"Which one of you wants to die first?"
They had already surrounded the house.
Now, they hid—scattered among the trees.
But Sylas could hear them.
Their heartbeats.
Rapid. Ragged.
Like prey trying not to breathe.
He didn't move.
His eyes grew brighter.
"Fine," he said. "I'll pick for you."
He raised his blade—
Then hurled it.
It shot forward like a spear, slicing through the air—
A blur of steel and wrath.
It slammed into the tree beside his mother's grave.
Impact echoed.
A scream followed.
Someone was thrown out from the branches—
Crashing to the ground, gasping.
Sylas didn't flinch.
He stepped forward, slow.
"Now…"
His voice was low. Calm.
But it cut like frost.
"Who's next?"
They broke cover all at once.
Blades drawn. Eyes locked on Sylas. Breath sharp.
The moon hung over their heads, pale and cold—its light spilling across the clearing like spilled milk across stone.
Then they moved.
No words. No hesitation.
They charged him from every direction—
