The morning sun filtered gently through the curtains as the aroma of cream stew and freshly baked bread filled the air. Seated at the dining table, Vergil shared breakfast with Freya and his five adopted daughters. This had become their daily routine. Vergil, ever the early riser, had already been out hunting. Three wild hares or a single wild boar were usually enough to sustain them for the day.
After breakfast, Vergil and Freya made their way to his study. Freya's wolf-like ears twitched, and her tail swayed with alertness as her sharp senses picked up on an approaching presence. Moments later, a messenger pigeon fluttered in through the open window, carrying a sealed letter bearing the royal emblem of Empress Eliza II.
Vergil untied the message from the bird's leg, unfolded it, and read it carefully. The contents were clear and precise:
To Vergil Ragnaros,
I have received and reviewed your report, as well as Captain Lucia's testimony. After a thorough comparison, I can confirm that your information aligns perfectly with hers.
Regarding the Blackquill family, I hereby grant you full authority to eliminate them. Lord Darius Blackquill and his wife have no children, and their greed and miserliness have long been a blight on our noble society. The method of elimination is entirely at your discretion.
I have already prepared a replacement for Lord Darius. His younger brother, Lord Harry, is far more competent and well-regarded by the common folk.
Do what must be done, and leave no trace behind.
— Empress Eliza II
Vergil's eyes scanned the letter twice, his face calm but his gaze sharp as a blade. He folded the letter neatly before turning to Freya.
"Prepare yourself," he instructed.
Freya's ears perked up, her tail flicking with restrained energy. "Understood," she replied. Her eyes, sharp and golden, gleamed with curiosity, but she asked no questions.
Vergil sat at his desk, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, and began to write his response to the Empress. His reply was short but strategic.
To Empress Eliza II,
I will carry out your orders as commanded. I request that you arrange for Lord Darius and his wife to undergo a health inspection under the pretense of a routine check. Freya and I will be sent as the official inspection team.
Rest assured, everything will be handled with absolute precision.
— Vergil Ragnaros
Once finished, he placed the letter back into the pigeon's small message tube and secured it tightly. With a small gesture, he sent the pigeon off, watching as it flew into the distance with strong, steady flaps of its wings.
Vergil's attention shifted as he pulled out a second sheet of parchment. This time, the contents of the letter were different, and his pen moved swiftly but deliberately. Once completed, he folded the letter and imbued it with a faint glow of magical energy. The letter shimmered for a moment before vanishing into thin air, sent directly to its recipient via spellcraft.
Freya's gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Who was that second letter for?" she asked.
Vergil's eyes didn't leave his tools as he began preparing his equipment. "An ally," he replied plainly. "Someone I've called to assist with eliminating Lord Darius and his wife."
Freya tilted her head, her curiosity clearly piqued. "An ally, huh? Do I know them?"
"Not yet," Vergil answered as he rummaged through a hidden compartment in his study. He pulled out his assassin gear — a suit of lightweight armor crafted from a special black leather that absorbed light, making him nearly invisible in the shadows. Each motion was deliberate and efficient, his focus unshaken. "You'll meet them soon. They'll arrive by evening."
Freya's ears twitched again, and she couldn't hide the slight wag of her tail. Her instincts told her this mission would be far more complex than usual. If Vergil was calling for help, it meant he anticipated complications — and Freya's instincts were rarely wrong.
Vergil and Freya immediately set to work preparing their respective gear — Vergil with his medical tools and Freya with her assassin equipment. Before they departed, Vergil emphasized the importance of keeping the two sets of equipment separate. "Label them carefully," he instructed. "We don't want any mix-up between the medical tools and the assassin gear."
After finalizing their preparations, Vergil led the way as they boarded a carriage heading toward Albronne, a northern city in Avalorne, situated to the northeast of Châteauclair. The journey was short, and soon Vergil's urgent message reached Empress Eliza II. The Empress wasted no time, swiftly responding with an official order for a health inspection to be conducted immediately.
Eliza knew that the only way to resolve Albronne's corruption was with Vergil's methodical approach, though she was cautious. She also understood that Vergil had not yet fully earned her complete trust, but she was willing to take the risk for the sake of the people.
Upon their arrival in Albronne, Vergil and Freya were confronted with the grim realities the townsfolk faced daily. The streets were lined with people struggling to survive, their faces worn from the burdens of excessive taxes and the oppression of Darius Blackquill's rule.
Vergil's cold gaze scanned the city's poverty-stricken streets, and Freya's wolf-like instincts flared with barely contained anger. She could feel the tension in the air, a palpable weight of suffering that hung over the town like a shadow.
"Stay composed," Vergil murmured to her, his tone steady. "We've trained for this. We can't let emotions cloud our judgment. Besides, the new leader taking over for Lord Darius is more competent and has the people's favor. The tides may be turning soon."
Freya nodded, though her eyes remained hard. She wasn't convinced, but she trusted Vergil's strategy.
As they approached the Blackquill mansion, the contrast between the suffering of the people and the mansion's lavish appearance became stark. Guards at the gate stepped aside to let them pass, recognizing Vergil's authority. The mansion was a symbol of greed and excess, its opulence stark against the desolate streets outside.
