The roads between villages were silent at dawn, the mist thick and lingering like a curtain over the land. The air smelled of wet earth, wood smoke, and faint traces of the river. I moved alone, cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed on my back. The whisper brushed at my mind faintly: "…kill." Patient. Alive. Waiting. Observation first. Patience always.
The villages I had claimed were predictable, their routines mapped and memorized. Guards followed strict patterns, merchants trusted rumor, and ordinary people went about their days oblivious to the shadow moving silently among them. Mistakes are everywhere if you know where to look. Observation always precedes action. Knowledge is power.
By midday, I reached the edge of a larger settlement, one that had recently hired mercenaries after hearing rumors of unrest in neighboring villages. Their presence was immediately noticeable—three men on horseback patrolled the main roads, eyes sharp, hands gripping swords. Unlike the ordinary mercenaries I had encountered before, these were alert, experienced, and cautious. They had purpose. Their intent was visible. Predictable, yes, but far more dangerous than the scattered fools I had faced previously.
I crouched in the shadows, observing. Footsteps, the timing of glances, the way their horses reacted to the terrain—everything was recorded. I did not move yet. Not until intent, observation, and patience aligned. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, responding to my focus. The whisper pressed again: "…kill."
Not yet. Patience first. Calculation precedes action.
The village itself was ordinary, unaware of the danger nearby. Merchants shouted prices, farmers moved grain, children ran along streets. Guards paid attention only to visible threats. Mistakes were subtle—shifts in body weight, brief glances at shadows, hesitation in hand placement. These were the threads I could exploit. Observation always comes first.
By evening, I had mapped the entire village. Supply paths, guard patrols, alleys, hidden passages, rooftops, even windows that could be leveraged for infiltration. Everything. Every flaw cataloged, every mistake noted. Voraciel pulsed faintly, warm and patient. The whisper was soft: "…kill."
Not now. Not yet.
Night fell. Lanterns flickered along cobblestone streets, long shadows stretching across walls. I positioned myself atop a high roof overlooking the central square. The mercenaries circled below, alert, scanning streets, speaking in low tones. They were experienced enough to recognize danger—but not enough to predict the invisible shadow observing them.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
The words left my lips softly. The sword pulsed beneath my grip, alive. Shadows stretched subtly, guided by intent, responding to the rhythm of my observation. The first mercenary stumbled, a faint ripple of energy disrupting balance. The others froze, hesitation visible in their posture. Controlled. Precise. Efficient. Bloodlust, refined by calculation.
I descended silently, moving through alleyways like smoke. The mercenaries were skilled, but predictability remained. One misstep, a glance too long at a dark corner, a slight overextension—each mistake amplified by intent and Voraciel's subtle guidance.
By the time the last mercenary collapsed, unconscious, the square was silent. Breathing slow, measured. Shadows still. Voraciel pulsed faintly, patient and alive. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures. No one noticed. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
From my vantage point atop the roof, I surveyed the surrounding town. Supply depots, guard rotations, minor patrols, alleys, rooftops—every path and routine memorized. Shadows bent subtly to my intent. The whisper returned: "…kill."
Not yet. Patience. Observation. Calculation. Intent.
I tested Voraciel's responsiveness again, brushing the hilt lightly, feeling warmth spread through my arm. Bloodlust is a tool, refined, controlled, deliberate. The first true opposition had been neutralized without notice. The village remained unaware, ordinary, predictable, and safe. For now.
By midnight, I had already begun mapping the next surrounding villages. Roads, minor patrols, merchant movements—all recorded and memorized. Every mistake, every micro-flaw, a potential thread in a web of control. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, responding to intent, the whisper faintly approving: "…wait." Not now. Not yet.
I returned to my room at the edge of the first town I had conquered. Cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered. The whisper had acknowledged my presence. Alive. Patient. Watching.
The first step toward regional domination was underway. Villages were predictable, people ordinary, mistakes everywhere. Shadows stretched over towns, roads, and fields, guiding the world toward my intent.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.
The world sleeps, unaware. And I am just beginning.