Marcus Obsidian wiped the sweat from his brow as the floorboards groaned beneath his pacing steps. His fingers clenched the crumpled note, knuckles white with tension. The paper, worn and brittle at the edges, trembled in his grasp. The words on it seared into his mind, looping endlessly like a curse:
"Bring your Seal of Office to the warehouse at the end of the Fourth Watch. Your family will be returned to you."
The fire crackled in the hearth, its flickering glow casting restless shadows across the room. Normally, Marcus carried himself with unwavering confidence—his sharp features softened by an easy smile, his blonde hair always neatly combed. But not tonight. Tonight, that smile was gone, replaced by tight lines of worry. His shoulders, usually squared with authority, sagged under the weight of fear and betrayal.
The scent of burning wood mixed with the faintest trace of ink and parchment, reminders of the office he had once trusted. The room, though warm, felt oppressively cold. He forced himself to breathe, steadying the tremor in his hands, but the air felt thick—like the calm before a storm.
Somewhere beyond these walls, his family was waiting. Somewhere in the darkness, unseen eyes were watching.
And at the end of the Fourth Watch, the choice would no longer be his.
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Marcus whispered a final prayer. He reached for one of the longswords mounted above the fireplace—a gift from the blacksmith in Dren. The blades had been forged as a matched pair, one for him and the other for his son when he came of age. He had never imagined he would need to wield it, but that day had come.
Marcus had never been a man who sought violence. It was his ability to deescalate conflict, to find common ground even in the most heated disputes, that had earned him the people’s trust. It was why he had been voted in as Mayor.
And yet, tonight, words would not be enough.
Outside, the arrival of the carriage was met by the family dog, Tanook, whose barking shattered the silence. The time had come.
Marcus took one last look at the Obsidian family painting, his grip tightening on the sword. No matter what happened next, he would not fail them.
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Marcus hid the sword within the folds of his coat and stepped toward Tanook, the family’s large brown-and-black dog. The loyal animal stood in his path, ears twitching, sensing the unease in the air.
“I will get them back,” Marcus murmured, resting a hand on Tanook’s head. “Watch the house.”
The dog whined in protest, his deep brown eyes filled with concern. He knew something was wrong. Begrudgingly, Tanook lowered his head, stepping aside to let his master pass.
Outside, the carriage waited. The driver, Rodrick, stood by the open door, his expression unreadable. He barely had time to speak before Marcus climbed in and issued his command.
“To the warehouse, Rodrick. When we get there, be on guard and ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
Rodrick nodded once, silent but understanding. With a flick of the reins, the carriage lurched forward, disappearing into the night.
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One of Marcus’s greatest joys had always been nighttime carriage rides with his family. The gentle sway of the carriage, the cool evening breeze, the laughter shared under the glow of lanterns. But tonight, the ride was different—solemn, lonely, and heavy with anguish.
His mind was a relentless storm of memories, each one replaying moments with Tyler. Had he missed something? Had he unknowingly wronged his friend? What had driven Tyler—his trusted business partner—to betray him in such a cruel way? Marcus searched his past for answers, for any sign he had overlooked, but found none.
He sat in silence, his grip tightening on the hilt of the hidden sword. As the carriage rolled through town, the townspeople waved and greeted him with warm smiles, unaware of the turmoil raging inside him. He forced himself to nod in return, knowing there would be time to apologize for his distant behavior—when this was over.
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For the rest of the trip, Marcus recited every prayer he knew. The familiar words, etched into his soul since childhood, were his only refuge from the storm of doubt and fear. As a boy, he would pretend to be the leader of the local church, standing at the front of an imaginary congregation, his voice filled with conviction. Faith had always been a quiet comfort—a constant in a world that often shifted beneath him.
His gaze drifted to the lantern swaying gently with the carriage’s movement. The flickering fire within caught his eye, its warm glow a reminder of Lorna. She had taught him to cherish the simple things, the small moments that made life whole. “A lantern’s flame doesn’t just give light,” she once told him with a smile. “It dances, offering a little beauty in the darkness.”
Marcus watched the flame waver and twist, its delicate movements almost hypnotic. He clung to that memory, to her voice, to the love that still anchored him—even as the night carried him toward the unknown.
