The ridge overlooked the Easterling camp like the prow of a great ship suspended in the sea of night. Tents sprawled haphazardly, their canvas sides glowing faintly from the fires within, while the shadows of men moved between them, dark shapes against the amber light. The faint clink of metal on metal carried through the crisp air, accompanied by the soft crackle of distant flames. Overhead, the stars were sharp pinpricks in a sky so clear that it felt as if it could shatter under the weight of silence.

Captain Hadron’s voice was calm yet firm, allowing no protest. “The officers’ deaths will hinder their advance. The horses will slow them down. Fail, and Osgiliath may fall.” Hadron had ruthlessly chosen his men. Ungoránë didn’t flinch or protest when called. He crouched at the ridge, staring down at the camp with an expression as distant as the stars. Moonlight edged his sharp, pale face, but his gray eyes were shadowy pools.

“As good as done,” Ungoránë said finally, the words sheared through the tension, sharp and unrelenting. His tone carried no trace of fear, no hesitation—just a quiet certainty, as though he had already made peace with the risk.

Thordur wasn’t so composed. He straightened abruptly, his shoulders taut, and his hand twitched toward his quiver before stopping halfway. His mouth opened; a protest formed on his lips, but the weight of the captain’s gaze silenced him. He let out a quiet breath instead, shaking his head in frustration.

“Madness,” he muttered under his breath; the word was more for himself than for anyone else. His voice was low, but the bitterness in it was unmistakable. “The whole thing.”

Hadron didn’t acknowledge him. His focus remained on Ungoránë, the unspoken understanding passing between them like the snap of a bowstring. Finally, he nodded, his voice dropping to a quieter, sharper tone. “Keep it quiet. No chainmail, no shine. Dark cloaks. In and out, no trail. We’ll wait here until you return.”

Thordur gritted his teeth but nodded, his fingers brushing the fletching of his arrows in a habitual gesture that was more nervous than deliberate. The leather straps of his quiver creaked softly as he adjusted them, the only sound in the charged stillness. He turned toward Ungoránë, his eyes narrowing as he studied the other man.

To Thordur, something was unnerving about Ungoránë’s calm. It wasn’t the steady confidence of an experienced soldier nor the numbness of fear tamped down too tightly. No, it was something else entirely—something darker. Ungoránë moved like a man who had already accepted the worst outcome, who carried it with him like a shadow—the kind of calmness that wasn’t born of courage but of resignation.

Madness, Thordur thought again, this time letting the word settle, heavy and cold in his mind. Ungoránë had just been transferred to their squad, yet his composure in the face of danger was unsettling. He couldn’t decide whether Ungoránë’s composure made him braver or simply forsaken. Perhaps it was both.

The two men exchanged no words as they stood, shrugging off their chainmail and rolling it quietly into the packs they left behind. The metallic weight was gone, leaving them lighter but more vulnerable. The dark cloaks they pulled on draped over them like shadows given form, blending them into the night as they moved toward the ridge’s edge. In the moonlight, Ungoránë’s gray eyes were devoid of reflection, as if they absorbed the light rather than reflected it. Thordur looked away quickly, disturbed by what he saw—or perhaps by what he didn’t.

A gust of wind stirred the campfires below, sending sparks into the dark. To Thordur, it looked like a warning—one they would both ignore. The two descended into the darkness, leaving behind the ridge, the captain, and the rest of the squad to wait in the heavy silence of the cold night air.

Stripped of their armor, Ungoránë and Thordur moved through the underbrush with the practiced silence of men who had too often crept where death lingered close.
The night was thick around them, the cool air carrying the faint crackle of the enemy’s fires and the occasional burst of laughter or muttered conversation.
Their cloaks clung to the dark like second shadows; the underbrush whispered and cracked beneath their boots, the sound quickly swallowed by the oppressive hush of the forest.

A distant owl called, its cry slicing through the night. The forest seemed alive with whispers, then fell silent again. Thordur’s gut twisted. It was a silence that didn’t feel empty; it felt like it was waiting.

