"Let me guess," Richard said, his voice calm yet carrying the unmistakable weight of authority, "what you lot were trying to do. You wanted to kill me, didn't you? Although your strength and ability clearly do not match the task, your actions leave no doubt about your intent."
He slowly circled the trembling figure on the ground, his boots crushing the grass slightly as he approached, eyes scanning every micro-expression, every twitch that betrayed fear. "But why kill me? It could not possibly be for some grand righteous cause. No, the simplest explanation is that someone hired you. Conveniently, just yesterday, in this same exact location, another hired assassin tried the same thing."
Richard paused, letting his words hang in the cool morning air. The river mist mixed with the faint scent of crushed herbs beneath his feet. "So, two days in a row, two attempts at the same place. Can I boldly guess that you are actually connected? The female assassin yesterday—she was wiser than you. She realized staying with a group like yours would slow her down, so she acted alone. And in fact, she almost succeeded. You, on the other hand, only realized she wasn't part of the ambush at the last moment, panicked, and proceeded according to the original plan."
He leaned slightly closer, the shadow from the rising sun stretching his tall form across the field. "And so, you charged out recklessly, and unsurprisingly, you were swiftly dealt with. Then we arrive at this current scene. Now tell me—am I correct?"
The man on the ground, eyes wide, pupils constricted with sheer terror, opened his mouth, trying to form words, but only managed a fragmented syllable before he stopped entirely.
Richard's hand moved almost imperceptibly, drawing a gleaming, razor-thin knife from his belt. With a single, precise motion, the blade cut across the man's neck, severing both the carotid artery and jugular. Dark crimson and scarlet blood gushed in a fountain, soaking through the coarse linen tunic and pooling on the ground beneath him. The man flailed, hands clutching the wound, but his movements slowed quickly, his limbs collapsing in a horrifying mixture of life and sudden absence.
Richard stood slowly, wiping the blood from his blade onto the grass before sheathing it. His expression was unreadable, but the faint danger in his gaze was unmistakable. He surveyed the scene—the scattered corpses, the remnants of the failed ambush—and his voice, low and deliberate, cut through the morning mist. "Last time. This is the last time."
He exhaled deeply, taking in the emptiness beyond the field, the absence of any further threat. "I do not want to waste time on your childish game of kill me, and I kill you. There are far more important matters demanding my attention. Do not test me again. Do not provoke me further. Or the outcome will not be what you wish."
Another deep breath, and Richard swung himself onto his horse, preparing to return to the castle, the faint crunch of grass beneath hooves punctuating the tense silence.
But then a sharp, startled shout echoed from the side. Richard's eyes snapped to the sound, and he saw a sudden flurry of movement—one of the guard squad members, his mount stumbling, suddenly fell from his horse. In midair, the figure twisted, recognized instantly by Richard. It was Hughes.
"Master Hughes! What's happening? Are you hurt?" the guards called out, rushing forward in a chaotic swarm.
Richard's brow furrowed, and he dismounted with the fluid motion of someone accustomed to sudden crisis. He sprinted toward Hughes, who now lay prone on the damp grass, his iron armor discarded or loosened in haste. Blood seeped from a gaping wound across his abdomen, seeping into the soil.
Turku knelt nearby, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes dark with fury and helplessness. He scanned the corpses scattered around them, rage and despair mingling in his features as if he wished he could raise them all from the dead and strike again.
"What happened?" Richard asked, voice calm but edged with authority.
"Master, Hughes… he's been injured," Turku said, teeth clenched, the words trembling with barely suppressed rage. "The wound is severe. He may not survive."
Richard's gaze sharpened. "Severe? How? None of the enemies should have posed a real threat. How could this happen?"
Turku's fists shook visibly, his anger barely contained. "The enemies themselves were weak, easily cut down. I was on the left flank, Hughes on the right, and we dealt with them cleanly. But just now, Hughes discovered, too late, that someone—someone sneaky—struck him with a dagger, slicing deep through his abdomen beneath the armor. The attack must have targeted a gap, a seam, in his iron plating. The wound opened as soon as he relaxed after the battle, and he fell from his horse immediately. Damn it, damn it!"
Richard's eyes narrowed. He approached the group surrounding Hughes, pushing aside the first guard detachment that had clustered protectively around the fallen man. He knelt beside Hughes, assessing the wound with trained, meticulous eyes.
Hughes lay pale, sweat mingling with the thin stream of blood oozing from the wound. His breathing was shallow, labored, each inhale a struggle. His eyes fluttered weakly, lips parting with great effort. "Richard… Master… I… I am certain I am dying. But please… I beg of you… promise me one thing. After I am gone… care for Alice. I… I know her status is humble… she may not have the right… but just let her serve you… as a maid, if nothing else. Please, Master… promise me."
Richard finished examining the wound, standing slowly, his expression unreadable. Hughes' eyes, filled with desperate hope, followed him, seeking affirmation.
Turku stepped forward, his voice softened with a rare note of empathy. "Do not worry, Hughes. I am certain Master Richard will protect your sister… You may rest easy now."
But Richard, voice flat and resolute, interrupted. "No."
Turku froze. The other guards looked at him in astonishment. Even Hughes' eyes widened, disbelief and pleading written across his pale face.
"Master Richard… please… I beg you…" Hughes croaked.
"Do not beg. I will not consent." Richard's tone was cold, precise. "You should care for your sister yourself. I do not have the time or inclination for such matters."
Silence fell over the field. The guards exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of shock and confusion. Care for a dying man's sibling? A ridiculous notion.
Richard crouched slightly, fixing Hughes with a steady gaze. "It is only a deep abdominal wound. Hardly fatal. I will stitch it, replenish his blood, and the wound will heal completely. Nothing more."
The first glimmer of relief appeared in Hughes' eyes, disbelief and hope mingling in equal measure. Turku exhaled slowly, trying to temper his still-raging emotions, while the other guards cautiously stepped back, letting Richard take control of the scene entirely.