Once inside, the pair observed the mansion's extravagant interior: priceless artwork, exquisite furniture, and elaborate chandeliers that sparkled with gold. But it was all superficial, a gilded cage hiding the rot beneath. Vergil's expression remained neutral, but Freya could see the flicker of distaste in his eyes. The walls may have been decorated with wealth, but the air was heavy with corruption.
When Lord Darius and his wife entered the room, they were adorned in extravagant jewelry, their cold smiles matching their opulent appearance. Darius's laugh was a loud, almost mocking sound as he greeted Vergil.
"Ah, the infamous doctor and his beautiful beastman assistant," Darius said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I've heard stories about you treating all manner of people, from peasants to adventurers, with no regard for status. Quite a noble approach, for a man like you."
Vergil's gaze didn't waver as he replied, "I am a doctor, Lord Darius. A doctor's oath is sacred. I treat all lives with equal care, regardless of their station."
Darius's laughter rang out again, dismissive and patronizing. "How quaint," he sneered, motioning to Vergil. "Go ahead, then. Examine me and prove your worth."
Vergil moved with calculated precision, assessing Darius's health with a detached professionalism. Freya, meanwhile, was left to inspect Lady Blackquill.
Despite the airs of superiority from the Blackquills, Vergil couldn't help but feel the weight of Albronne's plight. This city, crushed under the heel of Darius's corruption, needed more than just a doctor's touch. It needed revolution. But that would come in time.
When the examination was over, Darius handed Vergil a pouch of gold with a flourish. "For your services," he said, a smirk playing on his lips.
Vergil hesitated for a moment, his instincts telling him to refuse, but the situation was delicate. The Blackquills had to be handled carefully, and refusing the payment outright might give them more leverage than was wise. With a curt nod, he accepted the pouch.
As Vergil and Freya were escorted out by a guard, the weight of the situation in Albronne pressed heavily on them. Once they were back in the carriage, Vergil's voice was low and serious.
"Freya," he began, his eyes focused on the road ahead, "Albronne is on the edge of a breaking point. Darius's grip is slipping, but the corruption is still widespread. We can't leave it like this."
Freya nodded grimly, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. "What's the plan?"
Vergil's lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. "Patience. We wait for the right moment. But rest assured, Lord Darius and his wife will not escape justice."
Freya's eyes gleamed with quiet anticipation. The stage was set, and the real work was only beginning.
The rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels echoed through the quiet forest path as Vergil and Freya sat across from one another. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, but neither of them paid it any mind. Their attention was focused on something far more pressing — the Blackquill mansion.
Freya leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her wolf-like ears twitched, flicking back as if still on alert. "That mansion," she muttered, her golden eyes narrowing. "They've got too many guards patrolling the front. Looked like four squads of three, rotating every two hours."
Vergil's gaze was distant, his sky-blue eyes half-closed as if he were lost in thought. But Freya knew better. He was replaying every second of their visit to the Blackquill estate in his mind.
"Too many guards on display," Vergil replied calmly. His voice was soft, measured. "It's a show of force, not actual security. They want people to see the guards. It's intimidation, not protection."
Freya raised an eyebrow. "Hmm, I noticed that too. But that doesn't mean it's all for show. I saw a few stationed by the side entrances. Not flashy, but alert. Veterans, maybe."
"Veterans or mercenaries," Vergil corrected. "Mercenaries have sharper eyes. They don't stare off into space like conscripted soldiers." He shifted slightly, tapping his fingers against the side of the carriage. "The balcony was the real weak point. Wide, exposed, and facing that hill."
At the mention of the hill, Freya's eyes lit up with recognition. She sat up straighter, her tail flicking behind her. "You caught that too, huh? It's the perfect spot for a sniper's nest. Elevated, clear line of sight, and just the right distance to remain undetected."
Vergil's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Perfect for a man with patience and precision."
"Or a woman," Freya added, grinning slyly.
"Or a woman," Vergil conceded.
"Now, let's talk about the guards themselves," Freya said, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward. "Front-line soldiers, side-entrance guards, and the ones inside. Which of them are the real threat?"
"None of them," Vergil replied coldly.
Freya blinked, surprised. "None of them? You sure? Some of those mercenaries looked sharp."
"Sharp eyes, dull minds," Vergil said with a hint of disdain. "The guards stationed outside? Routine and predictability have dulled them. They follow the same patrol patterns like clockwork. The only exception is the mercenaries, but mercenaries only stay sharp if they have something to fear. Lord Darius doesn't inspire that kind of fear."
Freya tilted her head, intrigued. "Then what kind of fear do they need?"
Vergil's gaze shifted to meet hers, his eyes like frost on a windowpane. "The kind that comes from knowing they've already been marked."
Freya felt a shiver run down her spine. She knew what he meant. A soldier who thinks they're safe becomes complacent. But a soldier who knows they're being hunted? They're unpredictable, reckless, and more likely to make mistakes.
"Alright, so we've got predictable patrols, sloppy soldiers, and mercenaries too relaxed to notice a dagger at their throat," Freya summarized, her grin as sharp as a blade. "You want me to sow fear, don't you?"
