The Dark Night

The storm ended in a breath.

One moment, rain pounded against stone and steel, each drop hammering the square into mud and rivers of blood. The next, it stopped. The silence left behind was louder than thunder, broken only by ragged breathing, distant cries, and the hiss of water dripping from rooftops.

Gladius stood swaying, chest rising and falling like a man drowning on dry land. His katana trembled in his grip, water streaming off its edge. Opposite him, the faceless Reaper hadn’t shifted. Its scythe was steady, its stance unbroken, porcelain mask gleaming with the faint glow of lanterns struggling against the dark.

They stared.

Then the Reaper moved.

A single step forward. The scythe rose high, black metal slick with rain.

Gladius roared, lifting his katana with both hands. He swung to meet it, every ounce of strength poured into the strike.

Steel met steel.

And broke.

The scythe cleaved straight through the katana with a ringing crack. Shards of folded steel exploded outward, glittering in the lamplight before vanishing into the mud. The shock jarred Gladius’s arms numb. His blade—his pride, his weapon through a hundred battles—was gone.

Before he could register the loss, the scythe continued its arc.

The blade tore across his chest.

Blood sprayed. Gladius’s roar turned to a strangled gasp. He staggered, knees buckling, and dropped to the mud. His breath came ragged, crimson soaking through his shredded tunic. The wound stretched from shoulder to hip, a line of agony carved deep into his flesh.

The Reaper loomed above him.

At the edge of the square, Shadow Five tried to rise. She clawed at the broken cart that had caught her fall, her body screaming with pain. Her twin swords were still buried in the Reaper’s torso, their hilts mocking her from a distance. She strained, blood on her lips, but her legs refused to answer.

“No…” she croaked, voice shredded. “Get… up…”

But she couldn’t. She collapsed back against the wreckage, vision swimming. All she could do was watch.

The others stood frozen in the inn’s doorway.

Corvin’s knuckles were bone white around the haft of his axe. “No, no, no…” His voice shook, raw with rage and disbelief. “That’s Gladius. He doesn’t lose. He—he can’t—”

Sai’s jaw clenched. His sword was steady in his hands, but his feet refused to move. He wanted to charge, to throw himself between the Reaper and Gladius, but every instinct screamed it would be suicide.

Eira gripped her naginata so tightly her hands trembled. Her breath came in short bursts, her wide eyes locked on the scythe poised above their so-called champion. She whispered Mira’s name like a prayer, though she wasn’t even aware she’d spoken.

And Mira…

She still held her bow. Her body shook with exhaustion, but her arrows was gone, her weapon useless in its current state.

The Reaper shifted.

Slowly, it reached to its shoulder. Fingers gripped the shaft of the arrow that Mira had lodged there earlier, the one lucky strike out of twenty. With deliberate calm, it tore the arrow free. Blood welled dark against its cloak, but it didn’t flinch.

Its faceless mask tilted toward the inn.

And with a snap of its wrist, it hurled the arrow back.

It whistled through the air. Mira barely had time to widen her eyes before it struck the wall beside her, burying itself in the timber with a violent thunk. The wood quivered. The shaft buzzed inches from her head.

Her bowstring slackened. Her hands dropped. She stared, breath frozen in her throat.

The Reaper ignored her now.

It leaned down, scythe balanced casually in one hand, and bent close to Gladius. The once-mighty swordsman’s chest rose and fell shallowly, his fingers twitching in the mud where the broken hilt of his katana lay.

The Reaper lowered its head, its blank mask almost brushing Gladius’s ear. And then—

“Sorry…” Its voice was a whisper, hollow, mockingly gentle. “…for this.”

As Gladius eye brows raised as if he just had realized something its elbow drove into Gladius’s temple. The champion’s body went slack, consciousness extinguished in an instant.

The Reaper caught him before he collapsed completely, hooking one arm beneath his chest. it hoisted him up and slung him over its shoulder like dead weight. Gladius’s blood dripped down its back, staining the already dark cloak.

It turned.

Its faceless gaze swept toward the inn, toward the group huddled there.

Corvin bared his teeth, half a snarl, his axe raised as if sheer rage could carry him across the square. Sai stepped in front of him, sword trembling, his mind racing for strategies that didn’t exist. Eira pressed closer to Mira, whose bow hung forgotten in her lap as her wide eyes locked on the mask.

The Reaper paused. Its head tilted slightly. Then it looked away.

And began walking.

Each step was deliberate, unhurried, boots splashing through blood and rain. It carried Gladius like a trophy, a prize, a mockery of all their faith in him.

It walked toward the gilded one. The golden Reaper had risen to his feet again, steadied by another of his kind. He watched the approach with something like amusement, his mask gleaming faintly as though smiling beneath the storm light.

Mira raised her bow again. Her hands shook violently, but she drew the string, arrow trembling. Her eyes blurred with exhaustion and tears, but she sighted down the shaft at the Reaper’s back.

Corvin whispered, “Shoot. Please. Just—shoot!”

Sai hissed, “Mira, now—”

But the Reaper turned its head.

Its blank mask faced them again. No words. No gesture. Just that faceless gaze.

Mira froze.

Her breath left her in a shudder. The string slackened. The arrow dropped from her fingers, clattering to the floorboards at her feet.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t.

The Reaper turned away.

And it walked on, vanishing step by step into the wreckage of the square, Gladius limp on its shoulder, the gilded one waiting like a dark star ahead.

The group stood in silence, hearts pounding in the sudden stillness. Even Shadow Five, broken against the cart, could only whisper the words none of them wanted to say aloud.

“He’s gone…”