Silas froze. *Emissary of the Church?*
The title slammed into his thoughts, disparate clues snapping into a sudden, chilling alignment. He stared at Davitt's face, stretched in that obsequious, false smile, his own brow tightening beneath the ill-fitting helmet. The faint blue luminescence of his Tidal Force still clung to the gold bar, reflecting a fleeting, almost imperceptible glint of wariness in Davitt's eyes.
"Ah," Silas murmured, a slow dawning in his voice. "So that's how it is."
He understood. The rarity of Tidal Force, coupled with the Church's iron-fisted monopoly on its instruction, meant that its wielders were seldom common folk—certainly not one capable of levitating a solid gold bar. That, combined with his flawless capital accent, had led Davitt to a logical, if entirely erroneous, conclusion: Silas was a clandestine agent of the Church.
*This… this could be an opportunity,* Silas thought, a new stratagem forming. *Perhaps this mess can be resolved without further bloodshed.*
He moved with deliberate slowness towards the heavy oak chair in the tent's center, his iron boots making a dull, crushing sound on the gold-striped carpet. As he sat, he purposefully splayed his legs, affecting an air of relaxed, almost arrogant, authority. Davitt's right hand, Silas noted, never strayed from the hilt of his knife. The commander wasn't entirely convinced. The slightest misstep, and that blade would undoubtedly seek Silas's throat.
"Do you truly not comprehend why I am here?" Silas began, his voice pitched low, resonant within the helmet, his fingertips drumming a light, almost musical tattoo on the gold bar. Metal on metal, a series of clear, cold *dings*.
A muscle twitched at the corner of Davitt's mouth. "Were the… *children*… taken this afternoon substandard?" he ventured, his tone instantly, fawningly ingratiating. "I personally dispatched men to ensure a meticulous selection. Each one, I assure you, possesses considerable talent. Strong, healthy – excellent prospects for the Expeditionary Force, every one of them—"
*Expeditionary Force?*
A harsh, incredulous bark of laughter nearly escaped Silas. *An expedition to a damned sweet shop, more like!* He fought to keep his breathing even, his voice steady. "Indeed. Those above are… exceedingly dissatisfied with this entire operation."
"But it was *your* office that explicitly permitted us to choose our own theatre of operations!" Davitt exclaimed, a sudden surge of agitation flushing his face, the veins in his neck standing out like taut cords. "The esteemed lords with whom we liaised, they stated it themselves, and I quote: 'Cause whatever ruckus you deem necessary, so long as those stubborn, ungrateful local curs are reminded of the Church's benevolence and… authority.'" He broke off abruptly, his eyes darting nervously. "Could it be… the flyers? Did the flyers displease His Holiness the Pope? I shall have them rewritten at once! New designs, more… circumspect language…"
Silas raised a dismissive hand. "Enough. You and your men have already exceeded all reasonable bounds here. You will vacate this area by dawn tomorrow."
Davitt's expression froze, his face a mask of crumpled parchment, respect and ill-concealed resentment warring for dominance in its deeply etched lines.
"…As you command, Lord Emissary."
As Silas rose, a cold fury still smoldered within him. The Church, resorting to such despicable, manipulative charades? Inciting brigands to masquerade as rebels, only to then swoop in, feigning to "quell the insurrection," thereby "earning" the gratitude and loyalty of the very people they'd terrorized?
He strode towards the tent flap, his mind already racing, planning to first ensure the swift retreat of these hired thugs, then… then he would begin the slow, methodical process of settling accounts…
*"Woooo—!"*
A sudden, piercing horn blast ripped through the night, shattering the uneasy quiet. Not the crude, guttural bray of the Purity Army's bullhorns, but a high-pitched, mournful, ululating wail, carried on the wind from some distance away. Davitt's face went ashen. "Lord Emissary, I implore you, do *not* reveal yourself!" he hissed, then flung aside the tent curtain and plunged into the night.
*Thwack!*
A black-feathered arrow, swift and silent as death, transfixed Davitt's temple.
The impact was horrific. Davitt's head seemed to simply… explode, a ghastly spray of brain matter and shattered bone erupting, splattering the tent's canvas wall. The sheer momentum of the projectile hurled his headless corpse backward, collapsing the entire tent entrance in a tangle of torn fabric and splintered wood.
Silas stood rooted to the spot. Outside, the night erupted in a cacophony of violence—the splintering crash of wood, the raw, terrified screams of men.
Davitt's corpse lay almost at his feet, gore and bloody froth still warm, steaming faintly in the cool night air, splattering his borrowed iron boots. The black fletching of the fatal arrow quivered, emitting a low, almost inaudible hum.
*What in the hells was this? An assassination? A silencing?*
The thought had barely formed when a second arrow, a black streak of death, tore through the tent canvas, a mere hair's breadth from his visor, and slammed into the oak chair behind him. The arrowhead didn't just embed itself; it *disintegrated* the chair, the residual force of its impact sending the nearby table cartwheeling, exploding into a shower of splintered wood.
Silas reacted instantly, kicking off from the ground. Using the chaotic, flickering firelight as cover, he executed a swift, backhanded sword stroke, slashing through the tent's rear wall. The shriek of tearing canvas was lost, swallowed by the rising chorus of screams and battle cries from the camp outside.
The world beyond the tent had devolved into utter pandemonium.
The main gate of the encampment looked as if it had been battered down by some colossal, enraged beast. *Not Scamp and the pack,* Silas knew instantly; they possessed neither the numbers nor the raw, brute power for such destruction. The bodies of several Purity Army soldiers were strewn about like carelessly discarded dolls, some horrifically mangled, others flung with such force as to be impaled on the high branches of trees—a truly gruesome, nightmarish tableau.
