The assassin, desperate to avoid further punishment, quickly gave up the address. With a dismissive wave, Terrace turned away. “Go. Consider your life a gift from my son.”
The assassin dragged himself away, disappearing into the shadows with his unconscious companion. Terrace stood in silence for a moment before turning to Damon. “Come. We have a visit to make.”
Damon nodded, wiping the blood from his ears, and followed his father back into the market streets.
~~~~~
In a room almost devoid of light, the two assassins sat across from each other, their faces now revealed in the flickering candlelight. The air felt heavy, and neither spoke for several moments. The first assassin—a wiry man with a jagged scar running down his cheek—broke the silence with a deep, frustrated sigh.
“So?” he asked, his voice low and bitter. “Did you manage to kill the target?”
The second assassin, a broad-shouldered man with a weary expression, shook his head slowly. “No,” he replied, his voice rough. “It went worse than you can imagine.”
The first leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “What happened? You went after them alone. I passed out before I could do anything.”
The second assassin’s jaw clenched as he remembered the encounter. “I was the one who faced Lord Terrace,” he began, his tone grim. “He knew we were following him. Led us straight into that alley, like a sheepdog cornering prey. He disarmed me instantly. The other—his son—was just a kid, but it was clear they both knew what they were doing.”
“Terrace…” the first assassin muttered, a flicker of fear crossing his face. He too knew of the warning.
“He demanded to know who sent us,” the second continued. “When I confessed it was Paul Haylen, I thought that would be the end of it. But then, he recognized us as Ghost Scions. He knew our organization. Knew exactly who we worked for.”
The first assassin’s eyes widened. “You’re serious? He knew our leader?”
“Yes.” The second assassin’s voice dropped lower. “He made it clear that we had to report everything to our leader. If we didn’t, he would. And given who he is, I believe him.”
The first assassin leaned back, another sigh escaping his lips. “This is bad. Really bad. We were played by Paul Haylen and now we’re caught between Lord Terrace and our own leader. What do we do?”
The second assassin rubbed his temples, as if trying to ward off a headache. “We go to the leader first,” he said finally. “Tell him everything—about the mission, about Terrace’s warning. And if he allows it, we request permission to deal with Paul Haylen ourselves.”
The first assassin nodded slowly. “Agreed. It’s the only way. We can’t keep this hidden.”
They stood together, a silent resolve passing between them. Without another word, they moved deeper into the room. A section of the wall shifted with a creak, revealing a hidden door. The two assassins stepped through, descending a narrow staircase that led deeper into the Ghost Scions’ secretive hideout.
~~~~~
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Lord Terrace and Damon approached their destination. The address provided by the assassin had led them to a small manor nestled among other noble homes, its exterior modest compared to some of the grander estates. Yet it radiated an air of arrogance—much like the man who lived there.
Lord Terrace paused before the main gate, his expression cold and unreadable. Damon, who had been glancing at his new weapon every few minutes, noticed the hard set of his father’s jaw.
When Lord Terrace raised a hand to knock, the movement was precise and controlled, but the force behind it sent a tremor through the wood.
Damon shifted uncomfortably. “Are you… going to kill him?” he asked quietly. He had heard the conversation his father had with the assassin, and the thought of what might come next weighed heavily on his mind.
Lord Terrace turned to his son and, to Damon’s surprise, a smile touched his lips—cold, but genuine. “That depends,” he said with a shrug. “On certain unspeakable factors.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He knocked again, harder this time. The sound echoed through the quiet street, but no one answered. The silence only fueled his simmering fury. Without hesitation, Terrace drew back and struck the gate with a blast of magic-infused force.
Boooom!
The explosion shattered the wooden gate, sending splinters flying and reverberating through the neighborhood.
Together, father and son stepped into the manor’s courtyard. The air instantly became thick and within moments, the sound of hurried footsteps filled the space.
“Intruders!”
Guards, clad in armor and wielding weapons, poured from the manor’s doors. They scrambled to form a line between Lord Terrace and the main building.
Lord Terrace barely glanced at them. His eyes were focused elsewhere—on a figure standing on a balcony of the main building. Paul Haylen leaned against the railing, a smug grin plastered across his face. He watched the scene below with a twisted amusement, as though it were a spectacle put on for his entertainment.
Lord Terrace’s gaze hardened. He turned to Damon, his expression as cold as ice. “Watch and learn,” he said, his voice laced with unbridled fury. “You might need to see this.”
The guards shifted nervously, sensing the power radiating from the man before them. One stepped forward, raising his sword. “You have no right to be here!” he shouted, his voice trembling. “Leave, or we will—”
Schpuuk!
He never finished his sentence. In a blur of movement, Lord Terrace closed the distance, his blade slicing through the air with precision.
Thud!
The guard crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the ground. The remaining guards hesitated, fear flickering in their eyes.
Lord Terrace’s voice rang out, calm and authoritative. “Step aside. You are not my enemies. Do not make yourselves so or you’ll end up like him.” He said, gesturing to the dead guard.
Some of the guards exchanged glances, doubt creeping in. Others gripped their weapons tighter, resolved to defend their master. Another one charged forward, but he was no match.
Swooosh.
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Lord Terrace moved like a storm—swift, relentless, and overwhelming. Within seconds, the guard was incapacitated and chopped into pieces, his body parts scattered on the floor.
From the balcony, Paul Haylen’s grin faltered. He had underestimated the fury of the man he had crossed.
Damon watched intently, absorbing every movement, every calculated strike his father made. This was a lesson—a harsh one—but a necessary one.
Lord Terrace stepped over the fallen guards, his furious eyes never leaving Paul. “Come down, Haylen,” he called, his voice cold and commanding. “Or shall I come up to you?”
Paul’s face paled, but he forced a sneer. “You have no authority here!”
“Authority?” Terrace’s laugh was devoid of humor. “You sent assassins after my son and me. This is beyond authority.”