressing the tip of his katana against Tavian's throat. "Where your clan resides. Every detail. Or you die, piece by piece, until your body is no more than a warning in this forest."
The fear was raw. Tavian's lips trembled. He tried to speak, but Aldrich's presence silenced him.
Aldrich crouched slightly, eyes level with Tavian's, voice dripping icy precision. "Names. Locations. Routes. Do you understand?"
"Yes… yes…" Tavian stammered, tears threatening. "The… the Saelari compound… north… beyond the ridge… under the cliffs… that's where… that's where…"
Aldrich's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. He withdrew his sword from the man's throat. The forest around them was silent. The screams and clattering had ceased. Only the wind moved, shaking leaves across the blood-soaked soil.
He rose fully. Tavian, shivering, spat blood, panting, broken. Aldrich looked around at the five scouts—four bodies fallen, one man trembling—his message delivered.
"My revenge begins," he whispered again, more to himself this time. "And the first step has been taken."
The katana glinted faintly in the moonlight. His bandanna, the black pendant around his neck, the sleek black coat—all spoke of the storm that had emerged from Hollowdene. Aldrich Yagurah was no longer a boy. He was a blade, honed by fire, patience, and fury.
And the world, starting with the Saelari, would feel it soon.