The interior of the camp resembled an anthill savaged by a giant's boot. The defensive palisade was reduced to kindling, watchtowers blazed like funeral pyres, their former occupants presumably "cleared" by the unseen assailants.
A knight, clad head to toe in obsidian-black scale armor, thundered through the camp on a massive, snorting warhorse, his mount's hooves trampling the fleeing, screaming Purity Army guards, flesh and blood bursting beneath the iron-shod hooves like overripe berries. Two malevolent, crimson points of light glowed from the narrow slit of his full-face helmet. His armor bore no resemblance to the Church knights' customary gilded iris emblem; instead, it was adorned with a strange, twisted, draconic insignia. In one gauntleted hand, he brandished a large, imposing banner, upon which was emblazoned the image of a pure white, incredibly regal, almost beatific dragon, wielding a spear, its eyes imbued with an expression of profound, almost sorrowful pity.
And on the opposite flank, another mounted knight, this one clad in gleaming white plate armor, his helmet fashioned in the fearsome likeness of a dragon's head, led a charge at the head of a disciplined wedge of a dozen or so foot soldiers, all clad in heavy, black lamellar armor. The white knight's build was slighter, yet his skill with the long spear was undeniable, a deadly dance of flashing steel. This solitary streak of white amidst the overwhelming black of his retinue made him an exceptionally conspicuous, and thus, more vulnerable, target.
No time for further observation. Silas had barely vaulted the ruined fence when the lethal *whiss* of an arrow sliced the air behind his head.
In the same instant he spun, a reflexive, life-saving dodge, the arrow seared past his neck guard, so close he felt the displaced air, and tore through a tent ten paces distant, ripping through canvas and occupant alike, reducing both to a bloody, tattered ruin. Amidst the fluttering, airborne scraps of fabric, he glimpsed him: perched high in a treetop, three hundred paces away—the archer. The mysterious watcher from the forest.
A loud, piercing whistle, a sound with a specific, almost untraceable frequency, shrilled from the archer's lips.
The black-scaled knight, as if reacting to a silent command, instantly wheeled his massive warhorse, charging directly at Silas with an aura of unstoppable, terrifying might. A Purity Army soldier, unfortunate enough to be in his path, was simply obliterated, crushed like an insignificant insect. A nauseating, metallic wave of fresh blood-stench washed over Silas. The knight's giant axe, a gleaming arc of death, was already descending, aimed to cleave his head in two.
Silas, instead of retreating, advanced. Tidal Force, a raging inferno, boiled through his veins. He lunged, a single, explosive bound that cratered the earth beneath his feet. In the microsecond before impact, he dropped into a low, blurring slide, so fast he seemed to leave an afterimage. His stolen steel sword, a desperate, upward slash, screamed against the warhorse's armored foreleg with a tooth-grinding, metallic shriek. The leg buckled, snapping like a dry twig. The warhorse screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure agony, and crashed to the ground, throwing its heavily armored rider a good five paces.
*Thump!*
The tower-like form of the knight struck the earth, raising a cloud of dust and debris. Silas, moving to press his advantage, to deliver a finishing blow, froze. His opponent, with a speed and agility that defied all logic, all common sense for a man of his bulk and encumbrance, bounced to his feet. The giant axe, a whirling blur of motion, swept out horizontally. The wind pressure generated by its passage alone was enough to send a brazier, three paces distant, tumbling, scattering embers, and kicking up a choking cloud of sand and dust.
Silas leaped back, narrowly evading the deadly sweep, his own sword, in a smooth, practiced motion, flowing into a downward chop. He'd invested perhaps eighty percent of his Tidal Force into the blow; he bore these strangers no personal animosity, felt no pressing need to risk life and limb in a fight to the death. A dazzling shower of sparks exploded as blade met black armor, the force of the impact shattering a section of the knight's formidable protection. The two-and-a-half-meter titan was actually driven back three full steps by the blow. A muffled, confused grunt of surprise, perhaps even pain, emanated from beneath his visor. Blood, dark and viscous, began to drip from his gauntlet.
Silas instantly tensed, his senses sweeping his surroundings, his gaze flicking to the archer in the distant tree. But… nothing. No arrow nocked, no indication of an imminent attack. And then he realized, with a jolt, that the chaotic sounds of battle had largely… ceased. The white-armored knight, he now saw, had dismounted at some point and was observing the unfolding duel, a spectator at some grim entertainment. He made a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture to the archer in the tree, a clear signal to hold his fire. Then, he folded his arms, watching with an air of keen, almost detached interest.
Over thirty black-armored warriors had, at some point, formed a wide, silent, menacing ring around the impromptu battlefield. They stood, motionless as statues, their faces hidden behind their visors, only the flickering torchlight casting flowing, blood-red, predatory reflections on their dark scale armor.
A makeshift arena. Silas almost spat a curse. What in the seven hells was this? Escape, now, was all but impossible.
The black-armored giant, with a guttural growl, slowly, ponderously, rose to his full, intimidating height. He gripped his long-handled axe in both massive gauntlets and began to circle Silas, his movements now wary, deliberate. The previous, swift exchange had clearly unsettled him, shaken his confidence. It had been a long, long time, Silas sensed, since this behemoth had been so… discomfited. This, now, was no mere skirmish. This had become a battle for honor, for pride. A duel to the death.