The Night That Should’ve Stayed Quiet
"Looks like we’re not very welco."
Ronan’s voice floated through the firelight, calm and almost amused.
Ego didn’t blink.
Didn’t take a breath for a heartbeat.
He just stared at the two n standing in front of his campfire as if the night itself had decided to walk in wearing boots.
Around him, fifty Moon Eagle assassins shifted. Uncertain. Restless. Hands hovered near blades, sleeves twitched, shoulders tightened. Even the fire seed to quiet down, cracking softer, almost respectful.
Recognition hit the camp like a dropped boulder.
Ego stepped closer, boots scraping against gravel, jaw locking tight.
"...Ronan Ironcold."
His voice thinned, scraping low.
"And Loret Blackcrow."
Both n smiled—small, private smiles that never reached their eyes.
Ronan tilted his head slightly, like an older wolf appraising a younger one.
Loret just exhaled softly through his nose, amused at the tension thickening the air.
Ego looked between them and snorted.
"Why not welco?" he muttered. "When you two are our patrons?"
A ripple went through the assassins—so disbelief, so insult, and a good amount of "why the hell didn’t you tell us that earlier?"—but no one voiced it.
Ronan and Loret exchanged a glance.
Not long.
Not dramatic.
Just one of those short, unspoken exchanges between conspirators who didn’t need words to understand each other.
Both smiled again.
Silent. Calculating.
Like n who had already eaten half the world and were trying to decide if the rest was worth the effort.
Ego narrowed his eyes.
He knew exactly who these two were—not just kings, but predators wearing crowns.
And for a mont, deep in his chest, sothing uneasy stirred.
Right. These two are responsible for gathering us...
Fifty assassins, fifty high-maintenance killers—and all of them cost more than a small army to feed for a week.
We’re basically a bleeding wallet on legs.
He exhaled once, slow.
Thank the gods they had soone inside Lionheart feeding them stolen funds... otherwise the fifty of us would’ve drained their treasury dry.
Loret stretched his shoulders, lazy.
"So," Ego muttered, crossing his arms. "You ca all the way here. Fine. Then tell who we’re killing and how we’re doing it. Let’s finish our job and get paid."
Ronan chuckled—low, sharp, the kind that ant trouble.
"Why so separate?" Ronan asked, stepping closer to the fire. "We’re here to conquer a kingdom, not write a grocery list."
Ego’s brows pulled together.
"Conquer?" he repeated. "Don’t joke with . Do you think I’m a fool? Fifty assassins... against a fortified kingdom? We can kill kings, generals, nobles, anyone you point at—sure. But conquering? That’s not what we’re here for."
Loret lifted a hand, palm outward, soothing.
"We know," he said lightly. "We’re not idiots. That’s why we hired you."
A few assassins straightened at that.
Insult? Praise? Hard to tell.
Ego didn’t care.
He jabbed a thumb at himself.
"I lead my squad because I understand the difference between killing and suicide. You paid us well, so I’ll give you honesty. If you expect the fifty of us to conquer Lionheart, I’ll kill you both myself and save Lionheart the trouble."
Several assassins nodded.
A few smirked.
Two cracked their knuckles.
Ronan didn’t get angry.
He actually looked proud.
"Good," he said. "Honesty is rare. And helpful. Now listen."
He gestured to the ground.
Ego didn’t sit.
But he listened.
Loret stepped around the fire, hands behind his back, voice light but edged with steel.
"You won’t be conquering anything. You’ll be killing—quickly, quietly, precisely. We’ll handle the armies."
The assassins exchanged glances.
A few leaned forward.
This sounded more like a job.
Ronan spoke next, sharp as a thrown dagger:
"We’ll create the distraction. Two kingdoms—Ironcold and Blackcrow—pushing the Lionheart’s borders. While they’re busy, you fifty will cut through what actually matters."
Ego’s interest sharpened.
"Which is?"
Loret smiled.
"The heart."
A hush fell.
Ronan nodded.
"While Lionheart is busy trying to defend their land, your group infiltrates the capital. Kill the nobles, the command chain, and the ones who keep the kingdom functioning. Without them, the kingdom collapses without us ever needing to break the gates."
An assassin whistled softly.
Another muttered, "That’s... actually smart."
Ego didn’t relax.
But a small part of him appreciated hearing sothing that didn’t sound like fantasy.
"And what about the royal family of Lionheart?" Ego asked. "Soone needs to take care of them too."
Ronan’s smile deepened—dangerous, satisfied.
"You."
Ego froze.
Soone inhaled sharply.
Ronan stepped closer, eyes gleaming with that quiet cruelty only war-bred n carried.
"In the anti," Ronan said, "you go kill the royal family of Moonstone."
Ego blinked once.
"The royal family of Moonstone?"
"Yes," Ronan confird, amused by his surprise. "Two birds. One war. Lionheart will be too busy fighting us to protect their neighbors. Moonstone will panic. And while they panic, we take their throne before they even know they’re at war."
Ego ran a hand along his jaw.
They want two kingdoms toppled at once.
He huffed out a breath.
"That’s your plan."
Loret shrugged.
"It’s efficient."
"One war, two corpses," Ronan murmured.
Ego stared at them for a long mont.
The fire cracked gently between them.
Finally, Ego closed his eyes, exhaled, and nodded once.
"Fine. Morning. First light. We discuss details."
Ronan smiled.
Loret smiled.
Ego didn’t.
But he didn’t refuse.
He turned and motioned to the assassins.
"Sit," he commanded. "We’re planning."
The fifty killers shifted back into their places around the fire—slow, sharp-eyed, wary, but obedient. Even those who disliked the kings’ arrogance knew when business mattered more than pride.
Ronan and Loret stepped into the circle, letting the fire paint sharp shadows across their faces.
The night grew colder.
The flas burned hotter.
And fifty assassins leaned in as two kings began to draw the outline of a conspiracy that would bleed the Lionheart Kingdom dry.
The fire crackled.
The wind listened.
The forest kept its secrets.
And under the quiet sky, three forces—Moon Eagle, Ironcold, and Blackcrow—began weaving the kind of plan that only ended in ashes and bodies.
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