"Not yet," Vergil replied, his voice like the edge of a blade — cold, sharp, and deliberate. "We wait. We need them to think everything is normal. If they panic too early, they'll lock everything down."
Freya's grin faded, and her expression became serious. "Then what's the move?"
Vergil leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze as cold as the void. "Patience. Lord Darius and his wife will follow the path I set for them. I suggested they spend time on the balcony at night to 'ease their stress.' They'll follow that suggestion like sheep."
Freya's eyes glowed with predatory delight. "And when they do?"
Vergil's gaze never wavered. His voice was as calm as still water, yet every word carried the weight of inevitability.
"Someone will be waiting on that hill," he said, his eyes narrowing. "And the night will be their last."
Silence filled the carriage for a moment. Freya exhaled slowly, her grin returning, but this time it was smaller, more subtle. "A hunter's patience, huh? You're starting to sound like me, boss."
"No," Vergil corrected, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "I'm not a hunter. I'm a surgeon. And this... is a precise incision."
Freya laughed, sharp and clear, her golden eyes blazing with excitement. "Well, doctor, I hope your incision cuts deep."
"It will," Vergil replied. His eyes remained cold, calculating, and certain.
Halfway through their return journey, Vergil and Freya stopped at a small inn to rest and have lunch. The inn was a humble establishment, frequented by travelers and locals alike. The atmosphere was warm with the low hum of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter.
Vergil deliberately chose a spot in the corner where he and Freya could remain inconspicuous. It wasn't just a break for food. It was an opportunity to gather information. As they ate, they listened carefully to the voices of the patrons around them.
"Did you hear?" one man grumbled, his voice carrying across the room. "Lord Darius is raising taxes again next month. Claims it's a direct order from the Empress herself."
"That's a lie," another man replied, shaking his head. "My brother works in the Châteauclair palace. He says there's been no such order. It's just Darius lining his own pockets again."
The first man slammed his cup down in frustration. "Typical! And we're the ones paying for it. If only we could pack up and leave this cursed place."
"Yeah, I've been thinking of moving to Avalorne," said a woman at the next table. Her voice was softer, but still audible. "They say their new leader, Vergil Ragnaros, is rebuilding the entire city. Even laborers are getting bonuses just for finishing construction ahead of schedule."
"Vergil Ragnaros, huh?" The first man leaned forward, intrigued. "I've heard about him. People say he's strict but fair. If he's that generous to the workers, I might just head over there myself."
Vergil took a slow sip from his cup, his eyes half-lidded but his mind alert. Freya shot him a glance, her ears twitching at the sound of his name.
"You've become a folk tale already," she muttered, leaning closer so only he could hear. "Ruler of Avalorne, the man who rewards hard work with gold. Sounds heroic."
"Stories have power," Vergil replied softly, his gaze still locked on the crowd. "Let them speak. The more they believe it, the more it becomes truth."
Freya shook her head, grinning to herself. "You scare me sometimes, Vergil."
He glanced at her, his eyes sharp but calm. "Good. Fear is useful."
As the patrons continued talking, one of them mentioned the deteriorating state of Albronne's healthcare system.
"The healer here charges two silver pieces just to look at a fever," complained a woman, rocking a baby in her arms. "And that's if you can even find him. Half the time, he's drunk."
"Wish we had someone like that Vergil Ragnaros," said another woman with a sigh. "They say Avalorne's clinics are open to everyone, even beastmen. No one's turned away. Imagine that."
Vergil raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering toward Freya, who gave a knowing smile. "Looks like your reputation is working faster than expected," she said quietly.
Vergil leaned back, finishing his meal slowly. "It's not enough," he muttered. "Perception is one thing, but reality is another. If people believe Avalorne is a haven, they'll come. If they find it's is more than haven, they'll stay."
Freya grinned, her sharp canines flashing. "And the more people that come, the stronger our shadow grows."
Vergil gave her a small nod of approval. "Precisely."
With their meal finished, Vergil and Freya left the inn. Their carriage rolled slowly down the winding forest paths back toward Avalorne. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced through the trees. Inside the carriage, Freya leaned against the window, watching the forest blur past them.
"You really think the Empress will let Lord Darius get away with raising taxes under her name?" she asked, her tone skeptical.
Vergil's eyes remained closed, but his voice was clear. "She's already aware. She'll let him dig his own grave. It's more efficient to let a fool destroy himself than to intervene."
Freya smirked, glancing at him. "You seem to have a lot of faith in people's stupidity."
"Experience taught me that," Vergil said quietly.
They rode in silence for a while, the creaking of the carriage and the chirping of distant birds filling the air. But Freya couldn't stay silent for long.
"So, about that hill," she said, her eyes flicking to Vergil. "What are you planning?"
Vergil's eyes opened slightly, his gaze like frost on a winter morning. "I'm not planning anything," he replied, his tone laced with cold amusement. "But when the right opportunity presents itself, I intend to be ready."
Freya's eyes lit up with understanding. "Opportunity, huh?" Her grin widened. "Then I hope that 'opportunity' comes soon."
Vergil's gaze shifted back to the window, watching the trees pass by like shadows on a canvas.