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The flood of memories ceased as the carriage lurched to a stop. Without hesitation, Marcus flung the door open and leapt out.
"I’m here, Tyler!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the night. "Where is my family?!"
His frantic gaze swept the area, searching desperately for any sign of them.
Across the yard, a lantern flickered to life, its golden glow casting eerie shadows against the warehouse wall. Marcus’s breath hitched when he recognized it—it belonged to Lorna. A surge of fury burned through him. She had always been fascinated by lanterns, cherishing their warm light and graceful dance. Seeing it in Tyler’s possession made Marcus’s blood run cold.
"My, my, Marcus," drawled a dark-haired man with sharp, calculating features. "You seem to have lost something..."
Marcus turned, his fury barely contained as he locked eyes with the man who had betrayed him.
"Be a good boy and hand over your Seal of Office," Tyler continued, his tone laced with mockery.
Marcus reached into his pocket and yanked out the medallion, his grip trembling with rage. He hurled it to the ground, his voice raw with desperation.
"I don’t know what my family ever did to you. We treated you like our own!" His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving. "Here’s your damn seal—now give me my family!"
His hand tightened around the hilt of his longsword, barely resisting the urge to strike.
A figure emerged from the shadows—one of Tyler’s men. Without a word, he bent down, picked up the medallion, and placed it in Tyler’s outstretched hand.
Tyler turned it over in his fingers, smirking. "Your family is being returned as we speak." He glanced at Marcus, amusement flickering in his eyes. "I must say, your child is quite the crying brat."
Marcus’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening against the hilt of his sword.
Tyler’s smirk deepened. "Tell Lorna that I look forward to seeing her again."
Marcus saw red.
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"Listening to you go on and on about how lucky you are to have them made me want to vomit all over your wife’s horrible cooking," Tyler sneered.
He paused, dramatically clutching his stomach before mimicking the gagging sound of sudden nausea. Then, with a flourish, he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief, as if wiping away imaginary bile.
"Well, Marcus," he continued, his voice dripping with mockery, "how lucky are you now? How does it feel to be forced to give up everything you earned—all because of them?"
Tyler twirled the handkerchief between his fingers before flicking it aside. His smirk widened, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
"Begone, you pathetic fool," he spat. "Take your weakness and your failure back home. Your family has been returned to you. Go—enjoy what your choices and your God have brought you."
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Those final words told Marcus everything he needed to know about the kind of man Tyler truly was. Every fiber of his being screamed for vengeance—to drive his blade through the man before him.
But he held back. Not yet.
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Grinding his teeth, Marcus turned sharply and ordered the carriage driver, "Take me home. Now."
Without another word, he climbed inside, slamming the door behind him. The carriage jolted forward, wheels rattling against the uneven road as it disappeared into the darkness.
A few moments later, another carriage emerged from the shadows. Tyler stood at its edge, gripping the iron support, watching Marcus’s retreat with a smug grin.
"I wouldn’t want to miss this family reunion," he mused, his voice dripping with malice. "I have a great deal riding on this."
With a flick of his hand, he signaled his driver. As he climbed inside, his carriage lurched forward, following in pursuit.
The game was far from over.
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After what felt like an eternity, the carriage finally lurched to a stop. But before the driver could rein in the horses, Marcus was already outside.
His foot slipped on something slick. Stumbling, he caught himself against the carriage before looking down.
His breath stopped.
Tanook lay motionless in a pool of blood, a gaping wound torn across his throat. The rich brown-and-black fur was soaked, the blood still warm.
"NO!" Marcus’s scream tore through the night, raw and filled with anguish. His heart pounded like a war drum. "Lorna! Conner!"
He bolted into the house, desperation driving him from room to room, throwing open doors, overturning furniture—nothing. No sign of them.
Then—
SLAM!
The front door crashed shut.
Marcus froze, every nerve in his body on edge. He turned slowly, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
A dull thud echoed from the living room.
Gripping his sword, he stalked toward the sound. The dim lantern light flickered against something that hadn’t been there before.
A shipping crate.
Large. Ominous. Sitting in the center of the room like a silent messenger of something he wasn’t ready to face.
