The Attack

John crouched low in the shadows, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his breathing slow, steady.

The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that settled into men’s bones before a fight, the kind that hummed like a string pulled too tight.

Beside him, Sir Aric Thren remained still, his face unreadable beneath his hood, but his grip firm on his blade.

Somewhere in the darkness, Cassian’s men were waiting. Thirty against a hundred. Terrible odds.

Cassian had been clear—when John was ready, three sharp whistles would start the attack.

John wet his lips, tasting the night air. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.

A steady, rhythmic thud-thud-thud, the synchronized pounding of a hundred boots striking the cobbled road. Like thunder rolling across stone.

John exhaled slowly, his golden eyes fixing on the road ahead.

It was time.

The marching grew louder, the steady rhythm of a hundred boots hammering the stone.

John remained still, his fingers loose on the hilt of his sword, his body coiled like a drawn bowstring. Sir Aric Thren was just as still, his breath steady, his gaze locked on the road ahead.

The Sentinels moved in perfect formation, their silvered armor catching the dim torchlight, a river of steel flowing through the **** point.

But John’s eyes weren’t on the soldiers. They were on the prize.

A large black carriage rumbled forward at the center of the convoy, nestled between layers of guards.

Its wheels groaned against the stone, the iron reinforcements glinting in the firelight.

It was larger than a standard supply wagon, reinforced with thick wood and steel plating, its doors sealed tight with sigils that pulsed faintly in the dark.

Whatever the Church was moving, whatever relic of Averína the Eternal lay inside, it was here.

John’s breath slowed. He waited. Watched.

The entire convoy funneled into the **** point, the narrow street forcing the soldiers into tight ranks, compressing them together.

The carriage reached the center. This was the moment. The only moment.

John lifted his fingers to his lips.

And whistled.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A heartbeat of silence followed.

The night exploded in a storm of steel, fire, and blood. The first attack came from above. A rain of arrows whistled through the air, striking exposed throats, gaps in armor, and unguarded flesh.

Men cried out, some collapsing instantly, others staggering as shafts jutted from their necks and chests, blood spilling over polished plate.

Before the Sentinels could process what was happening, the second wave hit. A thunderous CRASH as barrels of oil and fire were hurled from the rooftops, shattering against the cobbled streets.

Flames erupted, licking hungrily at armor and cloth, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh and scorched hair.

Screams split the night. Men writhed, rolling on the ground, their faces melting, their voices turning into wretched, gargled howls.

Then, Cassian's men surged forward from the shadows of the alleyways. Steel clashed against steel, blades slamming into armor, into ribs, into exposed bellies.

John leapt from his position, his blade flashing, his body a blur of motion and ****. He struck the nearest Sentinel hard, his sword sinking through the weak spot beneath the arm, the steel tearing through muscle and lung. The man gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, his fingers scrambling weakly at the blade buried in his side. John yanked it free, stepping past the dying body before it even hit the ground.

Another Sentinel turned, swinging his longsword. John ducked, stepped inside the arc, and drove his dagger up, straight through the man’s jaw. The blade punched through flesh and bone, the tip piercing the roof of his mouth and sinking into his brain—a wet, sickening crack. The Sentinel twitched violently, his body going limp before John even let him fall.

The battle swallowed him whole. It was a storm of bodies, weapons, and screams. He saw one of Cassian’s men—a wiry thief with twin daggers—stab a Sentinel in the thigh, only for another soldier to drive a sword through his back, the tip bursting from his chest. Blood splattered against the cobblestones, the dying man shuddering, **** on his own breath.

Another one of Cassian’s men—a hulking brute with a two-handed axe—swung wildly, hacking through a Sentinel’s shoulder, nearly cleaving him in two. The Sentinel crumpled, twitching, his body held together by nothing but shredded flesh and splintered bone.

John moved toward the carriage, but the Sentinels were forming ranks again, pushing back, their training taking hold.

The advantage was slipping. A Sentinel captain barked orders, raising his shield as a mercenary lunged at him. With a swift, brutal counter, he slammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s face, shattering his nose and sending teeth flying. The mercenary collapsed, screaming, blood pouring from his ruined mouth.

The Sentinels adapted fast. They were fighting back now, locking shields, forcing the attackers into a tighter, bloodier melee. The alleyway was becoming a charnel house.

Men slipped in blood, blades tore through guts, bodies crashed to the ground, twitching and broken.

John blocked a wild swing, countered, and drove his blade through the back of a kneeling man’s neck. Hot blood splashed onto his boots.

Beside him, Sir Aric fought like a cornered animal. He deflected a thrust, grabbed his attacker’s wrist, and drove his dagger through the visor of the man’s helmet, twisting it until the Sentinel went still.

The sound of carriage doors bursting open reached John’s ears. He saw a priest emerge, his golden robes slick with blood, his hands raised in a sign of power.

He was chanting. The air crackled. The temperature shifted. A shockwave of raw energy exploded outward.

Cassian’s men were thrown backward, some hitting the walls with bone-snapping ****, others crashing onto the ground, their limbs twisted unnaturally.

John was knocked back, rolling onto one knee, his ears ringing.

He looked up.

The priest’s eyes glowed, his voice still muttering dark syllables. A Sentinel stepped forward, his longsword raised, and the priest touched his shoulder. The Sentinel convulsed violently, his veins turning black, his body twitching, twisting. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his armor groaning as his flesh expanded, warped.

