Aftermath

Brolan quickly rushed downstairs, grabbing a stick from the fire in the hearth. Careful to keep the flame alive, he returned to the room and lit the oil lamps, filling the space with a warm, flickering glow that revealed the grim scene.

The assassins were garbed in black tunics, their bodies lean and athletic. They wore dark, sturdy boots and their identities were hidden by black scarves wrapped around their heads. Their uniform attire erased any personal features, turning them into eerie spectres of death.

Argon pulled the scarves away from their faces swiftly. One was a rugged man in his late thirties, his face unshaven and scarred from past battles. His hair was dark and cropped short, while his now lifeless eyes were a piercing blue. His lips were set in a grim line as though his secrets had followed him to the grave.

The second was a younger man, perhaps not even twenty. His smooth face was untouched by the harsh marks of battle that graced his older companion. His hair was sandy brown, and his vacant eyes were a soft green. His youth added an extra layer of horror to the scene. His mouth hung open as if he had been interrupted mid-sentence; a single drop of blood perched on his lower lip was a macabre testimony to his violent end.

Brolan's gaze traced the fallen bodies, his voice echoing with grave concern, "Aye, it's a right fucking pity they're dead. We'll be blind to whichever rat-bastard has set his sights on us." He shook his head, a frown creasing his features. "Thank the gods they weren't wielding any damn Artefact. Things would have turned real ugly."

Argon grunted in agreement, his thoughts swirling like a storm. "No sane person would send a knight as an assassin, especially not one carrying an Artefact. The risk of losing such a precious item would be far too high."

The mention of potential suspects caused Argon's face to harden, his lips twisting into a cold sneer. "Waleran is a likely suspect, that snake," he spat out the words like venom. "But we shouldn't discount Eldrige either. His daughter's sudden proposition to wed could have set this in motion."

Brolan nodded in response, his grim expression reflecting the weight of their predicament. "Either way, we're left guessing. We must tread carefully, master."

Argon took a deep, determined breath and commanded, "Stir every damn soldier from their beds. I want eyes along every inch of our perimeter. Enforce a curfew on the bloody villagers as well. Any soul that defies it is to be dropped on the spot. No exceptions."

He turned his gaze to Brolan, his voice harsh in the quiet aftermath of the attack. "And fetch me Brom. I need to speak with him immediately."

Brolan simply nodded, his face set in grim lines as he replied, "Yes, master." With a final glance at the fallen attackers, he set off, his boots echoing ominously on the wooden floors, his mission clear and his mind filled with growing trepidation.

Argon, his heart pounding in his chest and adrenaline still coursing through his veins, begins to don his armour. The metal plates feel cold and solid against his skin, each piece a testament to his strength and determination. He sheathed his Dayless sword, and the pain from his fingers closing around the familiar hilt was piercing.

Argon pulled out the dagger from his waist. With a swift, calculated move, he slices through the thick fabric of his tunic, cutting off two sizable pieces of cloth. Despite the smoothness of the blade, the cloth tears unevenly under the force, creating rough edges.

Ignoring the imperfections, Argon wraps the cut-off pieces of cloth around his palms, the makeshift bandages soaking up the remnants of blood. He ties them tightly, the pressure stinging against his skin, but he bears the discomfort silently. The crude bandages protect his wounds and are a stark reminder of the unexpected attack. His knuckles whiten as he grips his healing artefact, a testament to his hardened resolve and simmering anger.

He swiftly leaves the room, the corpses of the failed assassins lying pitifully on the floor. As he descends the stairs of the manor, his heavy footfalls echo through the grand halls, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence.

Stepping out into the cool night air, he sees Lyra waiting at a distance. Her eyes are wide with worry as she approaches him, "I took Saera to Melvin immediately to get patched up," she quickly reports. Her gaze scans over his form, searching for injuries. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

Argon grimaces, the sharp sting reminding him of the close encounter. Without missing a beat, he activates his healing artefact, feeling the familiar warm glow seeping into his flesh. The pain gradually ebbs away, replaced by a comforting warmth as his wounds mend under the artefact's power.