"It will," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "It always does."
The rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone slowed as the carriage approached the Avalorne mansion. The grand gates creaked open, revealing the gothic spires and shadowed grandeur of the Ragnaros family home.
The air was crisp, the sun beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the courtyard. As the carriage came to a halt, Vergil stepped down, his black cloak swaying lightly behind him. His sharp blue eyes scanned the entrance.
Waiting there were five familiar figures — his adopted daughters. Each of them wore a unique outfit reflecting their distinct personalities, but all shared the same look of excitement as they waved at him.
"Welcome back, Father!" they called in unison, their voices filled with warmth.
But this time, something was different.
Standing among them was another girl, someone Vergil hadn't seen in quite some time. She was shorter than him, about two-thirds his height, with a sharp but youthful gaze. Her hair, styled in a soft asymmetrical bob, framed her face perfectly. She wore black armor that gleamed faintly under the fading sunlight and a black cloak that mirrored Vergil's own. Her presence was calm, but her eyes were focused and alert — the gaze of a predator.
The five adopted daughters shifted their attention to Vergil, their voices filled with excitement.
"Father! Father! Look!" one of them exclaimed, pointing toward the girl. "She said she's family!"
"She's cool!" another chimed in, wide-eyed. "She looks just like you!"
Vergil's eyes softened as he took a slow step forward. A rare smile crossed his face — not his usual calm, calculating grin, but something far more genuine.
"Aeka," he said, his voice carrying a warmth reserved for only a few.
The girl's sharp expression eased into one of joy. Her stance relaxed, and she stepped forward. Without hesitation, Vergil pulled her into a firm embrace. She returned it just as strongly, her arms wrapping tightly around him.
The five girls froze in place, staring at the scene in disbelief.
"Father… is hugging someone?" whispered one of the older daughters, her jaw slightly agape.
"Who is she?" asked another, eyes filled with curiosity.
But none of them were as visibly affected as Freya. Her wolf-like ears flicked, her golden eyes narrowing with suspicion. Her arms crossed, and her tail flicked once behind her, sharp as a whip.
"Tch," she huffed under her breath. Her gaze lingered on the two as they embraced. "He never hugged me like that."
When Vergil finally let go, he placed a hand on the girl's head, ruffling her hair like she was still a child. Aeka didn't seem to mind — in fact, she leaned into it, grinning.
He turned toward the five girls, his gaze steady but proud.
"This," he said, his voice calm but firm, "is Aeka Ragnaros. She is my youngest sister and the youngest member of the Ragnaros family."
The girls' faces were a mixture of shock, confusion, and awe.
"SISTER?!" one of them gasped, eyes wide.
"You have a sister, Father?" one of the older girls asked, looking at him like she had just discovered a hidden secret.
"You never told us that!" said another, her hands on her hips, clearly offended.
Freya's eyes narrowed, arms still crossed. "Yeah. You never mentioned that."
Vergil shrugged casually, his tone calm as ever. "It never came up."
One of the younger girls raised her hand. "But if she's your sister, does that mean she's our aunt?"
This earned a round of giggles from the other daughters.
"I guess she is!" another girl laughed, looking at Aeka with wide, curious eyes. "Does that mean she's gonna training us around like Father will do?"
"More like watch you and give you some fixing from your combat stance," Aeka replied, her tone playful but sharp. She smiled at the group with a mischievous look, her eyes narrowing like a hunter studying its prey.
Freya's eyes twitched.
Her golden gaze focused on Aeka with quiet intensity. "You're the 'ally' I've heard about, huh?" Her tone was cold, challenging. "I don't see the shadow."
Aeka's grin widened, sharp as a blade. Her posture remained calm, confident, and unworried. "You will."
Silence filled the courtyard. The five daughters glanced between the two women, feeling the quiet tension between them. It wasn't a physical battle, but a clash of pride, one that only beasts of the wild would understand.
The soft glow of the setting sun bathed the training courtyard of the Avalorne mansion in a warm, amber hue. The shadows of the tall stone walls stretched long across the ground, creating a natural arena of light and darkness. The air was filled with the faint calls of birds from the distant woods, the caw of a crow standing out above the rest.
In the center of the courtyard, Vergil, Aeka, and Freya stood in a loose triangle. Their five adopted daughters watched from the sidelines, seated on a nearby bench, their gazes sharp with curiosity. While they were not being trained as assassins, the air of mystery surrounding this "Beastiary Training" had piqued their interest.
Vergil stood with his arms crossed, his black cloak swaying lightly in the breeze. His icy blue eyes remained focused on Freya. "Today's training is not like the others, Freya," he said, his tone calm but commanding. "This is a lesson only for you."
Freya's golden eyes narrowed. Her wolf-like ears twitched, her gaze shifting between Vergil and Aeka. "What's so special about it?" she asked, her tone tinged with suspicion. "I've done combat training, stealth exercises, and even infiltration tests. What makes this different?"
Aeka stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with quiet confidence. Her soft asymmetrical bob swayed slightly as she adjusted the black cloak on her shoulders. "Because this time, you're not relying on just your own senses," Aeka said, her voice smooth and controlled. "You'll be learning to rely on something wild and unpredictable."