Thordur’s gaze flicked toward Ungoránë as they moved closer to the ridge’s edge; his expression was masked, but his thoughts brimmed with doubt. Something was disquieting about the other man—how he moved as though danger didn’t quite touch him as if he had made peace with whatever might come. Ungoránë’s focus never wavered; his eyes were fixed on the flickering glow of the camp below, each movement precise and deliberate. Yet, to Thordur, that calm felt wrong, almost reckless, as though he had stepped into this mission not out of duty but for something far darker.

The clink of chainmail echoed through the camp as guards moved in the firelight, accompanied by the aroma of spiced stew in the cool night air. Above, banners rippled in the breeze, their sigils illuminated by flickering flames like sentinels over the uneasy sprawl. Ungoránë stopped, his dark hair brushing against the cowl of his cloak as he surveyed the camp below, crouched at the camp’s edge, utterly still, his focus unshaken. His fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his shortsword, not gripping but ready, his posture loose and composed. It was a tranquility Thordur couldn’t trust, a composure that spoke of a man who had already seen the worst—and made peace with meeting it again. Thordur crouched beside him, his gaze scanning the scene with more tension than he cared to admit. Guards moved in lazy patterns around the fires, their movements growing looser with the lateness of the hour. The horses shifted restlessly in their pen, the occasional clatter of hooves blending with the low murmur of voices.

Ungoránë broke the silence first, his voice a whisper but steady, like the words had already been decided long before. “I’ll handle the officers. You take the horses. We’ll meet back at the ridge.”

The simplicity of the plan belied its dangers, but Ungoránë’s tone left no room for argument. Thordur felt his jaw tighten. “Try not to get yourself killed, eh? I’m not dragging your dead body back.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—passed across Ungoránë’s face, though it never reached his eyes. He didn’t answer. Instead, he rose in a smooth, silent motion, his cloak settling around him like the night itself. Within moments, he was gone, disappearing into the dark with an unnatural grace.

Thordur let out a quiet breath, forcing himself to focus on his task. That man had something broken in him, he thought grimly, his eyes flicking toward the restless shapes of the horses. And if I’m not careful, it will shatter me too. Thordur’s jaw tightened as he watched Ungoránë vanish into the dark. That man was a puzzle he couldn’t solve—a soldier who fought as if he didn’t care whether he lived or died. And yet, wasn’t that the kind of man this war needed? The thought chilled him more than the night air.

The camp’s stillness wrapped around Ungoránë like an additional layer. He navigated the darkness as if it were his natural habitat, each step purposeful, his breath unwavering despite the tension tightening in his chest. The air carried the combined scents of burning firewood, sweat, and a sour odor—likely remnants of poorly stored provisions. Each inhalation held a subtle metallic taste as if the ground itself breathed decay. Ahead, the central tent stood like a looming shadow, towering over the others, its boundaries dimly illuminated by flickering firelight. Two spears guarded its entrance, their polished tips shimmering softly—a quiet warning to anyone daring to enter uninvited.

Crude banners hung limp in the still air, their crimson sigils of a jagged sun half-obscured by ash and soot. Around the central tent, small altars held offerings—shards of obsidian, charred bones, and bowls of blackened earth.

Ungoránë paused at the tent’s edge, his fingers brushing the short sword’s hilt at his side; the low murmur of voices filtered through the heavy canvas, the tone of men lost in strategy. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath. His pulse was steady now, and each beat measured like a countdown to an inevitable end.

He slipped to the side of the tent, crouching low. The soft earth beneath him muffled his footsteps, but his ears were attuned to every rustle, creak of leather, and clink of metal in the distance. He drew a throwing knife from his belt, testing its balance in his palm. The blade felt cold and reassuring, as if it were an extension of him.

They won’t hear it coming, he thought. The realization was as cold as the steel in his hand.

With the knife in one hand, he drew the edge of the blade across the canvas, slicing a small, clean slit. The faint glow of a lantern spilled out, and Ungoránë pressed his eye to the opening.

Inside, two men sat hunched over a low table. The older officer’s face was a study in stone, his gray hair cropped close, and his armor polished yet plain. His younger counterpart leaned forward, gesturing animatedly at a map between them. His features were sharp, and his armor was more ornate—a man who likely believed his position made him untouchable.

