A visible shudder ran through Arvant. His breath hitched as the weight of Dagur's words struck him like a hammer."What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice thick with horror.Dagur's expression darkened. His amusement had limits, and his patience had been wearing thin.
"Look, old man," he sighed, his tone laced with a warning, "we've already dragged this on far too long. If you want to escape, then do so now."
A deadly seriousness settled in his voice as he continued. "For that one thing you did in the past… I'll look the other way, just this once." His crimson eyes gleamed with an unspoken promise.
"Leave now, while you still can."
Arvant clenched his jaw, his grip on the reins tightening. His mind raced, conflicted. His past dealings with Dagur were nothing he wished to recall, and if Dagur was offering a way out, then it meant he was completely serious about what was coming next.
It sure seemed like Dagur held Arvant in high regard, as he was considering letting him go.
But Milan had no such history with Dagur.
The prince's brow furrowed as he studied the imposing figure before him. He didn't know Dagur personally, but he knew of him. He had heard the whispers of his race—the monstrous warriors who thrived on carnage and destruction.
If what Dagur said was true, then this was far worse than anything Milan had anticipated. They were thinking of escaping from the wolf but only to be landed in the lion's den.
His gaze flickered to Jolthar.
Jolthar hadn't moved from his spot, but his body was poised, like a beast preparing to pounce. The silver-white lines of energy still coiled around him, crackling faintly, illuminating his form in an eerie glow. He was ready—ready to carve his way through whatever came next. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by ⓝovelFire.net
Cleora watched the duo with suspicious eyes. She recognized Arvant; after all, he had been one of the generals of the empires; his reputation precedes him. Then seeing how he was treating the young man, she soon realized that he must be the prince Milan.
She heard that Arvant had become the close aide for Milan. But why did they come here? Seeing how Arvant was injured, something or someone had attacked.
Milan opened his mouth to speak, to ask Jolthar what the situation was, but before he could, Arvant suddenly turned to him with urgency. He didn't expect to see Jolthar right after the spectacle in the Kaezhlar clan. There were a lot of questions in his mind, but his situation didn't let him to wonder about that.
"My prince," Arvant said quickly, his voice hushed yet firm, "we should get out of here. We'll be dead if we stay any longer."
Milan's eyes widened slightly in disbelief. "What are you saying? What about them?" He gestured toward Jolthar and the others, the remnants of Cleora and Roblan's soldiers who still stood behind them, tense and waiting.
Arvant clenched his teeth, frustration clear in his features. "We aren't in a position to worry about them," he snapped, lowering his voice slightly so that only Milan could hear. "You don't understand. We won't make it out alive if we stay here."
Milan was about to retort, but then he noticed something—Arvant's eyes weren't just darting between Dagur and Jolthar.
He kept looking behind them, back toward the path they had ridden in from.
Milan followed his gaze.
The black-cloaked men were no longer in sight.
A cold realization crept up his spine.
They weren't retreating. They weren't hesitating.
Milan swallowed hard, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. If they left now, those assassins would follow. If they stayed, they would be caught in a war between monsters.
A pickle, as Arvant had put it.
But Milan had the distinct feeling that no matter what choice they made—this was going to be their worst night yet.
Dagur's crimson eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was a distinct sharpness behind them as he watched the figures before him. Arvant and Cleora—both familiar faces, yet that familiarity did nothing to deter him.
He had no reservations about cutting them down where they stood. He had already given Arvant a chance to leave, and the old man had chosen to stay.
Now, his patience was running dangerously thin. And there was Jolthar, a mysterious individual who was starting to put pressure from their side.
A heavy silence settled over the square, thick with the tension of an impending battle.
The air itself felt charged, humming with the anticipation of bloodshed. He watched long enough, and Arvant, along with the young man still present. His expression turned grim.
Then, without a moment's hesitation, Dagur raised his arm and let it fall in a sharp, decisive motion.
"Kill them all," he ordered, his voice carrying an undeniable finality.
The words rang out like a death knell.
The army behind him surged forward at once, a tide of armoured bodies and gleaming weapons flooding into the square. The ground trembled beneath their charge, the rhythmic pounding of heavy boots blending with the metallic clatter of steel against steel.
Arvant's weathered face hardened as he swiftly turned to Milan, his grip on the reins tightening. "We need to move. Now."
Milan hesitated; they quickly moved towards the back, behind the Barony soldiers.
Arvant also stopped as he noticed movements in the streets. He wanted to escape with the prince, but now he wasn't sure. He thought the assassins were being quite seen, all of them, and it would give them time if they moved in a direction. But now he had to think about leaving the town.
The prince, who also noticed the movements of those assassins, said, "Arvant, do you think we can escape those men if we leave this town? They will surely catch up to us and kill us before we put some distance. If I have to guess, they weren't coming out because they want this to be discreet. They don't want to make them known to others. Maybe that was the reason they still haven't come out here."