Page 11 of Tethered In Blood

The forest was alive, breathing, and writhing, claiming me as one of its own.

Beyond the tangled branches, the firelight wavered, a dull ember against the darkness. I crouched low as the shadows wrapped around me. The camp sprawled ahead, basic but practical. Mismatched tents leaned against one another, their fabric stained from weather and battle. A thin coil of smoke curled toward the sky, carrying the acrid scent of charred wood and the pungent aroma of roasted meat. The embers crackled and spat sparks that died before they touched the damp ground.

Stolen provisions lay scattered—barrels pried open, grain sacks spilled across the dirt. Crude but effective weapons glinted in the firelight. A rusted sword rested against a tree, its edge nicked from overuse. At the heart of the camp, a larger tent stood, its canvas patched and fraying at the seams.

Rhys Carrow.

Their vigilance was laughable. Two sentries paced the perimeter with the awareness of men who had never faced death in the dark. Their movements were slow and predictable. One scuffed his boot absently against the dirt, the other rubbed the nape of his neck as if the weight of his helmet was too much effort to bear. Near the fire, another rebel sat slouched, his laughter too loud and careless, his guard forgotten in the warmth of drink and cheap entertainment.

The narrow paths between the tents were worn by use, slick with mud, and strewn with debris. A broken cart was propped against a tree with its remaining wheel half-sunken into the dirt. Moths flitted in languid spirals above the fire. Their wings caught the light before they vanished into darkness. A spider spun its web between two crates, its delicate strands glistening with trapped dew.

Even the insects thrived on the negligence of these men.

The details settled into my mind—every weakness, blind spot, and gap in their defenses. My fingers brushed the handle of my dagger. No alarms. No mistakes.

I became a specter, a shadow between flickering firelight and shifting darkness. My breath was steady, and my pulse was a measured drumbeat in the silence. The night welcomed me and wrapped me in its icy embrace. It rendered me a mere whisper of movement against the endless drone of insects.

The first watchman lingered nearby, his boots still scuffing against the dry dirt in a sluggish, thoughtless rhythm. He was a man accustomed to the illusion of safety. His weight shifted from one foot to the other, his spine slouched with boredom, and his hands rested on his belt. He was oblivious to the death poised mere inches from his elbow, to the way the shadows had deepened around him, swallowing the moment whole.

Fool.

My blade extended my will. It whispered through the air, a fleeting caress of steel against flesh. His skin parted like silk, the muscle split, and his windpipe’s wet, fragile cartilage collapsed beneath the edge.

His breath hitched in a soft, strangled choke before his mouth gaped open in wordless shock. His blood welled against his lips, bubbling. The light in his eyes flickered. Recognition. Realization. Fear. Then nothing.

I caught him before his body could betray him with a thud, lowering his weight into the undergrowth. The ground welcomed him greedily, drinking deep as his life drained into its hungry maw. His limbs jerked once, twice—as he held onto the last wisps of existence before they eluded his grasp.

The fire crackled, and laughter murmured from the camp. Unconcerned. Unaware.

I exhaled through my lips to steady the rush of iron and instinct that curled through my veins. I had no time for satisfaction. No time for hesitation.

The second watchman was sharper. His head twitched, and his shoulders stiffened with a hound’s nervous awareness, sensing the subtle change. He sniffed and turned, fingers brushing his sword’s pommel.

Too slow.

In a seamless glide of motion, I surged forward. My dagger’s hilt met his skull with a brutal crack and an impact that reverberated through my arm. Bone crunched, his breath hitched, and his mouth opened into a half-formed sound that never reached his throat.

His eyes were glazed, pupils wide with unfocused shock. He swayed as his body betrayed him, and consciousness slipped before he had the chance to fight for it. He crumpled in a lifeless husk of meat and bone, hitting the dirt with athud.

The firelight flickered, painting the world in amber and blood. The smell of smoke, roasting meat, and fresh death curled around me.

Two dead.

Each step held a calculated breath as I moved deeper into the camp. The laughter by the fire swelled, raucous and careless, their voices thick with ale and the fleeting illusion of safety. They remained oblivious. One of them gestured wildly with a half-eaten hunk of bread clutched in his greasy fingers. Crumbs tumbled to the dirt as he bellowed something crude, and his companions doubled over in drunken amusement.

Disgust roiled in my stomach.These were the men who sought to overthrow the kingdom? These undisciplined fools, these slovenly brutes who couldn’t even hold their posts with vigilance?They had no honor. No caution or understanding of what a veritable war required. They were children playing at rebellion, unaware of the blood that would drown them before they ever reached their throne of fantasies.

The air shifted when I neared the main tent. The fabric danced with false movement, but beyond the illusion, Carrow, and another man’s voices whispered plans over stolen maps. I stilled, waiting.The other man should leave soon.His tone became weary, and his words faded into dismissal. A moment later, footsteps scuffed the dirt, growing more distant.

Carrow was alone.

The tent flap remained silent as I slipped inside, my movements honed to instinct. The interior featured sparse yet practical furnishings. A heavy wooden table dominated the space, its surface cluttered with maps, ink-stained parchments, and the remnants of a half-melted candle. A battered chest sagged in the corner, partially hidden beneath a moth-eaten blanket.

Rhys Carrow stood hunched over the table, his fingers tracing a path along the map. He looked younger than I expected, just a few years past boyhood. He wore his dark hair in a loose knot, allowing stray strands to fall around his face. His clothes were a mix of leather and rough-spun cloth—practical and worn—not the silks and embellishments of a noble-born rebel. He was a warrior, not a schemer.

He didn’t hear me until the callous press of my blade kissed the bare skin of his throat. “Don’t move.” My voice was a low growl edged with finality.

He stiffened. His fingers hovered above the map, and his breath hitched before he concealed it. His pulse quickened beneath the steel, like a rabbit caught in a snare, weighing whether to fight or surrender. His lips curled into a sneer. “So, the prince sent his lapdog.” His words dripped with derision, resentment lay beneath—not just for me, but for the reality of his weakness.

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