A stone dropped in his stomach. His hands trembled. His mind fought between frantic prayers and hopeless disbelief.
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With shaking hands, Marcus grabbed his longsword and pried open the crate’s lid.
The scent of copper and decay flooded his nostrils, thick and suffocating. His mind screamed at him to stop—to turn away—but his hands moved on their own.
Inside, the remains of his family lay in a twisted slurry of blood and bone. Their bodies had been brutalized beyond recognition, flesh torn apart with deep, jagged bite marks, as if some rabid beast had savaged them. Bones jutted through shredded skin, tangled in entrails. This wasn’t a grave. It was a desecration.
A raw, gut-wrenching scream tore from Marcus’s throat—a sound ripped from the very depths of his soul. The pain was so intense, it felt as if his heart were being ripped from his chest. His knees buckled, sending him crashing to the ground.
His hands gripped the edge of the wooden crate, his fingers digging in, splinters piercing his skin. But he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. He clung to the crate as if holding on to it could somehow hold his family together—as if gripping the last remnants of their existence would stop them from slipping away.
Everything he had fought for, everything he had prayed for, had led to this.
And somewhere deep in the darkness of his soul, something cracked open.
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In his agony, Marcus didn’t hear the carriage wheels crunch against the gravel outside.
Didn’t hear the slow, deliberate footsteps approaching.
Only when a familiar voice sliced through the silence did he lift his head.
"I never said they were in one piece," Tyler mused, his voice laced with mockery. He bent down, picking up Marcus’s longsword and inspecting it as if it were some curious trinket. "Obviously, you can see that."
Marcus's breath hitched, his rage barely contained—but before he could move, hands clamped onto him from behind. Two of Tyler’s men seized him, wrenching his arms back before shoving him onto his knees. Their grip was ironclad, making any hope of escape impossible.
Tyler stepped closer, looming over him like a victorious predator.
"Amazing," he sneered. "I’ve had both Obsidian parents on their knees before me now."
Marcus’s fury surged through the suffocating pain. He barely felt his body anymore—just a boiling storm of hatred.
With the last of his strength, he spat in Tyler’s face.
Tyler flinched. A drop of crimson-streaked saliva slid down his cheek.
Marcus’s voice, hoarse yet unyielding, tore through the room.
"I will see you dead one day."
Tyler wiped his face with his sleeve, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk curled at the edges of his lips.
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"We’re so close now, Marcus!" Tyler jeered, his voice thick with sickening glee. "There’s that conviction of yours!"
For a moment, Tyler’s expression twisted with disgust. "For the past three years, I’ve been forced to listen to your constant blabbering about blessings, your worthless god’s sayings, and those scriptures you chant like a wailing whore of your almighty."
Tyler walked toward Marcus, his eyes burning with malice. He wiped the spit from his face with a casual swipe, as if it were nothing.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed the tip of the longsword into Marcus’s chest.
"No, Marcus," Tyler said, his voice softening with mock sympathy. "You’re the one who will be dying tonight."
Tyler’s smile widened. "Why don’t you serenade us with one of your meaningless hymns? Look how well it’s worked for you so far."
In the Church, it is said that even the most faithful have moments of weakness. A bond can crack under immense pressure. And the mind—like that bond—can break as well.
Marcus had always believed himself to be a man of faith, a man of reason. But faith had no place here. Reason had abandoned him.
In that moment, rage and agony collapsed into something darker. His thirst for revenge consumed him whole, devouring the last remnants of the man he once was.
A mighty faith had fallen.
The words left his lips freely, as if they had always been there, buried beneath his righteousness, waiting for this moment.
"Heaven has abandoned me." His voice was raw, trembling—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
"Dark Fathers, if you grant me revenge on this man, I will give up everything for it."
A hush fell over the room.
Tyler’s smirk widened, slow and satisfied. "How poetic."
Without hesitation, he drove the sword into Marcus’s chest.
Steel bit through flesh, splitting skin, muscle, and bone. Tyler walked the blade through his body with deliberate cruelty, savoring the act.
Marcus gasped—but the pain was distant. The world around him faded, the weight of his body pulling him down.
Then, just before the darkness claimed him, a voice whispered in his ear—soft, cold, absolute.
"As you wish."
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