The sharp thunk of a needle piercing wood echoed. Kartiga stood at the far end of the room, his gaze locked on the makeshift target—a battered wooden post riddled with past attempts. His fingers twitched slightly as he reached for another needle.
His hand was still shaking.
It had been six months. Six months of training, of learning the ways of the Samurai. Six months of slicing, cutting, and butchering—first animals, then… last night, a man. A rapist. A murderer. A madman. And yet, his hands had trembled all the same.
Just like when he first slew those stray dogs, their whimpers still scratching at the back of his mind.
Kartiga exhaled sharply and threw another needle.
Thunk.
A knock at the door.
"Get in," he said, voice devoid of emotion.
The door slid open, and Kai stepped in with his usual silent grace, offering a small bow. Kartiga didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he walked over to his bed, sinking down onto the edge with a sigh. His fingers drummed against his knee as Kai approached, extending a small scroll.
Without a word, Kartiga snatched it and unfurled it. His eyes scanned the contents, and then—
A smile.
A strange, unnatural one, stretching across his lips without him realizing. It took a moment before he caught himself, his fingers twitching again as he forced his expression back to something neutral.
Kai didn't react. He never did. Just stood there, waiting.
Kartiga finally spoke. "How much do we have now?"
Kai answered in a flat tone, "Two hundred and fifty." Then, as if anticipating the next question, he added, "One hundred thirty-two are inside the lord's castle and along the walls."
Kartiga leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He let the numbers settle in his mind, rolling them over like dice. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod.
"Form twelve platoons. Gather the twelve platoon leaders." His voice was steady now, devoid of hesitation. He let the words hang for a second before adding, "Make it immediate. Soon, there will be another fire."
Kai nodded once and turned, disappearing through the door without another word.
Kartiga sat there for a long moment, his fingers curling into a fist before he relaxed them again.
Another fire.
Yes. Soon.
---------------------------
The old man descended the stairs, his heavy grey robes swaying with each uneven step. He moved like a man burdened by age, his gait irregular, his frail form swaying slightly. Around his neck hung a chain of interlocking metal links, dull in the flickering candlelight that seeped from the storage chamber below. His bald head gleamed faintly, the last remnants of his once-thick hair reduced to a thin ring of silver at his temples. Deep lines carved across his face—marks of a lifetime spent hunched over dusty tomes and tending to the fevers of dying lords.
Then, the moment he stepped inside the storage chamber, something changed.
His posture straightened. His steps grew measured, fluid. The frailty melted away, replaced by the silent grace of a man decades younger. No presence, no weight—just movement.
Fourteen figures awaited him, standing in quiet anticipation. They were waiting for the last chosen platoon leader.
At the center of the chamber stood their lord—a young man gripping a stolen Valyrian sword, the dull steel catching the candlelight. His expression was unreadable, though his gaze lingered on the empty space beyond the gathered warriors. He was waiting.
And then she arrived.
Descending the stairs with deliberate steps, she peeled away the veil and hood covering her face, revealing a beauty that could make kings weep. A slow, sweet smile curved her lips, and there was a languid grace to the way she walked—as if she owned the air around her.
Then she knelt.
"My Lord," she murmured, her voice sweet as honey.
Kartiga had expected it, yet still, a muscle in his jaw twitched. He kept his face composed, meeting her gaze with cold calculation. The eyes of a Visha Kanya.
A woman born and raised in the art of death. Assassins trained from childhood to drink poison until their bodies became venom itself. A single kiss, a touch, a blade laced with their blood—death in the most seductive form. And she was not alone. Nineteen more waited outside, their silent presence stretching like a shadow beyond the chamber walls.
Kartiga didn't speak. He simply flicked his fingers. A silent order.
She rose smoothly, moving to the side, awaiting his command.
Kartiga pushed himself up from his chair, his voice calm, sharp.
"Most of you know what to do. Be flexible as you please—but the result must remain the same." His gaze swept over them, lingering on no one, yet on everyone. "By morning, our flag must float above the castle."
He let the words settle, let the weight of them sink in.
"There is no time for error."
The chamber remained still. Then, as one, they nodded.
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