Ungoránë’s gaze flicked over their helmets resting on the table, then back to their weapons—a sword leaning against the table leg and a dagger on the younger man’s belt. Neither was within easy reach. Ungoránë’s lips pressed into a thin line. Good. That gives me the edge.

The older officer grunted something, leaning back slightly, his hand reaching for the mug at his side. The younger man’s voice rose, excitement tinging his words. Ungoránë didn’t understand their language, but their postures spoke volumes. The younger officer pitched a plan, his arrogance evident even in the tilt of his head.

It was the opening Ungoránë needed.

The knife left Ungoránë’s hand with the calm precision of a craftsman laying a chisel to wood. It spun once, a brief glint of inevitability, before finding its mark in the soft hollow of the younger officer’s throat. There was a moment—brief as a held breath—when the world seemed to pause. Then the man jerked, his eyes wide and wild, and his hands clawed uselessly at the hilt as though he could pull back what had already been claimed. Blood welled dark and heavy, spilling over his collar, soaking his tunic, and dripping onto the map splayed beneath him. It spread like a spilled secret, staining everything it touched.

He gurgled, the sound wet and desperate, his life fleeing in uneven bursts as it frothed at his lips. His knees buckled, and he fell forward, the table shuddering under his weight. The map crumpled beneath him, the ink from his blood soaking through its careful lines and borders.

The older officer moved in an instant, a shout of fury tearing from his throat. His chair clattered backward, its legs tangled in the edge of the rug, but his movements were sure and practiced. His hand found his sword with the ease of long familiarity; the blade rasped free in a single motion, its edge flashing like a promise.

Ungoránë stepped into the dim light, his expression unreadable, his movements fluid as a shadow slipping through cracks in stone. The officer’s blade cut through the air, a wide, brutal arc aimed at cleaving Ungoránë where he stood. He did not flinch. Instead, he moved—low and quick, the swing slicing through the space he’d just abandoned, the blade hissing its frustration past the nape of his neck.

He surged forward, his short sword rising in a motion so deliberate it felt inevitable. The strike was not wild or dramatic, but measured, finding the vulnerable gap beneath the officer’s ribs. The blade bit deep, sliding through padded layers and into flesh. The officer’s breath hitched, a sharp intake that was more shock than pain. His free hand grabbed Ungoránë’s arm, the grip iron-strong for an instant before faltering, strength spilling away with the blood pooling at their feet.

Ungoránë’s gaze didn’t waver. His face betrayed nothing as he twisted the blade with cold precision. The sound that followed was thick and wet, a grotesque harmony of torn sinew and steel scraping against bone. The officer’s knees buckled, his sword clattering to the floor, and Ungoránë pressed forward, controlling the collapse as if guiding the fall of a felled tree. He lowered the man to the ground, his motions devoid of ceremony or hesitation.

The officer’s breaths grew shallow, each one a rasping whisper. His eyes fluttered, unfocused; his lips formed soundless words. Then, like a candle extinguished by a sudden wind, he stilled. Ungoránë lingered only long enough to yank his blade free. The motion was practiced; the blood slicking the steel was no more significant than rain on stone. He wiped it clean on the officer’s cloak, his hands moving with mechanical efficiency, and his eyes were already scanning the tent.

The younger officer lay motionless where he’d fallen, blood pooling around him in still, quiet testimony. The knife jutted from his throat, its hilt glinting faintly in the low light. Ungoránë spared it a glance before turning his attention outward, his ears straining against the silence for any hint of voices or hurried footsteps.

But there was nothing. Only the soft drip of blood and the faint, steady creak of the canvas in the wind.

For a moment, he stood there, his breaths shallow but steady, the rhythm of exertion betrayed only by the faint tremor in his chest. The world had narrowed to this—a single purpose, sharp and focused. He was no more than a tool in this moment; tools did not dwell, think, or feel; they acted.

Satisfied by the silence, Ungoránë slid his sword back into its sheath, the motion quiet and sure, as natural as a sigh. Without a backward glance at the bloodied map or the crumpled bodies, he slipped into the night, the shadows swallowing him whole.