She raised her arm toward the sky and let out a short, sharp whistle.
The call echoed once, twice—then came the beating of wings. A flock of crows circled overhead, their dark forms blotting out patches of the fading sun. One of them broke from the flock, descending like a shadow through the air. It landed gracefully on Aeka's outstretched arm, its black eyes reflecting a sharp, knowing intelligence.
The daughters gasped.
"Woah! She called them!" one of the younger girls exclaimed.
"That's so cool!" said another, eyes wide with awe.
Freya's gaze hardened. Her tail flicked behind her, slow and tense. She recognized the control, the discipline required for such a thing. "You expect me to do that?" she asked, eyes locking with Vergil's. "Train wild animals like her?"
Vergil's gaze was as sharp as ever. "Yes."
He stepped forward, his figure casting a long shadow over Freya. "You've mastered your instincts as a warrior, Freya, but instinct alone is not enough. Beastiary Training is the next step in understanding the unseen forces around you. A true assassin commands not just their body but the world around them."
He lifted a hand and pointed toward Aeka's crow. "These creatures—wolves, falcons, crows—each one sees what you cannot. Where you are blind, they see. Where you hesitate, they act. They will become an extension of your senses. But only if you can tame them."
Freya's eyes darted back to Aeka, watching the girl as she softly scratched the crow's head, its eyes half-closing in calm trust.
"Taming beasts, huh?" Freya's voice was laced with skepticism. "I'm a Beastman, Vergil. I already know how animals think."
"Knowing is not the same as controlling," Aeka replied, her gaze calm but sharp as a blade. Her crow cawed once, almost as if it agreed with her. "A wolf may understand the mind of another predator, but can it command them?"
Freya's ears twitched. Her golden eyes locked onto Aeka. "You sure talk a lot for someone who relies on birds."
Aeka raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly grin. "Birds aren't as simple as you think, wolf-girl." She tilted her head toward the crow on her arm. "They see everything from above. Unlike wolves, they don't need to run through the mud to understand the world."
The sharpness of the remark wasn't lost on Freya. Her ears twitched, and she stepped forward. Her tail flicked behind her, slow and deliberate, like a predator ready to strike. "Care to test that theory?"
The air grew tense. The five daughters glanced at each other, eyes darting between Freya and Aeka. They all knew this look. This was the look of two wild animals deciding who was superior.
But before it could escalate, Vergil's voice cut through like a blade.
"Enough."
The weight of his voice hit them both, freezing them in place. "Freya, I didn't bring you here to fight Aeka." He glanced at Aeka with a slight, knowing look. "And Aeka, you know better than to provoke her."
Aeka shrugged, still smiling, but she said nothing.
"This isn't a battle of pride," Vergil continued, his gaze sharp as steel. "This is a battle of patience." He stepped closer to Freya, his eyes locked with hers. "You think you understand wild animals, but Beastiary Training requires more than instinct. It demands calm. No beast will trust you if your heart is wild with anger or pride."
He turned his gaze upward, gesturing toward the woods beyond the courtyard. "The first step is simple. Go to the woods and bring me a wolf. Not as prey, but as a partner."
The five daughters gasped again.
"A wolf?!" one of them cried. "Is she seriously supposed to tame a wolf?"
"That's impossible!" another said, eyes wide with disbelief.
Freya's eyes were locked on the woods in the distance. Her ears twitched, her golden gaze focused like a hunter tracking prey. Her lips curled into a grin—wild, eager, confident.
"Tame a wolf, huh?" she said, her voice low and filled with the thrill of the challenge. "Fine. I'll do it."
Aeka chuckled softly, leaning against one of the courtyard pillars. "Let's see if the wolf can master another wolf."
Freya turned sharply, eyes locked on Aeka. "When I bring it back, you'd better have something to say other than 'I told you so.'"
"Oh, I will," Aeka replied with a grin. "I'll say 'welcome to the pack.'"
Vergil placed a hand on Freya's shoulder, his blue eyes calm but intense. "Remember, it's not about power. It's about trust. If the wolf sees you as a threat, it will never follow you. Patience, Freya. Patience and focus."
She nodded once, her gaze never leaving the woods ahead. Her wolf-like instincts had already kicked in, and her senses honed on the path she would take.
The five daughters whispered among themselves, watching their "older sister" walk toward the treeline.
"She's really going to do it, huh?" one of them said, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear.
"She's scary," another added.
"No," Aeka said, her eyes following Freya as she disappeared into the woods. Her crow let out a single, sharp caw. "She's strong. But strength alone won't be enough."
Her gaze shifted to Vergil. "She'll come back, won't she?"
"If she learns," Vergil said, his eyes distant as he watched the woods. "If not, the forest will teach her the hard way."
The steady patter of rain filled the air as a light mist drifted through the forest surrounding the Ragnaros mansion. Vergil stood beneath the covered porch, his icy blue eyes gazing out into the forest. The rhythmic thud of raindrops against the wooden roof blended with the distant calls of birds and the rustling of leaves.
