A week after officially being inscribed as paladins, Mateo and Nai received their designation from the Church of Ezys: an espionage mission. The task was delicate, urgent—they would have three days to prepare before departing to a border village where a gang had been terrorizing the locals.

The first two days Nai’s home was filled with movement and tension. Salda, still weakened and with her hands bandaged, spared no effort. With her hoarse but steady voice, she handed them maps, taught camouflage and surveillance, and even wove small illusions to test their perception.

Mateo spent hours sharpening his dagger—every motion meticulous, as though the blade was part of him. Nai organized supplies, inspected light weapons, and studied maps of the village, trying to predict routes and possible hideouts. Both remained quiet, the weight of responsibility heavy in the air.

On the night before departure, Nai’s family held a farewell. Simple, but deeply meaningful. The house was decorated with subtle ornaments, soft music filled the air, mingling with the aroma of herbs, roasted meat, and sweet wine. Salda appeared again, against all medical warnings, smirking and toasting:
— “If I survived a two-headed wolf, I can handle a little wine.”

During the celebration, Nai’s father drew Mateo aside into the garden. Beneath the quivering stars, he admitted his fears, how Mateo’s blessing once terrified him. But now, seeing him bleed, fight, and laugh with Nai, he felt a new pride.
“We’re working on something with the king,” he confessed, eyes burning with hope. “When it’s ready, peace will come. You’ll be able to rest. To smile. To live without fear.”
Mateo said nothing, but a sincere, foolish smile grew upon his face. For the first time, he felt that he belonged.

The next day they departed for the village. The air was heavy, tense, filled with silent fear. Narrow streets were nearly empty, and eyes regarded them with distrust. The mission was clear: investigate a gang extorting merchants. Two villagers were already dead, and the corrupt militia would do nothing. Rumors hinted that even the guards were in on it—which was why the Church had sent its blessed warriors.

That first day, they met Gagtuva, an elderly innkeeper and victim of the gang. Despite exhaustion, he welcomed them warmly, offering shelter. The following day, they gathered fragments of information, enough to learn the gang’s leader was a man called Thivan. On their way back, they witnessed raw violence unfold as the gang tore through the village again.

Nai wanted to rush to protect Gagtuva, but Mateo held her back. He saw an opportunity to follow the thugs to their den. But disaster struck: before their eyes, a blade struck into Gagtuva’s skull. He collapsed lifeless.

— “Damn it, Thivan! We can’t just kill people like this. The elite will hunt us!” one of the men cried.
Thivan struck him down with a brutal slap.
— “Shut up. I do as I please. Unless you want your family dead, stay quiet.”

Rage boiled inside Mateo, bloodlust swelling like an unstoppable tide. Nai beside him felt equal parts sorrow and righteous fury. Their eyes met—an unspoken pact. They would not leave those monsters alive.

The henchmen scattered through secret shortcuts. Mateo tracked them to a fortified, desolate building. The stench of crime and corruption soaked the air. It hinted at more than extortion—trafficking, perhaps darker things.

Unable to face them alone, he returned to Nai. Together, they decided: that night, they would strike. Warnings were delivered to the villagers—stay inside, lock windows, protect your children. The night would be painted in blood and fire.

Darkness spread over the village like a suffocating shroud. Mateo and Nai stood outside her home, exchanging a silent, steady gaze. They were no longer children. They were paladins, chosen of Yanúr, and this was their trial.

Nai donned her short sword, adjusted belts of supplies, potions, and healing tools Salda had taught her. Her face was tense, equal parts fear and resolve. Mateo prepared in silence too, his dagger honed, his blood hot, barely keeping his hunger for slaughter tamed.

Before they left, Salda gave them a charm, forged with fragments of her fire’s blessing. Her voice was solemn:
— “This is no ordinary fight. Be swift. Be silent. No wasted battles. You are shadows—shadows that will extinguish their flame before it spreads.”

With a final nod, they plunged into the night.

The stench of the den was suffocating. Hatred and evil pulsed through the very walls. Mateo’s bloodlust peaked, clawing at his self-control. Nai’s movements were grace and discipline, her eyes scanning every shadow.

The fight was merciless. Mateo fell upon them with a violence raw and unrelenting, his dagger cutting with savage precision. Every blow was death. Nai fought with balance—blocking, striking, her blade tempered by sorrow and determination.

The slaughter dragged on until silence reigned. No survivor remained. The gang’s body lay in ruin. But Thivan was gone—no trace of him, just emptiness, and dread.

Exhausted, battered, and bloodstained, they returned. Mateo sent word to the Church: victory, but without the leaders.

The road home was heavy. Approaching Nai’s house, dread filled the air. The lights were out. The stench of blood lingered, sharp and suffocating.

They traded one last, grim look—then rushed forward, knowing what awaited them could change everything.