Small altars of dark stone scattered around the central tent held offerings—bowls of ash, shards of obsidian, and the skeletal remains of birds arranged in precise patterns. The faint scent of incense clung to the air, acrid and unsettling.

Ungoránë rose, retrieving the throwing knife with a sharp tug. The blade came free with a sickening wet noise, and he wiped it clean with the same methodical efficiency. His eyes lingered on the blood pooling beneath the map. For a moment, he saw another battlefield, another death—one he couldn’t prevent. He blinked, and the memory was gone, swallowed by the numb reality of the present.

The entire encounter was over in less than a minute.

One minute to unmake their plans, he thought, glancing at the blood-soaked map—one minute to turn their order into chaos.

He slipped out of the tent stealthily; the darkness swallowed him once more. Behind him, the lantern’s glow flickered over the two lifeless figures, casting long, jagged shadows that stretched like fingers reaching for a war they would no longer fight.

Thordur moved through the night with far less ease than Ungoránë. His steps felt loud despite his effort to keep them quiet, and every faint ripple of motion was amplified in the silence. The horses were already restless, their hooves shifting against the hard-packed earth, with the occasional snort or heavy exhale breaking the quiet. The enclosure loomed ahead, its wooden rails silhouetted faintly against the pale moonlight.

A grizzled warrior crouched by the fire, his fingers methodically braiding a length of horsehair into a cord. Lines and scars marked his face; his gaze drifted distantly as if he had endured too many nights like this one.

His heart pounded as he crouched near the pen, and his grip tightened on the knife. The ropes securing the enclosure were thick and coarse, fraying in some places from wear. Thordur set to work, sawing carefully to avoid the telltale snap that could give him away.

The ropes were frayed and stiff, their fibers catching against Thordur’s fingers as he worked. The odor of the day gone by, combined with horse manure, hung heavy in the air. Every snap of a rope strand cracked like thunder in the quiet night.

Calm. Just keep calm, Thordur told himself, his eyes flicking up to the camp. A guard stood not far off, his silhouette sharp against the faint glow of a distant fire. The Easterling’s back was turned, but his stance was still alert, like a predator poised for movement. He swallowed hard and continued cutting.

The rope began to fray, each fiber snapping with a faint crackle that seemed far louder than it was. Thordur froze, holding his breath as the guard shifted slightly, tilting his head toward the noise. His hand hovered near his bow, muscles tense. But the guard turned back, apparently dismissing the sound. Thordur let out a slow, measured breath and returned to his task.

The final rope gave way, sagging with a soft groan. The horses stirred, their movements causing the rails to creak. Thordur reached out, his palm brushing against the flank of the nearest horse. The animal snorted, its muscles trembling, but it didn’t bolt.

“Easy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. The horse settled slightly, its ears twitching.

Thordur stepped toward the gate, his knife ready to cut the last binding. As he reached for it, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The guard had turned again, his gaze sweeping the enclosure. This time, his posture stiffened, and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

Damn it. Thordur froze, his mind racing. The shadows might conceal him, but the guard edged nearer, slow and deliberate. Thordur’s pulse pounded as he calculated his next move.

The guard was only a few paces away when Thordur’s instincts took over. With practiced precision, he drew his bow and nocked an arrow in one fluid motion. The string thrummed as he released it, the arrow slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. It struck the guard in the throat, the impact muffled but unmistakable. The man staggered, his hand clawing at the shaft as he crumpled to the ground, his sword clattering dully against the earth.

The sound startled the horses. One reared, its hooves striking the rail with a sharp crack. The others followed, and the pen erupted into chaos as the animals whinnied and shifted in panic. Thordur cursed under his breath and grabbed the gate, throwing it wide.

“Go!” he hissed, slapping the nearest horse on its flank. The animal bolted, and the rest followed, spilling out of the pen in a frenzied mass of hooves and muscle. The ground seemed to shake beneath them as they charged into the camp, overturning tents and scattering supplies.

The chaos spread like wildfire. Shouts erupted as Easterling soldiers scrambled to regain control, their orders lost in the clamor. Thordur didn’t wait to see the results. He turned and sprinted toward the ridge, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The upheaval of hoofbeats and panicked cries followed him, blending with the pounding of his own heart.

