The sun had barely risen when I reached the next village, perched on a small hill beside a river that glittered faintly in the morning light. The town was ordinary in every sense—cobblestone streets, small houses with thatched roofs, merchants hawking wares. Children ran barefoot, dogs barked at passing carts, and soldiers patrolled lazily, confident in their numbers and routines. Predictable. Ordinary. Mistakes waiting to be exploited. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
Voraciel hummed faintly against my back. The whisper pressed against my mind: "…kill." Not a command. Not a demand. Just presence. Alive. Patient. Waiting. I ignored it. Patience first. Observation always.
I crouched atop a low wall, scanning the town's routines. Guards walked predictable routes, stopping at the same posts to chat or inspect crates. Merchants left valuable goods unattended briefly while attending to customers. Citizens moved carelessly, unaware that the patterns of their lives were being measured and cataloged. Ordinary mistakes stacked like kindling. Knowledge is power. Observation always precedes action.
The first opposition came sooner than expected. A band of mercenaries—three men armed with swords and crude armor—emerged from the main road. Their presence was immediate, noticeable. They moved differently from ordinary soldiers, alert, watching shadows, sniffing the air for intruders. Predictable overconfidence mingled with training, and that made them dangerous—but not insurmountable.
I noted their movements, timing, spacing, and guard rotations. Observation. Patience. Calculation. Voraciel hummed faintly. "…kill."
Not yet. Not without preparation.
The villagers remained unaware. Soldiers continued their patrols elsewhere. Merchants shouted prices. Children chased one another through puddles. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I moved into the shadows, circling the mercenaries. Voraciel pulsed faintly, responding to my presence. The whisper grew insistent: "…kill."
I ignored it for now. Observation first. They tested the village silently, moving from alley to alley, scanning windows, listening for unusual sounds. Their intention was clear—they sought to establish dominance before I acted. Mistakes? Few, but present. Spacing slightly off, timing inconsistent, one glance too long at a shadow that was nothing. Predictable. Ordinary mistakes waiting to be exploited.
Night fell. Lanterns flickered along streets, shadows lengthened. I positioned myself in a narrow alley overlooking the mercenaries. Their patrol had circled the same routes multiple times, predictably. Supply routes lay unguarded. Windows above alleyways offered clear vantage points. Observation had revealed every advantage.
I stepped lightly to the side, hand brushing Voraciel's hilt. The warmth spread faintly into my arm. Bloodlust did not surge yet; control is everything. "…kill—Crimson Tide."
The sword responded instantly. Shadows bent subtly, force guided by intent. The first mercenary stumbled, a subtle pulse throwing off his balance. His companions froze, hesitation cracking their composure. Controlled. Precise. Efficient. Bloodlust, refined by calculation.
By the time the last man fell unconscious, the alley was still. My breathing slow, measured. Voraciel pulsed faintly, patient and alive. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures. No one had noticed. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
The village had survived the test unnoticed. Guards remained unaware. Merchants continued routines. Citizens slept. I observed from a rooftop, noting shadows and patrols. Voraciel hummed faintly in response to the thought of further expansion. The whisper returned: "…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience. Observation. Calculation. Intent.
By midnight, I had assessed the surrounding villages, identifying key points for subtle control. Supply lines, minor patrols, merchant warehouses—all mapped. Voraciel pulsed faintly, alive, responsive. The whisper lingered at the edge of thought, approving yet patient: "…wait." Not yet. Not now.
The first opposition had been neutralized without notice, and the village remained ordinary, unaware, predictable. Bloodlust is awakening. The first technique mastered. Intent is everything.
I descended from the rooftop, moving silently to my room at the edge of town. Cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered. The whisper had acknowledged my presence. Alive. Patient. Watching.
The world sleeps, unaware. Shadows stretch over villages, roads, and fields, guiding patterns toward my intent. Mistakes are everywhere, if one knows how to read them. And I am just beginning.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.