Lord William Mooton sat alone in his hall.
The fire in the hearth had burned low. Shadows stretched long across the stone walls. Somewhere in the distance, screams carried through the night, but here, within these thick walls, there was only silence.
His hands trembled as he reached for his goblet. Wine sloshed over the rim, staining the tablecloth deep red. His breath came short, uneven.
The harbor was burning.
His city was under attack.
And yet—his guards had said nothing. No alarms had rung. No battle cries had risen from the castle walls.
Something was wrong.
The doors groaned open.
A lone figure stepped inside.
Tanaka.
He did not rush. He did not speak. His movements were slow, deliberate. The dim torchlight caught the curve of his blade, still sheathed at his side.
Mooton swallowed.
"Do you know who I am?" His voice wavered.
Tanaka stopped a few paces away. Silent. Watching.
Mooton clenched his jaw, straightening in his seat.
"I have served kings. I have defended these lands against reavers, outlaws, and pretenders. I have ruled justly—"
His voice faltered as Tanaka took another step forward.
"There is still—"
The blade flashed.
One clean stroke.
Mooton's head rolled from his shoulders, his body slumping forward onto the table. The goblet tipped over, spilling wine across the wood, mingling with the blood that dripped steadily onto the stone floor.
Tanaka exhaled. Slowly, he slid his katana back into its sheath. The only sound that followed was the quiet click as the blade settled into place.
He knelt, gripping Mooton's severed head by the hair. The lifeless eyes stared up at him, mouth still parted in a half-spoken plea.
Tanaka turned and left the hall.
He walked without hurry, Mooton's head swinging lightly in his grasp. The castle had fallen. The Harbour burned. The night belonged to them.
Then, he saw it.
A young girl stood frozen in the torchlight. Her fine dress was dirtied, her golden hair tangled. Tears streaked her pale cheeks, but she made no sound.
A blade was buried deep in her chest.
The shinobi holding the weapon twisted it without expression. The girl shuddered, a weak gasp escaping her lips. Then, slowly, she sagged forward.
The shinobi let her fall.
He met Tanaka's gaze.
Cold. Empty.
Tanaka did not stop. Did not speak.
But as he walked past, a thought lingered.
The Kage could have granted them a painless death.
-----------------------------------------
Blood stained the stone.
Beyond these walls, the city was still awake—rushing to fight the fire at the harbor, believing it to be the night's only threat. They had no idea the real enemy was already inside.
Tanaka walked across the courtyard, Lord Mooton's head in hand. His steps were steady, unhurried.
Kartiga moved ahead, templars surrounding him like a wall. Their white surcoats bore no sigils, their movements disciplined, their eyes sweeping every corner.
Kai followed close behind.
Tanaka stepped forward.
The templars tensed as he approached, hands tightening on their weapons. He ignored them and knelt before Kartiga, extending the severed head of Lord Mooton.
Blood dripped onto the stone. The lord's face was frozen in shock, mouth still parted as if he had been pleading even in death.
The courtyard was silent.
Then, Kartiga spoke.
"Burn it down, Tanaka."
Tanaka gave a slow nod. Rising to his feet, he turned and walked toward the nearest fire. The lord's head would turn to ash before the night was over.
Behind him, Kartiga strode toward the castle doors.
"I will be in the throne room."
By dawn, Maidenpool was in chaos.
The gates were sealed.
The templars patrolled the streets.
The city burned—not with fire, but with fear.
-------------------------
Kartiga stepped into the throne room of House Mooton.
The iron-bound doors groaned shut behind him. For a moment, there was only the crackle of torchlight and the low, broken sobs of children.
He stopped.
The sound was faint—tucked into the corners of the hall, like ghosts clinging to the last warmth of their fallen house. He hadn't seen them yet. But he could hear them.
A templar moved ahead, blade raised. His presence shifted the air—drawing the attention of all who remained.
As Kartiga passed into view, the shinobi lining the walls bowed low.
It made the weeping worse.
To the captives, this man did not look like death. He wore no armor, bore no crown. Just a dark cloak, hood drawn low over a face that might have belonged to any traveler. And yet—he must be the one they need to fear most.
He reached up and pulled the hood back.
Torchlight caught his face. Pale. Expressionless. Eyes heavy with thought.
Blood darkened the flagstones beneath his feet. Bodies had been dragged aside—guards, old women, left in the margins like a butcher's refuse. Kartiga's gaze lingered there.
His men had done what was necessary.
But still—he wished they'd shown restraint.
He stepped forward, the throne looming ahead.
To the side, huddled beneath the long windows, the survivors of House Mooton watched him. A dozen children. Some clinging to one another. Others simply staring—too scared to speak.
Only one among them stood apart. Older. A girl. Perhaps on the cusp of womanhood. Her dress was dirtied, her eyes red-rimmed but steady.
Eleanor Mooton.
He met her gaze—and for a heartbeat, neither of them looked away.
Why the shinobi had spared them, he did not ask.
Even shadows had rules. Or whims. Gods, perhaps.
He turned.
The throne of House Mooton waited. Carved oak. High-backed. Padded in red velvet now stained dark near the edges. A symbol of legacy, of rule.
He lowered himself onto it without ceremony.
The hall quieted.
The templars stood like statues in white. The shinobi, unmoving in black.
And Kartiga, seated in the first of his conquered halls, looked down upon them all.
He did not smile.
He did not speak.
This was not victory.
This was conquest.
And it had only just begun.
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