Freya shimmered into view, the magic of her invisibility peeling away like mist.
She stood there, golden-haired, cloaked in the warm, welcoming form of "Aurea" — the persona the villagers had come to trust.
To be specific, Freya was perfect in stealthing and infiltrating everywhere using her skills.
She was... the perfect assassin.
A cold one... with a small flaw:
Her "obsession" with playing with her prey before acting.
And... her crush on Azrael since the beginning of their training.
"Aurea!" Elarwen squealed, dashing forward with a burst of childlike joy.
Valtherion wasn't far behind, his face lighting up as he recognized her.
Freya knelt down, arms wide, catching them both in a tight embrace.
She laughed, the sound bright and pure — a perfect imitation of innocence.
Behind her, Azrael stood motionless, greatsword resting against his shoulder, watching the scene unfold with a detached, impassive gaze.
"You're here too?" Valtherion asked, pulling back slightly to study her face.
Elarwen, ever the mischievous one, smirked. "Wait a second... are you two together?"
Her words hung in the air like a spark above dry leaves.
Freya feigned a gasp, a playful blush rising to her cheeks.
She stole a sideways glance at Azrael, whose only response was a faint narrowing of the eyes.
"Oh no," Freya said with an exaggerated wink, "our little secret's out!"
Valtherion burst into laughter, while Elarwen clapped her hands in delight.
Azrael, for his part, gave no visible reaction — but a muscle in his jaw twitched almost imperceptibly.
Freya leaned closer to the children, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Don't tell anyone, okay? It's supposed to be top secret."
Valtherion saluted dramatically. "You can count on us, Miss Aurea!"
"So... is he the strong man you told us about? The man who slay evil creatures alone?" Elarwen asked with sparking eyes.
Freya nodded her head proudly.
"Yeah! He is very strong! No wonder he's my man!" Freya said.
Azrael stood there, with an expression of uneasiness.
He was thinking "What the hell is she saying?"
They laughed, and for a fleeting moment, the world around them felt almost normal — almost safe.
But safety was a fragile lie.
A scream — high-pitched, raw with terror — shattered the moment like glass.
In an instant, Azrael's demeanor changed.
His hand shot to the hilt of his sword, body tensing like a spring ready to snap.
Without a word, he bolted toward the sound, boots hammering against the ground.
Freya straightened, her smile dropping away like a mask being torn off.
She turned to the children, her voice suddenly sharp and commanding.
"Stay here. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone but me. Understand?"
Their laughter had vanished. Eyes wide with fear, they nodded quickly.
Satisfied, Freya spun on her heel and sprinted after Azrael, her cloak billowing behind her like a shadow.
Moreover, Azrael done something unexpected.
When he heard the scream, he immediately rushed, leaving the kids alone with Freya.
In his little, this little action showed his trust towards her.
He knew that the kids would've been safe in her arms.
They reached the center of the village just as a crowd was gathering.
A woman was at the center of it, sobbing hysterically, pointing a trembling finger toward the crude wooden palisade that ringed the village.
"I saw them!" she shrieked. "Shadows—moving through the trees! And—and there's a body—hanging—!"
Villagers murmured and shifted uneasily, clutching pitchforks and torches tighter.
Azrael's eyes darted to the treeline.
The palisade — little more than sharpened logs soaked in garlic — would never hold if something truly dangerous decided to attack.
His instincts screamed at him to move, to investigate, to find the threat and end it.
But before he could take a step, a hand grabbed his wrist.
Freya.
Still disguised as Aurea, her expression was calm, almost unnervingly so.
"Wait," she whispered, low enough that only he could hear. "Listen first."
Azrael scowled but obeyed, straining his senses outward.
A strange, suffocating silence had fallen over the village.
The usual night sounds — crickets, distant owls — were gone.
Replaced by... something else.
A faint, almost imperceptible rustling beyond the walls. Like something brushing against the wood. Waiting.
Then, from the crowd, a voice rang out — loud, cocky, and very, very foolish.
Moreover, the timing was... perfect.
Just right when Azrael stepped into that village.
"Step aside, villagers! Kawara of the White Wolf is here to save you!"
A man pushed his way forward — broad-shouldered, armored in leather and chain, a silver medallion bouncing against his chest.
He brandished a heavy axe and wore a smirk so wide it practically split his face.
Several other hunters — men and women who had been drinking deep at the village's little tavern — rallied behind him, their weapons gleaming.
Among them was the silver-haired mage Azrael had noticed earlier, her staff crackling faintly with pent-up magic.
Freya — no, Freya — smiled softly behind her illusion, her eyes gleaming.
"Sacrifices lining up on their own. How... convenient." Freya whispered.
Kawara thumped his chest again, turning toward the villagers. "Don't worry, folks! We'll handle this! Nothing gets past the White Wolf!"
Cheers broke out among the villagers — desperate, hopeful.
"Fools," Azrael thought grimly.
The hunters, fueled by pride and bravado, marched toward the gates, swinging them open with a dramatic flourish.
The cold night air rushed in, carrying with it a foul, coppery stench.
Blood.
But Kawara and his merry band didn't notice — or if they did, they were too proud to care.
"Come on!" he shouted, leading the charge into the darkness.
The mage followed close behind, muttering incantations under her breath, arcs of blue lightning dancing between her fingers.
They disappeared into the woods, torches flickering like dying stars.
For a long moment, the village was silent again.
Azrael stood perfectly still, muscles tight, heart hammering against his ribs.
Beside him, Freya crossed her arms and tilted her head, almost... amused.
"Let them go," she murmured.
Azrael's hand clenched around his sword, the urge to follow burning hot in his chest.
But something — the same cold, ruthless logic that had kept him alive all these years — whispered to wait.
Observe.
Listen.
Then act.
Minutes passed.
The villagers huddled together, murmuring prayers to indifferent gods.
No screams yet.
No sounds of battle.
Just the wind, whispering through the trees.
And then — a single scream.
Sharp. Choked. Cut off halfway through.
Azrael stepped forward instinctively, but Freya's hand shot out again, restraining him with surprising force.
"Patience," she said, voice low.
More sounds now — confused shouting, the clash of metal, another scream.
And something else.
A low, wet thud, like meat hitting stone.
A gurgling moan.
Panic erupted at the edge of the woods.
One of the hunters — a young man barely older than Valtherion, probably around 15 — stumbled back through the gates, blood pouring from a ragged wound across his chest.
His mouth opened to scream again — but a black shape lunged from the shadows, dragging him back into the night before the villagers could even react.
The gates slammed shut behind them, as if the darkness itself had hands.
The villagers screamed, scattering in all directions.
"It's time to act now. Go." Freya suggested.
Azrael finally moved, breaking into a run, sword gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
But, before moving, he gave Freya a quick glance.
He silently said "Stay here, protect everyone."
Freya smirked, "Your trust means a lot to me, you know...?" She whispered in the air.
Her gaze then moved towards the crying woman who was being sustained by the people around here.
"I smell blood." Freya said in her mind, knowing that there was a menace in the small village.
And she also knew that the bad smell was coming from that woman.
Somewhere deep in the woods, unseen, something moved with purpose.
The first move had been made.
And it would not be the last.