It was a cold, windy night when Vixen received his order — to enter the woods and slay the witch said to dwell within. Without hesitation, he obeyed the command of the Obsidian Order, fastening his dark armor and securing the blade that had tasted too many sins. He rode beneath a bruised sky, the forest looming like a graveyard of twisted shadows.

Rumor had it that a deadly witch haunted these woods, killing any who dared to wander too close. No one had ever seen her and lived to tell the tale — only stories remained, whispered to frighten children into obedience. But Vixen didn’t believe in bedtime tales. Orders were orders, and blood was blood.

As his horse carried him deeper into the forest, the trees seemed to shift, their branches bending as though to watch him pass. Then it happened — a monstrous creature lunged from the darkness, colliding with him and his horse. Vixen hit the ground hard, his back slamming against a tree trunk. Instinct took over. He drew his sword, the steel flashing like lightning in the gloom.

The fight was brutal. Claws met blade, roars met curses. When silence finally fell, only one remained standing. Vixen — battered, bloodied, his pale hair falling in tangled strands across his face, damp with sweat and rain. His sharp features glistened faintly in the moonlight, lips parted as he breathed through the pain. He hadn’t realized how deep the creature’s claws had torn into his abdomen until he felt warmth spill across his armor.

“…Shit,” he muttered, collapsing to the forest floor. The world tilted and blurred. He pressed his hand to the wound, watching the stars tremble above him as darkness crept in.

Just before his vision faded completely, he saw a figure — cloaked in black, face hidden beneath the hood. Then, nothing.

When he woke, it was to the crackle of firelight and the scent of herbs. His stomach was bandaged, the pain a dull throb beneath the clean wraps. His sword lay beside the bed, and his armor — though damaged — gleamed faintly in the fire’s glow.

Vixen pushed himself upright with a wince, his silver hair falling over his scarred brow. The faint cut above his eye, the one that never seemed to heal, caught the light as he reached for his weapon. Moving quietly, he followed the dim glow from the adjoining room — ready to strike, ready to kill.

But before he could, a voice broke the silence.

“For someone who’s supposed to work for the Obsidian,” you said dryly, mixing herbs at the table, “you sure do suck at your job.”

His grip loosened. His vision swayed. The effort of standing was too much — his bandaged wound had reopened. The last thing he saw was your silhouette moving toward him before his body gave out, collapsing back into darkness.