DARK SQUAD 2

The "Dark Squad" moved like shadows under the pale light of the moon, their steps silent but calculated, their presence heavy with menace. Each member was shrouded in black armor that gleamed faintly, its edges jagged like the shards of shattered lives they left in their wake. Their faces, hidden behind dark, sculpted masks, showed no trace of humanity—just cold, unyielding precision. The only sound that accompanied them was the faint clinking of their weapons and the eerie whisper of the wind, as if the night itself recoiled from their approach.

Their leader, a tall figure named Dren, carried himself with a mechanical grace, each movement deliberate and practiced. His posture was rigid, his shoulders squared like a wall of steel. He gestured to his squad with swift, precise hand signals, and they followed without hesitation, their bodies snapping into action like well-oiled machines. Though their masks concealed their faces, the energy emanating from them was unmistakable—an unshakable loyalty to Kane, mixed with an unnerving absence of doubt. They were not human anymore, not in the ways that mattered. They were weapons.

Kane's voice echoed coldly in the chamber as he gave the Dark Squad their first mission. His words carried no hesitation, no emotion, only the chilling weight of command. "Go to every corner of the kingdom—every village, every hamlet. Kill every child under one year old. Leave none alive." His tone was final, like the toll of a funeral bell. Though his face betrayed nothing, his mind churned with fear. He knew he could not afford to let his brother's son live. David was his only threat, the one person who could challenge his throne.

The Dark Squad did not question, did not hesitate. To them, Kane's command was law, his will absolute. They bowed in eerie unison, their movements sharp and mechanical, and left without a word. Their dark forms disappeared into the shadows, their footsteps soundless as they began their grim march.

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Under the pale light of the moon, the Dark Squad moved like wraiths through the kingdom, silent and unrelenting. Each step was deliberate, every movement precise, their black armor blending seamlessly with the darkness. They traveled in perfect formation, their synchronization almost unnatural, as if bound together by an unseen force. Their masks hid their faces, but their body language told a story of single-minded determination. There was no hesitation, no faltering—just the cold efficiency of beings stripped of humanity.

In a small village nestled against a forest, the squad descended without warning. They entered homes like shadows, their movements fluid but eerily silent, their presence suffocating. Dren led the charge, his tall, imposing figure a harbinger of death. His gloved hand signaled to the others, a single, swift gesture that sent them scattering like wolves on the hunt.

The soldiers moved through each home methodically. Doors were pushed open without a sound, their black boots barely making a whisper against the wooden floors. They searched with precision, their heads turning in unison like clockwork as they scanned for their targets. There was no shouting, no noise except for the faint rustle of fabric or the metallic clink of a weapon being drawn.

In one home, a young mother clung to her infant, her body trembling as she backed into a corner. One of the soldiers advanced toward her, his blade drawn. His steps were slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey. The mother's sobs filled the room, her pleas a desperate cacophony of words that fell on deaf ears.

Outside, Dren stood at the center of the village, his cloak billowing in the faint breeze. His eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the smoldering ruins and lifeless streets. The village had fallen, just as the others would. He turned to the squad, who regrouped with the same eerie precision as before. Despite their synchronization, there was an almost imperceptible shift in the air—a subtle tension that hung between them.

"Move," Dren ordered, his voice cold and commanding. The squad snapped back into formation, their movements as sharp and mechanical as ever. They marched out of the village, leaving behind only silence and smoldering ash.

Despite their outward calm, there was a faint tension in the air—an invisible thread that stretched between them. Though their minds were loyal to Kane, their bodies bore the weight of what they had done. Their steps were heavy as they moved to their next target, their hands slick with blood that refused to dry, as if the world itself sought to mark them for their sins. Some clenched their fists tightly, as if trying to squeeze away the tremors that occasionally betrayed them.

Dren noticed, of course. His eyes flicked to one of the younger members, whose breathing had grown unsteady. Without a word, Dren stopped in his tracks and turned to face the soldier. His presence was ice-cold, his posture rigid with authority.

"Do you falter?" he asked, his voice low but sharp, like the edge of a blade

The young soldier straightened immediately, his hands clasped behind his back in a show of obedience. "No, sir," he stammered, though his voice wavered slightly.

Dren stepped closer, his boots crunching softly against the dirt. "You are not here to feel," he said, his tone like iron. "You are here to serve. And you will serve, or you will fall. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the soldier replied, his voice steadier now.

Dren studied him for a moment longer, then turned away, his cloak sweeping behind him. "Good," he said simply.

The squad continued their march, their movements as synchronized and unfeeling as before. But beneath the surface, a quiet unease lingered. Kane's dark army was unbreakable on the outside, but cracks had begun to form—small and nearly imperceptible, but there nonetheless. Yet for now, they carried out their orders with ruthless precision, leaving behind a kingdom drenched in grief. The weight of their actions hung in the air like smoke, choking the life out of everything it touched. And still, they marched on, the seeds of doubt buried too deep to take root—at least, for now.