Argon waves her concern away with a dismissive gesture. "Take me to Melvin," he orders his voice tight with suppressed anger. "And no, I'm not very much hurt. Those fuckers were pitiful excuses for assassins." His words are venomous, his anger at the audacity of the attack still simmering below the surface.

Gritting his teeth, Argon led Lyra swiftly through the narrow, winding streets of the village, heading towards Melvin's residence. The flickering orange glow of oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the rough stone and timber buildings, highlighting the frantic activity of the night.

They arrived at Melvin's residence, a humble structure serving as the old man's living quarters and medical practice. The door was ajar, and the warm, comforting light from within spilt into the silent night.

As they stepped inside, a poignant scene unfolded before their eyes. Saera was lying on a small cot, her delicate features contorted in pain and fear. Her usual radiant skin was pale, and her eyes were glossy from her tears. A dark blood stain had spread across her forearm, contrasting sharply against the pristine white bandages wrapped around her.

Melvin, his face grave and weary, was finishing sewing up the nasty gash on Saera's forearm. His eyes flickered up as Argon entered, a flash of guilt crossing his usually calm face. He had been responsible for the village affairs, and now, under his watch, assassins had managed to breach their defences.

Saera's teary eyes found Argon's. "I'm sorry, my lord. I couldn't do anything," she stammered, her voice choked with sobs.

Argon dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand, his face softening. "Don't be silly. You did a lot. I'm sorry that I was lax on my security. I promise you, this won't happen again." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "You are to stay in the manor from now on. You're now in charge of the affairs of my household."

Turning to Melvin, he ordered, "Melvin, when you're done, take Saera to a spare bedroom in the manor."

Melvin nodded, his face still etched with concern. "Of course, my lord. Is there anything else I can do? I feel responsible for this..."

"No," Argon interjected sharply, his eyes narrowing. "This is Edrik's fault. He's in charge of the soldiers." The blame, he decided, lay elsewhere.

With purposeful strides, Argon left Melvin's residence and returned to the bustling square at the centre of the village. His heart pounded in his chest, fueled by a potent mixture of anger and adrenaline.

Upon arriving at the square, Argon was met by the sight of Brolan, Brom, Dael, Edrik, and Lark - the surviving members of his Contubernium. Brolan stepped forward to report, his face a mask of stern concern. "Argon, we've roused all the soldiers. They're all along the perimeter now, checking for any accomplices and points of entry."

"Good," Argon nodded curtly before turning his attention to Edrik. His voice cut through the cool night air like a blade, filled with an edge of accusation. "Edrik, aren't you supposed to be in charge of the soldiers' logistics?"

Edrik Stiffened under Argon's gaze. "My lord, I had six men patrolling the walls," he said, a hint of defensive desperation creeping into his tone. "I don't know how this happened..."

Brolan stepped in, attempting to defuse the tension. "Thank God you suspected something, Argon," he said, glancing sideways at Lark. "Otherwise, it would've been game over for all of us."

With an ire that echoed through the night, Argon turned his wrath onto Edrik. His words hit like a whip, slicing through the quiet night air.

"Six people, you fucking idiot!" He spat, the rage clear in his eyes. "How are they meant to see anything spread so thinly on the walls? We have thirty-six soldiers! Surely we can spare more for guarding the walls! If not, get some young boys from the village to do it!"

As Argon's furious words echoed through the square, Edrik fell to his knees. His voice was nothing more than a whimper. "I'm sorry, my lord."

The square fell into silence for a moment, the air thick with tension. Then, Argon's voice broke through the quiet. His tone was calmer now, yet no less chilling. "Don't let it happen again, Edrik. You're lucky I am such a formidable warrior, or your mistake would have been deadly. I'm sure Brolan would have killed you if I was assassinated."

His gaze landed on Edrik again, his eyes icy and unyielding. "For your stupidity, you are to receive ten lashes."

The punishment hung heavy, casting a sombre note over the square.