From the forest's edge, Freya emerged. Her cloak and light armor were damp from the rain, her hair slick with moisture. But she walked with purpose, her golden eyes sharp and defiant. Five small wolf-dog hybrid puppies followed at her heels, their tiny paws splashing through the puddles as they tried to keep up.
Aeka was the first to notice. She tilted her head, arms crossed, her asymmetrical bob framing her face as she narrowed her eyes. "That's… not exactly a wolf," she muttered, one brow raised in mild amusement.
Vergil stepped forward, his eyes flicking from the pups to Freya. His gaze remained calm, but his lips curled into a subtle grin. "These are… wolf pups?" he asked, his tone bordering on disbelief.
Freya shrugged, wiping water from her hair. "They have wolf blood, don't they?" She gestured down at the puppies, who had now gathered at her feet, their tiny tails wagging and their eyes full of curiosity. "If you're looking for something 'wild and unpredictable,' these fit the description."
Silence.
Aeka stared at Vergil. Vergil stared at the pups. Then both of them looked at each other.
Aeka sighed, shaking her head. "Technically… she's not wrong," Aeka admitted, crossing her arms. "They've got wolf blood, even if it's not pure." Her tone had a playful edge, but her eyes were sharp, as though silently daring Freya to argue.
Vergil rubbed his temple, letting out a slow breath. "You know that wasn't what I meant, Freya."
"You told me to bring back a wolf," Freya replied, grinning like a predator that had just caught its prey. "You never said it had to be an adult wolf."
A small chuckle escaped Aeka, which she quickly disguised as a cough. "She got you there, big brother."
Vergil's eyes narrowed at them both, but he didn't press the matter. Instead, he crouched, reaching out to one of the pups. The small creature sniffed at his gloved hand before licking it. Its soft eyes gazed up at him with innocent curiosity. "Hmph. They're bold," he muttered. "That'll be useful later."
He stood, dusting his hands. "Fine. I'll give you a pass on this one, Freya. But don't expect me to lower the bar again."
"I never needed you to," Freya replied, her grin sharp and defiant.
Vergil turned his back to her, walking toward the storage room. "Get changed," he ordered. "Our mission will begin soon."
Inside the Ragnaros mansion, the air was tense with quiet determination. Aeka moved with precision and focus, gathering equipment while Vergil inspected their supplies. The faint clinking of metal echoed as daggers, enchanted vials, and equipment were set out on a black cloth.
Freya returned from her room, now wearing her assassin armor—sleek, black leather reinforced with light plating, designed for maximum stealth and flexibility. A black cloak draped her shoulders, and her wolf-like ears poked out from the hood. Her golden eyes seemed to glow brighter under the shadow of the hood.
"You ready for this, Freya?" Aeka asked, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. Her crow perched on her shoulder, its beady black eyes locked on Freya. "This one's not training anymore."
"I know," Freya replied, rolling her shoulders to adjust her armor. "You think I'm scared?"
Aeka smiled knowingly. "No. But sometimes, being fearless is worse than being afraid."
"I'm not fearless," Freya shot back, her eyes sharp as ever. "I just trust my instincts."
"Instincts won't block a crossbow bolt."
"Neither will talking too much," Freya said, brushing past Aeka with a smirk.
"Alright, enough," Vergil's calm but commanding voice cut through the air as he entered the room. He wore his full assassin gear, black light armor layered beneath his flowing black cloak. His European-style sword hung at his hip, but he had no intention of using it tonight. "We leave now. No mistakes."
The five adopted daughters watched from the second-floor balcony. Their eyes followed Vergil, Aeka, and Freya as they walked out into the rain-soaked night. The youngest among them leaned forward, whispering, "Do you think they'll be okay?"
"They'll be fine," another replied, her eyes glowing with admiration. "They're shadows."
The night sky hung heavy with clouds, casting a gray shroud over the forest. A cold wind swept through the treetops, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and wet leaves. Vergil, Freya, and Aeka lay still atop a ridge overlooking the Blackquill mansion. The rain, which had been falling steadily for hours, was beginning to ease.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water fell from the leaves in slow, rhythmic drops. It was the sound of a storm in retreat — not yet gone, but no longer dominant. Visibility was improving, and with it, the risk increased.
"Rain's letting up," Aeka muttered from her position, her voice barely louder than the patter of water on leaves. Her spotter scope was locked on the mansion's balcony, where faint lantern light flickered like distant fireflies. Her crow perched nearby, its beady black eyes watching the scene unfold with eerie patience. "If it stops completely, the guards might come out to check the perimeter."
"They will," Vergil replied, his tone low but certain. His fingers hovered over the cool, dark metal of his magical sniper rifle, the ethereal runes along its frame barely visible in the dim light. "But that works in our favor. They'll drop their guard. No one expects death after the storm."
Freya lay beside him, her wolf-like ears twitching as she listened for any distant sounds. Her golden eyes narrowed as she glanced at Vergil. "They'll hear our shots more clearly without the rain."
"Only if they live long enough to hear them," Vergil replied, his tone sharp but calm. "Remember, Freya — patience kills more targets than speed."
