Thren sighed. “You have been dead to me for seven years. Nothing has changed. Those loyal to my name, slay this man, and receive the highest honor I may bestow. I will call you son, and my heir, to replace he whom you slay.”

Haern let his cloaks fall forward, hiding his arms and blades. The twenty resumed their charge, a wave of dagger and muscle. The assassin spun, a whirling disarray of cloth, blade, arm, and foot. Those that neared, died. Still they came.

Haern ducked his arm underneath a thrust, rotated a hundred and eighty degrees, and then slammed his foot into his attacker’s neck. His foot looped around, connecting with the chin of another. Two thieves attempted to flank him, timing their strikes in near perfect precision. Near perfect, however, was still not enough to draw blood. Haern halted the spinning of his body and leapt straight up. Stabs struck his cloaks trailing beneath him. As he fell, he sliced open one thief’s neck. His foot kicked backward after landing, crushing the other’s windpipe. Gasping for air, the man staggered away. Haern descend upon him, his twin sabers ending his suffering.

Seven lay dead at Haern’s feet, but more remained ready to strike. The thieves swarmed, surrounding him in a ring of biting daggers. Haern resumed his cloak dance, for no other purpose than to buy time. A few seconds later, Harruq arrived, having finished with the thief above.

“Which one of you shot Aurry?” he roared, decking the closest thief before trampling over his body to reach the others. “Was it you?” he asked, lopping off a thief’s arm. “Or was it you?” Condemnation took another man’s dagger, Salvation, his throat. “Or were you the coward?” That particular thief offered no resistance, instead turning tail and fleeing. Harruq was the faster. He cut him down, picked up his body, and threw it at two more. Haern needed no better distraction. He pulled out of his cloak dance and lunged, batting away several daggers to slip his sabers in between ribs.