John watched as before his very eyes, the man became something else.

A grotesque, towering form, his armor splitting at the seams, his hands stretching into clawed talons. A Sentinel no longer. Something far worse.

John exhaled slowly. "Well, that’s new."

The thing that had once been a Sentinel took its first step. The ground cracked beneath its weight. The armor barely clung to its warped body, twisted by some unnatural ****, its torso stretched and swollen, its limbs elongated, too thin and too thick all at once. Its helmet had split open, revealing a grotesque mockery of a human face, the jaw dislocated, hanging loosely, rows of jagged teeth gnashing together in silent agony.

It was not just a beast. It was a man undone.

Its breathing came in jagged, inhuman gasps, its twisted eyes darting back and forth, as if caught between confusion and instinctive ****.

The thing lunged—not toward John or Cassian’s men, but toward the nearest Sentinel. The soldier barely had time to raise his sword before the creature’s elongated claws lashed out, tearing through his armor like wet parchment. A guttural, **** scream filled the air as the man’s torso was ripped open, his organs spilling onto the cobblestones.

The other Sentinels staggered back, horror dawning too late. The monster swung wildly, slamming a second soldier against a wall, the impact so violent his skull split against the stone.

A third Sentinel tried to run. The creature grabbed him from behind, lifting him into the air like a ragdoll. The man screamed, flailing, followed by a wet crunch. The monster’s hands crushed his ribs inward, his chest cavity collapsing in on itself like a broken cage. Blood gushed from the man’s mouth, and the creature tossed the body aside, uncaring.

The Sentinels panicked. Some tried to fight. Some tried to flee.

It didn’t matter.

The monster wasn’t choosing sides. It killed without thought, without reason, without hesitation, and in a matter of seconds, the battlefield that had once been men against men was something else entirely.

John watched the carnage unfold, unmoving. His pulse did not quicken. His grip did not tighten. There was no fear in him.

He stepped forward, blade in hand, rolling his shoulders.

Sir Aric swore under his breath. “John—”

But he was already moving. The creature noticed him immediately. Its twisted, agonized face snapped toward him, its unnaturally stretched lips curling into something between a snarl and a moan.

It lunged, too fast for something so large, claws swiping low and wide. John dodged left, barely avoiding the razor-sharp talons that carved deep gouges into the stone where he had just stood.

He countered, stepping inside its reach, slashing toward its exposed ribs. The blade bit deep, but the thing didn’t bleed like a man. Black ichor dripped sluggishly from the wound, thick and unnatural, but the monster didn’t even flinch.

Instead, it whipped around, swinging a massive, clawed arm toward his head. John ducked, rolling beneath the blow, coming up behind the creature. His dagger flashed, stabbing up into the base of its spine.

A normal man would have collapsed. This thing barely staggered. It twisted with impossible speed, its fist slamming into his ribs.

Pain exploded through him. He was sent flying, crashing hard against the cobblestones, his vision blurring for a moment.

He rolled to his feet, exhaling sharply, gripping his ribs. Nothing broken.

The monster charged again, howling.

John met it head-on. He feinted right, forcing it to swing wildly, then stepped left, driving his sword up into its exposed underarm. The blade buried deep.

This time, it reacted. It screeched, spasming violently, its arm twitching unnaturally. John ripped the blade free, spun, and slashed across its stomach. The black ichor spilled onto the ground, sizzling against the stone.

The creature stumbled back, its grotesque form quivering, its breath coming in shallow, rattling gasps. It was wounded now. Slower. Weaker.

John didn’t give it a chance to recover. He rushed forward, ducked another wild swing, and drove his blade straight into its throat.

The monster froze. It let out a sound that was half-growl, half-wail, as if realizing, too late, that it could die.

John twisted the blade hard. A wet, sickening crunch as its vertebrae snapped.

The monster collapsed. It hit the ground like a felled tree, twitching once, twice before staying still.

Silence. For a moment, no one moved.

Cassian let out a low, shaky breath. “Fucking hell.”

John exhaled sharply, wiping the black ichor from his blade. "Yeah," he muttered. "That was new."

The Sentinels who had survived the chaos stood frozen, their swords still slick with blood, their armor stained with ichor and ash.

The priest-mages had turned their own men into something unnatural.

It started with a single, furious cry, and then the slaughter began.

Steel clashed against steel, the disciplined formations of the Argent Sentinels dissolving into something far more primal—vengeance.

Priest-mages tried to summon fire, tried to chant their spells, but the Sentinels gave them no time. A blade slid across a priest’s throat, cutting his words short in a gurgling ****.

Another was tackled to the ground, his body trampled beneath armored boots, his robes soaked in the blood of the men he had betrayed.

John turned to Cassian. "Go," he ordered.

Cassian didn’t hesitate. His remaining men melted into the shadows, slipping away through side streets, blending into the dark like thieves who had never been there.

Sir Aric watched them go, then turned toward John. "The cart," he said.

John nodded. They walked toward the carriage, their boots crunching over shattered weapons, over corpses still warm.

The battle raged around them, but none of the remaining soldiers paid them any mind. They were too busy killing each other.

The cart was reinforced, its gilded details strange against the backdrop of so much ****. It was clearly the most valuable thing here.

He pressed a hand against the lock. It was intricate, reinforced with golden sigils, its markings etched in a language long forgotten.

John drew his dagger and drove it hard against the clasp. The lock shattered. John pulled the chest free, stepping back onto the bloodstained street.