The man was dead.
And this time, not even Marenna’s magic could do anything about it.

They stood frozen for a moment that felt like forever—
as if time itself had stopped inside that herb-filled cottage.

Then Tharion frowned.
He inhaled deeply.
Once. Twice.

— “There’s a smell. Blood and death. Someone’s still here.”

Garlan and Marenna froze again.

Tharion turned on his hooves and trotted out of the house, muzzle raised.

And that’s when the blades flashed in the light.

They flew toward him—fast, silent.
Two slender daggers, oiled and poisoned.

Tharion leapt sideways, ripped the barrel off his left flank, and spun it in front of him.
The blades thudded into it with a dull clink.

He barely grunted.
Pivoted, hooves sliding on damp leaves.

A beat.
Nothing.

He sniffed the air.
Bark. Resin. Leather.

But beneath that… something fainter.
Familiar.

The kind of scent only old warriors still feel in their gut.

He crouched halfway down.
A bootprint. Light. Almost taunting.
A step left behind on purpose. Meant to be seen.

He clenched his jaw.

— “I know that walk,” he growled.

He followed a mossy embankment.
A branch snapped to his left—he spun, axe in hand.

Nothing. Just an owl taking off, wings flapping like a drunk waking from a nap.

He straightened slowly, muscles tense.

And there—
in the space between two trees, as if the shadows had bent to make room—

Someone was waiting.

— “An assassin,” Tharion muttered. “Still here.”

He turned toward the house, voice firm:

— “You two, stay inside!”

— “What? With the corpse?!” Garlan blurted, pale.

— “Would you rather be with the killer?!”

No one argued after that.

Garlan shut the door with an awkward gesture, then turned slowly back inside.

The body, of course, was still there.

Marenna stood frozen in full I’m-not-here pose—
which, considering she was in the middle of her own room, was wildly ineffective.

— “Okay,” Garlan said, voice unsteady.

He gestured vaguely at the corpse.
— “Do we… move it?”

— “And put it where? Under the bed?”

— “No, like… in a corner. So it’s not staring at us.”

Marenna raised an eyebrow.
— “He’s dead, Garlan. He’s not staring at anything.”

— “Yeah well… someone should tell his eyes that.”

Awkward silence.

Garlan grabbed a cushion and gently tossed it over the man's face.

— “There. That’s better.”

He paused, then offered,
— “I could incinerate him? Just a small spell. Subtle.”

Marenna shot him a deadly glare.
— “Garlan. We do not burn corpses in my house.”

— “Just a thought, okay? For the ambiance.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, then added with a crooked smile:

— “I mean… with all your herbs, it’d probably cover the smell, right?”

— “Still no, Garlan.”

Marenna folded her arms, sighed deeply, then rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

Great. I finally get a moment alone with him… and he’s not out of mana.

She grimaced internally.

Nope. Of course there had to be a dead guy. Naturally.

Meanwhile, Tharion moved with silent precision, tracking his attacker.

He stepped slowly, hooves muffled by tall grass, ears alert, nostrils twitching.
His pupils scanned every inch of his surroundings, but nothing moved.

He could feel it.
A presence.
A tension in the air—barely perceptible.
Like a hole in reality. A bubble of emptiness.

Every tree was too quiet.
Every breeze too soft.
He slowly turned on the spot, breathing deep and slow.

— “You’re here,” he murmured. “I can’t see you… but I know you’re watching.”

No reply. Not a sound.

Tharion stepped back, rolled his shoulders, arms tensed.
An old reflex.
The stance of someone ready to absorb… or to strike.

— “Come on then, bastard. Let’s dance again.”

Good thing the kid soaked me awake, Tharion thought, jaw clenched.
Otherwise those first two blades would’ve been the end of me.

A figure slowly emerged from the shadows, just a few meters ahead.

A man.
Bare-headed.
Dressed in black.
His face weathered with age—
but familiar.

Tharion froze.
His throat tightened.

— “What… what are you doing here?” he breathed.
— “You’re dead. I saw you die. I felt your life leave your body.”

A flash.
Too vivid.

Another time. Another night.
Flames. Screams. Bodies.

And Carea.
Carea at his side, gasping, dagger in hand.

Tharion—on his knees. Bleeding. About to fall.

A strike flying toward him.
No time to react.

But Carea had seen it.
Carea had jumped.

A scream. Blood.

And that phrase:

— “You don’t get to die before me, old hoofbag…”

The vision faded as quickly as it came.

Tharion blinked.
His hands were clammy.

And yet…

Carea stood there.
Alive.
Silent.

Unbelievable.