The sound reached him first, a shift of sand, softer than the surf, but wrong. Not the tide, not the night wind. Something moving where nothing should. Cassian's head snapped up, the fog of drink clinging a half-second too long, but habit took over. His hand fell to the weapon at his belt even before his mind caught up. The blade rasped free just as the first shadow broke from the dunes. A hiss tore the air. He ducked by instinct alone, a throwing knife skimming past his ear to bury itself in the rock where he'd been sitting.
Three. At least three.
"Cowards," he growled, more to steady himself than to taunt. The word grounded him, pulled him back into the clarity of combat. Yet, even know, his senses were dulled....
The clash of blades rang too loud in his ears, each impact a reminder that he was slower than he should have been. The wine dulled his edge, turned the clean rhythm of training into something ragged. He staggered back a pace, boots sinking into wet sand as two of them pressed in, their strikes landing not with reckless fury but with practiced rhythm.
They were trained, soldiers or killers, not common thugs. One feinted high, forcing his guard, while the other cut low toward his legs. Cassian twisted too late as steel pierced his thigh, heat and blood began to flow. He gritted his teeth, hissed through the pain, and lashed out with his dagger, forcing them both to skip back before they carved him deeper.
Another blade arced in. He parried, but the force rattled through and blade pierced his shoulder, and before he could reset his guard, the second assassin drove a kick into his side. He hit the sand hard, the wind punched from his lungs. Shadows closed around him. He rolled just as a dagger buried itself where his neck had been, grains of sand exploding against his cheek. His hand found a rock, heavy and jagged. He hurled it into the face of the nearest shape, buying himself a moment's breath as the man staggered with a muffled curse. But the others didn't falter. They circled, closing the ring, blades catching slivers of moonlight.
Cassian forced himself to his knees, the surf soaking through his trousers, blood seeping into the tide. His dagger felt heavier than it ever had, his grip slick. He knew he was at the edge. One mistake, one stumble, and the sea would take him.
And yet, even drunk and wounded, some part of him refused to bow. He lifted the blade, shoulders squared, meeting the assassins' faceless masks with the same hard glare he had given his enemies. His breath came hard, chest tight. He could feel the pulse of the wound already weakening him, and the drink still clung to his blood like an anchor. He hadn't been this vulnerable in years.
The assassins closed in, their blades glinting in rhythm with the waves, a circle tightening like a noose. Cassian's lungs burned, his thigh throbbed, the tang of blood mixed with salt on his lips. He felt the drink dragging at him still, pulling him down, whispering that this was where it ended.
And then the sea roared.
A wave larger than the rest crashed against the shore, drenching him in a spray of cold saltwater. It jolted him, sobered him in a single, merciless instant. His breath cut sharp through his chest, and with it came clarity. One assassin lunged, thinking him weakened still. Cassian pivoted hard, pain screaming through his thigh, but he let it carry him into the man's guard. His dagger found flesh this time, burying deep under ribs. The masked figure gasped, staggered, and Cassian ripped the blade free before shoving him into the tide.
The words were not shouted, but they carried, fueled by the steel in his will. The kind of strength his father had once demanded, the kind Sibylla relied on, the kind that could not afford to falter here. The assassins hesitated, reading him anew. Cassian pressed the moment, lunging before they could reset. The first parried, but too slow as Cassian's shoulder slammed into him, hurling him into the second. They crashed together in the sand.
The two assassins struggled in the sand, limbs tangled, their blades caught awkward between them. Cassian did not hesitate. He dropped on them with the full weight of a soldier who had killed before and knew mercy was a luxury he could not afford. His dagger punched into the first throat. The man convulsed, body going slack beneath him. The second twisted free with a hoarse snarl, slashing wild. Steel caught Cassian's forearm, pain flaring white, but he bore into it, ignoring the cut.
He slammed the assassin's head into the sand once, twice, then drove his knee down to pin the chest. The masked figure fought like a cornered beast, spitting curses in a language Cassian didn't know. Cassian silenced him with a final thrust, the dagger burying under the jaw and up, cutting short the words forever.
Silence fell. Only the waves and Cassian's ragged breath remained. He pushed himself upright, staggering back a step. The beach was littered with bodies now, their black shapes crumpled like discarded carrion. The tide had already begun to reach for them, hungry fingers of foam curling around lifeless limbs.
Cassian's chest heaved, his muscles quivering from the exertion. Blood dripped from his forearm, gash in his thigh, strike against his shoulder, and at last he looked at one of their blades, pierced into his abdomen. His blood mingling with seawater until he couldn't tell where he ended and the tide began. The drink still lingered, but the adrenaline had burned most of it away, leaving only a raw clarity in its wake. His hand grasped for the blade at his abdomen, gripping it tightly.
