An Assassin's Path to Revenge

"Yes, I'm talking about the Altumbria."

Greyback's annoying grin faded—peeling off like paint in slow motion— to be replaced by a grim face.

Though, maddeningly, the ghost of an amused smile still lingered, as though he couldn't help it.

Whatever was funny about the current situation, Baldy couldn't tell.

Greyback was a difficult, mysterious person. Right from childhood.

"You should know by now that it's after someone," he said pointedly.

His eyes swept the scene again and again, surveying something Baldy couldn't quite fathom.

"It's not me…" he added, seeing someone about to whine in protest.

His glare alone would be enough to force words back into any speaker's throat.

"I mean, it would've been me, but it isn't," he rephrased, his hands gesturing vaguely, as though conducting an invisible orchestra.

"So… Do you know who it's after?" Baldy cast a side glance in that direction, warning them to keep calm.

They all knew what Greyback was capable of.

He lowered his hands from his daggers—though his fists stayed clenched like coiled snakes.

On the surface, he and Greyback had been rivals since time immemorial—or at least since the incident six years ago.

Then came the incident a year ago, and their animosity had graduated to full‑blown killing intent.

A year ago…

Baldy's hands twitched uncontrollably. His rage lay barely beneath the surface.

Frothing. Bubbling. Boiling with deadly raw fury.

Even now, he wanted to rip Greyback apart.

'Wanted' was a funny word in this context, —he knew he couldn't even match up to his speed.

Not with what Greyback was. Not with what he had become.

Greyback was a monster. Everyone here knew that.

But hey, there's strength in numbers, right? …Right?

As a national fugitive, Greyback should've been easy prey. But in light of recent happenings, nobody in their right mind would try.

Baldy shook his head slowly, as though trying to empty a bucket full of clashing thoughts.

But that didn't happen. Instead, those thoughts sloshed about in that large bucket, agitating more and more.

His role as town head wasn't the only reason he wanted Greyback dead.

It wasn't even the main reason.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself, jaw tightening. "You're a man now. Focus."

"Yes," Greyback finally said, exhaling like someone bracing to drop a bombshell.

Or a bomb.

Greyback could do that without batting an eye.

He had long lost all kind of human compassion.

"And before you ask, I'm not letting you run Reuben through. He's got to live."

"You were listening?!" a man barked, his face contorting into a baffling mix of fury and confusion.

Greyback arched an eyebrow.

"Interesting…" he laughed for a short while, before his eyes turned cold again. "Didn't know you could wear two expressions at once."

But the matter at hand was too urgent to laugh.

It looked like he was the only one who truly understood the danger they were in.

The whole lot of them. Both the ones here and the villagers.

"It's after someone with more power than we can imagine… someone who could be our blessing… or our doom."

"Someone?" Baldy's voice dropped, cautious. "Where's he?"

Greyback lifted one slender finger, slow as a priest blessing a congregation.

Everyone held their breath.

Greyback swiped his arm through the air like a blade, his finger pointing at—

"The river? The river is a person?" a man blurted out, blinking like an idiot in a dust storm.

Greyback's hand dropped, and his face did that thing where disbelief and contempt shook hands.

How did Baldy survive running a town with these people?

"The boy's in the river, fool," Greyback spat, throwing Baldy a side‑glance.

Baldy clapped a hand over his own face, shoulders trembling to stifle a laugh.

Two sworn enemies sharing a joke, if only for a heartbeat.

'Ah… the miracles of shared idiocy.'

Someone sensible had already bolted for the river. Moments later, they hauled out a boy—limp and motionless.

Almost dead.

His clothes were charred black, not quite burnt but stinking of acid, smoke, and something indescribably foul.

"Well," Greyback muttered dryly, "guess the river doesn't do any laundry."

A few moments later, they laid the boy at Baldy's feet.

Long black hair spilled like silk, spread out over his back and side.

Long bedraggled robes hinting at secrets and royalty.

Piercings glittered—ears, nose, lips—like he'd mugged a jewelry shop.

His skin was pale, soft… almost doll‑like.

A boy. Yet somehow, unsettlingly beautiful.

Before anyone could speak, hooves thundered from far away.

Baldy snapped his head to the forest path, seeing the rising cloud of dust from afar.

"That's—" Baldy's eyes widened a bit.

Greyback didn't turn. He didn't have to.

"Did you tell them?"

"No," Baldy muttered. "Rumors. They sure spread faster than fleas on a dog. But who—"

"Someone probably deserted from here." Greyback rolled his eyes: they were now visible just beneath the brim of his heart.

"A town full of idle gossip—what else do you expect?"

"Shut up," Baldy snapped.

They now spoke like old friends. Like those things never happened.

Five horses burst into view, the ever present cloud of dust behind them, riders clad in mismatched armor—if you could call it that.

Chainmail skirts, jagged iron plates on limbs, and broad chest plates that had clearly seen better centuries.

A typical royal family's sorry excuse for military attire.

Baldy and Greyback stood shoulder to shoulder, braced for confrontation.

But it never came.

The horses slowed, and the front man leapt off his steed.

"The princess was hunting in the forest, when we saw a fleeing man…he said something about a monster…"

Greyback and Baldy exchanged a brief glance, passing a shred of mutual understanding, before Baldy nodded grimly.

"It's an Altumbria," he said, his shoulders already slumping when he saw the soldier's faces wrinkle in disbelief.

They conversed among themselves for a moment, before reaching a decision.

"We will send someone back to warn them, while we stay here, and look for the—ahem—Altumbria…Everyone good with that?"

The men didn't reply, not even a consensual murmur of assent.

The soldier just turned back to his comrades, like he had expected this.

Evidently, relations between the local royalties and the townspeople were very sour.

Soon, a man, evidently the chosen messenger, turned and rode back into the forest.

Meanwhile, Greyback had been studying their captive… or should he say—his prize.

He never knew it would be so easy to beguile the men into helping him do a bit of dirty work.

Even Baldy, although still being a little suspicious, couldn't really object. Not at a time like this.

His plan was going incredibly well.

His gaze softened, just for a fleeting moment—lingering on the unconscious boy.

Then he heard it.

As soon as he did, he knew everything was about to get…

Perfect.

In fact, things were going a little too well.

A low, guttural snarl from the shadows of a massive oak.

No one else flinched. No one else could sense it.

But Greyback's senses were honed far beyond theirs.

He spun, sweeping his right arm wide. Fire crackled into existence, forming a blazing circle.

The moment it solidified, a massive claw slammed into it.

The fiery barrier shattered like glass.

Greyback was flung back, rolling, scrambling to his feet with one silent command etched on his face:

Run.

Baldy didn't hesitate. He snatched the boy, vaulted onto a horse, and yanked the reins from its stunned rider.

The rider didn't argue. He just nodded grimly and braced for chaos.

Baldy risked one last look as the others galloped off, hooves pounding.

The creature emerged—horrific, majestic.

A nightmare woven from scales and living fire, horns that could skewer three men at once, paws tipped with claws like polished blades…

And those eyes…

Two slit-shaped, blazing eyes that pinned him in place.

An Altumbria.

The kind of monster you prayed you'd never see twice.

"Don't die, Greyback," Baldy whispered.

He spurred the horse, wind tearing at his face. He glanced down at the boy cradled against him.

Who was this boy, that Greyback—selfish, conceited, untouchable Greyback—would stand against death itself?

"Just who in the world are you?"

The boy's eyes snapped open—green, empty, unsettling.

Baldy didn't flinch. He held the stare, waiting.

The boy's lips moved, cracked but clear.

"My name is Ethan."