Chapter 13: Slaughters
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 someone might have heard them. The other hobgoblins would never dare step into their chief's home. 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 seemed 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, methodically. 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.
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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 times 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 movement. As if she'd done this all her life.