Freya clenched her jaw but nodded. She knew it was true, but that didn't make waiting any easier. Her grip tightened on the cool metal of her own magical sniper rifle. The familiar sensation of the weight in her hands was a small comfort. The runes along the barrel were faint but steady, a reminder of the lethal power at her fingertips.
Minutes passed. Each second felt like an hour. Time stretched out, slow and heavy. The soft drips of rain echoed louder as the downpour dwindled. The world grew quiet, and with it, the weight of silence pressed on them all.
And then—the rain stopped.
"Three," Vergil's voice was low, sharp, and absolute.
Freya exhaled slowly, the world narrowing to the view within her ethereal scope. Her eyes locked onto Lady Blackquill, marking the precise spot on her chest where her heart beat beneath layers of silk and skin. Her finger hovered over the trigger of her magical sniper rifle, its sleek, blackened metal frame cold against her gloves.
"Two."
The air was still, and for the first time all night, everything went silent. The distant sounds of dripping water from treetops faded into the background as if even nature itself knew it was about to witness something final.
Vergil's fingers pressed against the side of his rifle. His gaze through the scope was steady, unblinking, focused entirely on Lord Darius Blackquill. The man was mid-sip, tilting his wine glass toward his lips, eyes relaxed and unaware. Perfect timing.
Freya's heart rate slowed to a steady, deliberate rhythm. Her breathing was perfectly controlled, her wolf-like ears alert for any shift in the air. She could feel the heat of her own blood but willed her body to stillness. Her eyes sharpened. Her focus was absolute.
"One."
Two shots rang out — but they weren't the thunderclaps of ordinary gunfire. The suppressors on both rifles transformed the sound into a dull, muffled hiss, no louder than the flap of a crow's wings. The flash of the muzzle was so faint it could be mistaken for a firefly's glow.
The world moved in slow motion.
Lord Darius's head jerked back. The force of the adamantium-infused bullet was so precise that it didn't cause a messy explosion of blood. Instead, it punched a small, perfect hole clean through his skull, his lifeless body crumpling to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. The wine glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the stone with a brittle crack. Dark red wine spilled and mingled with the rainwater, curling like crimson tendrils toward the edge of the balcony.
At the same time, Lady Blackquill's body jolted as the bullet struck her heart. Her eyes went wide, her breath caught in her throat, and she stumbled two steps back. Her silk dress soaked with a deep red stain at her chest, her legs buckling beneath her. The light in her eyes faded as she collapsed at her husband's side. The two lay still, bodies intertwined on the cold stone of the balcony.
From her position, Aeka observed it all through her spotter scope. Her one uncovered eye was fixed on the scene, unblinking as she watched the life fade from their bodies. Her crow perched silently on her shoulder, its black eyes following every movement, tilting its head with interest.
Aeka shifted her scope slightly, scanning for movement among the guards. Her lips curled into a subtle grin. "Both targets down. No movement from the guards. Clean shots. No witnesses."
Freya let out a slow breath, relaxing her grip on the trigger. Her eyes remained locked on the balcony for a moment longer, ensuring her target had truly fallen. Satisfied, she lowered her rifle, glancing toward Vergil.
"That's it?" she asked, her golden eyes flickering with subtle disbelief.
Vergil's gaze was calm, his eyes like cold steel. "No fanfare. No second chances. Shadows leave no trace, Freya."
She nodded, her gaze lingering on the two lifeless figures below. It had been fast. Too fast, maybe. But that was the point.
"Clean shots. No witnesses." Aeka's voice was calm, her gaze still locked on the balcony where Lord Darius and his wife lay lifeless on the cold stone. Through her spotter scope, she watched the flickering balcony lantern cast shifting shadows across their still bodies. Her one uncovered eye was sharp with focus, while the other remained hidden beneath her hood.
After a moment, she lowered the spotter scope, her fingers moving with practiced precision. With a subtle move of her hand, the intricate device, she putting it back to her stash and tuck the scope tripod back to her stash too.
Aeka crouched low, scanning the ground before tucking the rusted iron scrap into a clump of weeds near a patch of moss. "Rot where you belong," she muttered softly, wiping her hands on her cloak. Her crow fluttered its wings on her shoulder, letting out a low, raspy caw.
"Weapons next," Vergil's voice cut through the quiet night like a knife.
Freya glanced at him, nodding. Her eyes flicked to her magical sniper rifle, its sleek, custom-forged frame still warm from the two perfectly synchronized shots. Her fingers ran along the cold metal, tracing the once-glowing runes that were now dim. She knew what came next. No attachments. No evidence. No mercy.
She placed her palm firmly against the side of the rifle. "Return to rust." Her voice was firm, carrying the quiet authority of someone who understood the necessity of letting things go.
A faint, pale-blue glow ran down the barrel of the rifle, flickering like the dying embers of a fire. The rifle began to twist and deform as if the metal itself were aging in fast-forward. Its smooth, elegant surface corroded with cracks, the black finish peeling away. What remained in Freya's hands was a rough, uneven lump of rusted iron. No shape. No function. No history. She tossed it aside into a shallow puddle near the roots of a tree. The rain hit the surface of the puddle with soft plinks, masking the faint splash as the iron slug sank into the muddy water.