He then looked down at what he had done......a bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and joyless. "Not tonight." Eyes heavy as he looked down again, with a firm tug, pulling the blade out. "Not tonight......"
Cassian Abrantes, looked up into the stars, for the first time in his life, pleading for help. Not verbally, but hopefully the stars would answer his prayers.
Three. At least three.
"Cowards," he growled, more to steady himself than to taunt. The word grounded him, pulled him back into the clarity of combat. Yet, even know, his senses were dulled....
The clash of blades rang too loud in his ears, each impact a reminder that he was slower than he should have been. The wine dulled his edge, turned the clean rhythm of training into something ragged. He staggered back a pace, boots sinking into wet sand as two of them pressed in, their strikes landing not with reckless fury but with practiced rhythm.
They were trained, soldiers or killers, not common thugs. One feinted high, forcing his guard, while the other cut low toward his legs. Cassian twisted too late as steel pierced his thigh, heat and blood began to flow. He gritted his teeth, hissed through the pain, and lashed out with his dagger, forcing them both to skip back before they carved him deeper.
Another blade arced in. He parried, but the force rattled through and blade pierced his shoulder, and before he could reset his guard, the second assassin drove a kick into his side. He hit the sand hard, the wind punched from his lungs. Shadows closed around him. He rolled just as a dagger buried itself where his neck had been, grains of sand exploding against his cheek. His hand found a rock, heavy and jagged. He hurled it into the face of the nearest shape, buying himself a moment's breath as the man staggered with a muffled curse. But the others didn't falter. They circled, closing the ring, blades catching slivers of moonlight.
Cassian forced himself to his knees, the surf soaking through his trousers, blood seeping into the tide. His dagger felt heavier than it ever had, his grip slick. He knew he was at the edge. One mistake, one stumble, and the sea would take him.
And yet, even drunk and wounded, some part of him refused to bow. He lifted the blade, shoulders squared, meeting the assassins' faceless masks with the same hard glare he had given his enemies. His breath came hard, chest tight. He could feel the pulse of the wound already weakening him, and the drink still clung to his blood like an anchor. He hadn't been this vulnerable in years.
The assassins closed in, their blades glinting in rhythm with the waves, a circle tightening like a noose. Cassian's lungs burned, his thigh throbbed, the tang of blood mixed with salt on his lips. He felt the drink dragging at him still, pulling him down, whispering that this was where it ended.
And then the sea roared.
A wave larger than the rest crashed against the shore, drenching him in a spray of cold saltwater. It jolted him, sobered him in a single, merciless instant. His breath cut sharp through his chest, and with it came clarity. One assassin lunged, thinking him weakened still. Cassian pivoted hard, pain screaming through his thigh, but he let it carry him into the man's guard. His dagger found flesh this time, burying deep under ribs. The masked figure gasped, staggered, and Cassian ripped the blade free before shoving him into the tide.
The words were not shouted, but they carried, fueled by the steel in his will. The kind of strength his father had once demanded, the kind Sibylla relied on, the kind that could not afford to falter here. The assassins hesitated, reading him anew. Cassian pressed the moment, lunging before they could reset. The first parried, but too slow as Cassian's shoulder slammed into him, hurling him into the second. They crashed together in the sand.
The two assassins struggled in the sand, limbs tangled, their blades caught awkward between them. Cassian did not hesitate. He dropped on them with the full weight of a soldier who had killed before and knew mercy was a luxury he could not afford. His dagger punched into the first throat. The man convulsed, body going slack beneath him. The second twisted free with a hoarse snarl, slashing wild. Steel caught Cassian's forearm, pain flaring white, but he bore into it, ignoring the cut.
He slammed the assassin's head into the sand once, twice, then drove his knee down to pin the chest. The masked figure fought like a cornered beast, spitting curses in a language Cassian didn't know. Cassian silenced him with a final thrust, the dagger burying under the jaw and up, cutting short the words forever.
Silence fell. Only the waves and Cassian's ragged breath remained. He pushed himself upright, staggering back a step. The beach was littered with bodies now, their black shapes crumpled like discarded carrion. The tide had already begun to reach for them, hungry fingers of foam curling around lifeless limbs.
Cassian's chest heaved, his muscles quivering from the exertion. Blood dripped from his forearm, gash in his thigh, strike against his shoulder, and at last he looked at one of their blades, pierced into his abdomen. His blood mingling with seawater until he couldn't tell where he ended and the tide began. The drink still lingered, but the adrenaline had burned most of it away, leaving only a raw clarity in its wake. His hand grasped for the blade at his abdomen, gripping it tightly.
He then looked down at what he had done......a bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and joyless. "Not tonight." Eyes heavy as he looked down again, with a firm tug, pulling the blade out. "Not tonight......"
Cassian Abrantes, looked up into the stars, for the first time in his life, pleading for help. Not verbally, but hopefully the stars would answer his prayers.
