I slipped quietly into the open night air, the soft rustle of leaves greeting me as I stepped into the garden.
The moonlight poured over the estate like silver mist the flowerbeds glistened, the marble path gleamed faintly, and for a moment, it almost felt peaceful. Almost.
Ahead, I could see them two guards making their rounds near the horse stead, their armor catching bits of moonlight as they walked. The very place I needed to reach.
I crouched low, slipping into the shadows of a rose bed. The scent of the flowers was thick and sweet, almost nauseatingly so. I pretended to study them, plucking at a petal to look less suspicious in case someone noticed me.
The guards' footsteps grew louder.
"Hey, isn't that the creepy youngest?" one muttered.
I froze, eyes down, heart steady.
"Yeah," the other replied with a dismissive grunt. "Let him be. Kid gives me the chills. Acts like some old man trapped in a baby's body."
They both chuckled, their laughter echoing faintly as they passed. When their voices finally faded into the distance, I let out a small breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"Heh…" I couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Guess even I'm a rumor now."
It wasn't like I could blame them. A two-year-old who talked like an adult, moved too calmly, and rarely smiled I must've looked like some cursed doll to them.
Still, their words didn't sting as much as they used to.
If being "creepy" was what it took to survive in this place, then so be it.
I waited until their figures disappeared behind the far wall before I stood, brushing the dirt from my hands. The path to the stead was clear now.
"Alright," I whispered to myself. "Time to move."
The scent of hay and iron filled the air as I stepped into the shed. The moment I did, the horses stirred their ears twitching, hooves shifting uneasily against the floor. Animals were always sensitive. They could sense things humans couldn't.
Their sudden restlessness only confirmed what I already knew.
I walked deeper in, my small feet silent against the ground. The faint creak of the wooden boards echoed softly, mingling with the muffled snorts of the steeds. My gaze swept across the dimly lit interior every stall, every corner.
But I wasn't here for a horse.
I stopped at the end of the shed, near the racks of saddles and tack, and spoke quietly, without turning around.
"You can come out now."
For a heartbeat, nothing. Just the sound of a horse stamping impatiently. Then, from the entrance behind me, I heard it a soft, amused chuckle.
"Heh… sharp little brat, aren't you?"
A figure stepped into view, cloaked in black. The hood obscured most of his face, but I could see the faint glint of his eyes mocking, watchful, dangerous.
"I was careful, you know," the man continued, his tone almost playful. "Didn't think a child would catch on so quickly."
I turned to face him fully, my expression unreadable. "Please. You were practically begging me to notice you." That made him pause. Then he laughed low, genuine, and maybe just a little impressed.
"So you figured it out, huh?"
I tilted my head slightly. "You made it too easy, Dorathal." The name hung in the air like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
The man Dorathal froze for a moment, then smiled under his hood. "Ah… so you even remember my name. Now that's interesting."
I thought about it again and again but it never made sense.
No bandit in their right mind would step foot in Ardent territory. Not here. Not in their lands. This was the lion's den patrolled, guarded, watched from every ridge. A bandit attack here wasn't just reckless, it was suicide.
So that could only mean one thing.
As the thought settled in, the hooded figure at the stable entrance let out a low chuckle and pulled back his hood.
Dorathal.
His jagged grin stretched unnaturally across his face, the kind of grin that told you he didn't bother hiding what he was.
"I see the rumors were true," he said, amusement dripping from every word. "You're sharper than you look, little lord."
I didn't move. My eyes stayed locked on his, cold and unmoving. "What did you do to Cassandra?"
He raised his shoulders lazily, feigning innocence. "I've no idea what the brat's talking about."
The casual tone was what did it that smug, empty denial. My hand moved before I even realized it. I reached for my pouch, pulled out the dagger, and hurled it straight at him.
The blade cut through the air with a sharp whistle before embedding itself in the wooden post beside his head.
Dorathal didn't flinch. He only turned slightly to glance at it, then back at me, his grin widening.
I stared him down, voice low and steady. "That dagger… it may look like Cassandra's but it isn't hers."
His expression twitched just slightly.
"It's a fake."
The silence that followed was heavy almost suffocating. And for the first time, I saw it in his eyes: not amusement, not mockery… but a flicker of surprise.
He hadn't expected me to notice.
Dorathal tilted his head, one hand resting lazily on his hip, that same crooked grin plastered across his face.
"I've never seen that dagger in my life," he said, voice dripping with mockery.
Of course he'd say that.
I exhaled slowly, shaking my head. "I knew you'd say that."
Bending down, I picked up the dagger the fake and turned it upside down, the jade hilt catching faint light from the lantern above. "Cassandra showed me this dagger countless times. Said it was her treasure a gift from her homeland."
My eyes narrowed, tracing the dull, uneven carvings that tried too hard to look authentic. "I remember exactly how it looked… and quite frankly, the quality on this one is beyond fake."
I tossed it to the ground, the blade clattering against the cobblestone floor. Dorathal chuckled, feigning confusion. "And who'd go through all that trouble just to fake a dagger, hmm?"
His grin widened, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You're chasing shadows, boy."
"How indeed," I murmured. Then I looked up at him, meeting his gaze with a faint smile of my own. "Unless, of course… they hold a grudge."
The smile vanished from his face the instant I said the next words.
"Right, Knight of Crimson Rivere?"
The air shifted. His jaw tightened, and that grin of his faltered. Not because the name was wrong but because it was right.
That title wasn't given out of honor, but out of blood. Dorathal had earned it when he'd slaughtered the knights of Rivere years ago. They said he painted the river red with their corpses.
"I see," I said softly, almost conversationally. "You didn't like that name much, did you?"
He didn't respond.
"Not alot of people know about this dagger, except for a few....me, Cassandra and the man who's neck the dagger almost took almost a year ago today...."
Dorathal's hand twitched just slightly.
I smiled. "You were that man, weren't you?" For the first time, his grin was gone.