As the lifeless body of the hobgoblin chief still swayed, his hot blood splashed violently onto his females, who let out piercing screams, frozen in terror.
But him—the assassin—Dylan—did not flinch. Not an ounce of panic. His gray, almost lifeless eyes and dusky skin blended into the darkness, giving him the air of a silent predator. To those females, he was nothing more than a fleeting shadow... a murderous shadow. One by one, they fell, without even understanding how.
He didn't care about the noise. Or the screams. Not even about whether soone might have heard them. The other hobgoblins would never dare step into their chief's ho. Not even out of curiosity. Not even to save their females.
Covered in blood, Dylan slipped out of the house silently. The cool night air brushed his face, but it brought no relief. Outside, everything seed locked in a deep slumber. The central fire still crackled, alone, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls and hanging pelts.
He cast a quick glance toward the camp's gates, where sentries should have been standing. But he and Maggie had already taken care of them—coldly, thodically. Not a sound. Just two more bodies left to rot in the dust.
Slowly wiping his dagger on his victim's fur, he headed for another tent. Smaller, but quieter. Inside, his next targets were sleeping soundly, unaware that death was already walking among their dreams.
---
The forest had been entirely swallowed by the night, leaving only the central fire of the village to push back the darkness. Silence reigned, almost religious, broken at tis by hoarse moans that twisted the air like an overtightened cord.
A young woman with long ears and a shaved head followed closely behind a taller figure. This one had short hair, a lean, honed body, and a confident gait. They moved from tent to tent—slitting, strangling, slashing. Two shadows. Two walking dead, sent to bring the end. Devils in flesh.
"This is working a little too well..." thought Élisa, surprised she was still standing despite her wounds. She was managing to eliminate the hobgoblins in their sleep, but she wasn't Maggie.
No. Maggie killed without a sound. One strike, one vital point. No scream. No wasted movent. As if she'd done this all her life.
It was Maggie who had ordered Élisa to join this "operation," as they called it. But at this rate, they didn't even need her.
Suddenly, a cry rang out outside.
Then growls—too loud, too close.
The two won froze, their eyes eting. Maggie moved first. Her body covered in dried blood, she pulled back the curtain of beast hide and peered outside.
"They know we're here," she said coldly, clinically. No panic. Just a fact.
Élisa narrowed her eyes. A flicker of concern crossed her mind.
"Don't you think it's risky for him... doing this alone?" she asked, thinking of Dylan and the plan.
Maggie straightened up, her gaze hard. "You don't know who Dylan is. He can handle it."
---
There were six of them. Hobgoblins tense as bowstrings, nerves shot. Around them, guttural cries, death rattles, and sotis... screams so inhuman they seed to co from sowhere else. The echo of those sounds twisted space, disoriented them, shattered their focus. They knew they were under attack—the bodies lying in the village dust scread it for them.
But the enemy was nowhere to be seen.
They had searched every tent, overturned every bed, torn down every hanging pelt. Nothing. No sign. Just blood.
Only two places were left untouched: the hunter chief's house... and the nursery.
A tense silence fell over the group. Tribal instinct dictated the next move.
They split up without a word.
Two ran toward the chief's house, hoping to warn him. The other four charged toward the shelter of the females and children, determined to protect them—or die trying.
The two hobgoblins who reached the chief's house froze at the entrance. A heavy, tallic scent struck their noses, and when they pushed open the rough wooden door, it was like opening a tomb.
The floor was slick, drenched in fresh blood. The chief's body lay there, gutted, his throat wide open. Around him, the mutilated forms of the females—frozen in eternal horror. The two soldiers stepped back, fangs clenched. One stood frozen. The other, trembling, drew his weapon with a sharp motion.
But there was nothing left to save here.
---
On the other side of the village, the remaining four pushed aside the heavy curtain of the children's hut. They expected to hear cries, panic—maybe even survivors to defend.
What they found was silence.
And shadow.
Dylan was there, alone, standing in the midst of the carnage. His slim figure was drenched in blood, his face locked in a blank, detached expression. He held his dagger like a natural extension of his body. At his feet—bodies. Everywhere. Females. Newborns. No hesitation. No regret.
The next mont, blood flew again.
The first hobgoblin didn't even have ti to scream. A blade in the throat, a gasp torn away, and he dropped. The others roared, charging like beasts. But Dylan was already moving—sliding, spinning. Every movent was calculated, precise, silent. His dagger found flesh with icy ease.
It was a slaughter. One-sided. Inhuman.
Less than a minute later, the four bodies hit the ground, eyes wide open, as if they never understood what had struck them.
Dylan wiped his blade on one of the corpses' arms. He looked up toward the tent's entrance.
Soone else was coming.
---
The last two hobgoblins wandered through the chaos, disoriented. Their eyes scanned the shadows, searching for logic, for escape, for a visible enemy. But there was only the fire, the bodies, and the silence.
One of them, panicked, bolted toward a shack to find a weapon. Anything. A blade, a club, a bow. He'd have taken a rock if he had to.
The other dropped to his knees. His shoulders shook. Guttural sounds slipped from his throat, sowhere between sobs and prayers. His hands clawed at the dirt. He didn't understand. How? Why? His chief had been the strength of the village, the clan's anchor. A rock. And that rock had been shattered like a dry twig.
He wanted it to stop.
But death doesn't ask for permission.
A subtle impact, almost imperceptible, struck him just beneath the jaw. He felt sothing cold—a chilling stream—slip down his bare chest.
His eyes widened as his neck locked up. He couldn't turn his head. Couldn't see. Just... understood, too late, that it was already over.
The world dimd around him. The ground drew closer, as if his body was detaching from everything.
His last sight was of the dust.
And the blood.
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