Aeka watched with a grin. "Still too gentle, Freya. You should throw it harder. Like this."
Aeka unclipped her own magical rifle from her back. The compact, lethal design had the same ominous beauty as Vergil's and Freya's weapons. But unlike them, Aeka held it for a moment longer, tapping its side playfully with her fingers. "Time to vanish."
Her grin widened as she tilted the rifle to the side and whispered something under her breath — words too quiet to hear. The runes on her weapon flickered once, briefly glowing a brilliant violet before the entire rifle seemed to "breathe" in reverse, its metal frame folding in on itself like paper crumpling into a ball. With a hollow cracking sound, it decayed into a chunk of jagged, rusted metal, covered in sharp edges and rough patches of oxidized grime. Unlike Freya, Aeka spun the chunk of metal in her palm before tossing it over her shoulder. It clattered into a bush, buried beneath a tangle of leaves and thorns. Her crow flapped its wings in approval, tilting its head toward the spot where the metal disappeared.
"What was that about 'throw it harder,' huh?" Freya raised an eyebrow.
"Tch," Aeka shrugged, glancing at Freya with a playful smirk. "I'm a showoff, not a hypocrite."
Freya rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at her lips.
Vergil, however, was all business. His eyes were locked on the mansion's balcony, watching as the flickering lantern light made shadows dance around the two corpses. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, studied every movement of the guards below. None of them had noticed. No one had seen.
"Time's up," he said softly. "Clean it."
He lifted his own magical sniper rifle, heavier and more refined than Freya's and Aeka's. It had seen more battles, carried more history. But history didn't matter. He gripped it with both hands and muttered something under his breath — words of power that caused the runes along its length to glow faintly. For a moment, the weapon resisted, as if it didn't want to change. But Vergil's will was stronger. The glow faded, and cracks spread across the rifle's surface like a spider's web. The sleek black metal corroded and warped. His hands held firm as the frame collapsed in on itself, the barrel crumbling, the scope shattering into rust flakes.
In less than five seconds, all that remained was a battered chunk of corroded iron. It was heavier than it looked, jagged like a broken tool left to rot in the rain for a century. Vergil crouched low, lifted a stone, and slipped the rusted iron underneath it, letting the earth hide it from sight. No one would ever find it.
"Check," Aeka said, her eyes scanning the forest edge. "No guards saw a thing. Same shift, no patrol changes." She tugged her hood lower over her face, tilting her head to catch the faint sound of rain returning in the distance. It was light now but growing heavier. Perfect timing.
Freya pulled her cloak tighter around herself. Her wolf-like ears flattened beneath her hood. Her eyes lingered on the balcony one last time. The soft glow of the lanterns illuminated the lifeless bodies of Lord Darius and Lady Blackquill. The two lay side by side, their once-proud forms reduced to lifeless husks. Blood mixed with rainwater, trailing toward the cracks in the stone like tiny red streams. Her sharp gaze softened for a moment — not in guilt, but in acknowledgment.
Vergil followed her gaze. "Regret is for people who hesitate."
"I'm not hesitating," Freya replied, her eyes narrowing.
Vergil gave her a slow nod, his face cold but approving. "Then let's move."
He turned, his black cloak shifting behind him like a shadowed wave. No hesitation. No doubt. Just precision. His footsteps made no sound against the forest floor.
Aeka followed, one step behind him, her eyes darting from tree to tree, constantly alert. Her crow took flight from her shoulder, flying ahead like a guide through the foggy woods. The bird's distant caw echoed in the trees, like a signal that the hunt had ended and the shadows were retreating.
Freya pulled her hood lower, letting the shadows swallow her face. Her fingers flexed, still feeling the phantom touch of the rifle's trigger against her hands. She glanced over her shoulder at the mansion one last time, her golden eyes sharp as a predator's.
"No faces. No names. No shadows." She whispered the words to herself like a mantra, then disappeared into the forest behind Vergil and Aeka.
The shadows moved together. Three silhouettes vanished into the fog of the forest. Their movements were smooth, deliberate, and silent. There was no noise — no broken branches, no crunch of leaves. They moved like ghosts through the night. With each step, they became harder to see, their outlines blending with the trees and fog. Their black cloaks billowed behind them, only visible in flashes of moonlight that broke through the branches.
By the time the rain began to fall harder, the three assassins were already gone. Their presence had been nothing more than a breath of cold wind.
Back at the mansion, the rain continued to wash the blood away. The balcony's smooth stone surface gleamed with fresh rain, the faint stain of blood slowly dissolving into the running water. It flowed over the edge like tiny crimson veins. The guards below remained at their posts, unaware that their lord and lady would never give them orders again.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The wine-stained shards of the broken glass lay scattered on the balcony like the aftermath of a careless party. The glow of the balcony lantern flickered, briefly illuminating the motionless faces of Lord Darius and Lady Blackquill. They lay together as if resting after a long night, their hands just inches apart.
The guards below never noticed. No one would know.
By morning, all that would be left were rumors of shadows that strike without warning, kill without mercy, and vanish without a trace.
The Brotherhood of Shadows had come and gone.
No faces. No names. No shadows.