As he climbed, he glanced back once. The camp was in disarray: tents collapsed, soldiers darted through the chaos, some trying to corral the fleeing horses, while others simply avoided being trampled. He allowed himself a grim smile, though it faded quickly as the weight of what he had just done settled over him.

One step closer to surviving this damn war, he thought, pushing himself harder toward the ridge’s safety.

Ungoránë stood at the rendezvous point, his figure barely discernible against the dense shadows of the ridge. His cloak, darkened with blood, clung to his frame in the damp night air. He was still as a stone, his gray eyes scanning the darkness below, where the Easterling camp remained chaotic. The faint shouts of soldiers and the distant thunder of hooves rose softly over the trees, carrying on the night wind like a warning that the work was not yet done.

When Thordur emerged from the trees, his steps heavy and uneven, Ungoránë turned to regard him. Sweat and dirt streaked Thordur’s pale face as he gasped for air, his breaths short and ragged, as if he had run a mile uphill.

“Any trouble?” Ungoránë’s voice was neutral, his tone unbothered, as though they were discussing the weather. The dark stains on Ungoránë’s cloak seemed to ripple like shadows alive, and Thordur wondered how much of it was from tonight—and how much was older, soaked into the fabric over time.

Thordur stopped a few paces away, his chest still heaving. He glared at Ungoránë, gesturing sharply to the dark stains on the other man’s cloak. “What do you think?” he snapped. “And what about you? Did you fight the whole camp yourself?”

There was silence between them for a moment, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant echo of a startled horse’s cry. Ungoránë tilted his head slightly as if considering the question. The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, though it carried no warmth.

“Only the ones who mattered,” he replied simply.

Thordur shook his head, frustration tightening his jaw. “You’re reckless,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “You know that, right? Walking into their tent like you’ve got nothing to lose. You could have gotten us both killed.”

At that, Ungoránë’s expression shifted. The faint smirk faded, replaced by something colder and heavier. His gaze turned distant; his gray eyes were shadowed by thoughts that Thordur couldn’t read but could feel pressing between them.

“Maybe I don’t,” Ungoránë said softly, his voice carrying an edge that wasn’t anger but something much sharper.

The words hung in the air, heavy as a stone. Thordur stared at him, his irritation giving way to unease. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. At that moment, he saw something in Ungoránë that unsettled him—not the calculated, quiet violence he’d witnessed tonight, but the emptiness that followed it. It was like staring into a deep well and realizing it had no bottom.

Thordur threw up his hands, exasperation boiling over. “Fine. Be mysterious. Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you when your luck runs out.” Ungoránë’s smirk flickered to life, cold and fleeting. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Finally, Thordur looked away, his shoulders sagging. “Let’s just get back,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Ungoránë nodded, saying nothing as he turned toward the path leading back to their camp. They moved in silence, the broken remnants of the Easterling camp fading behind them. The forest swallowed them whole, its thick canopy blocking the moon’s pale light. Thordur glanced at Ungoránë more than once, watching how the man moved—fluid and deliberate, as though he were part of the shadows themselves.

Thordur’s thoughts churned as he walked, his earlier frustration mingling with something he couldn’t quite name. Ungoránë was unlike anyone he’d ever met. He wasn’t fearless—no, there was something sharper than bravery in the way he carried himself. It was as if he courted death, daring it to come closer, almost inviting it.

The kind of man you follow into danger, Thordur thought, or the kind you keep far away from.

But tonight, Thordur had no choice. He had followed, and they had both survived. That, at least, was something.

Thordur took one last glance at Ungoránë, a sense of unease pulling at him like the unyielding flow of the Anduin that he couldn’t escape. The campfires glowed faintly ahead, but behind them lay chaos and blood. Maybe that’s all survival is; he thought—just one man’s madness pulling another through the dark.

“I don’t know what to make of you,” Thordur murmured, almost to himself.

Ungoránë didn’t respond. If he’d heard the words, he gave no indication. His gaze was fixed ahead, his steps steady, and his bloody cloak blended into the night as though he’d been born of it.