The Twice-blessed Paladin

The moon hangs high over Gildan's Reach, casting long, twisted shadows across the narrow streets.

Aldric sits in his temporary lodging, a small, private room provided by the guild, located in a quiet district just beyond the merchant quarter.

The room is simple—a wooden desk, a sturdy bed, and a small, unlit oil lamp beside it.

He doesn't need light.

He doesn't need sleep.

He simply waits.

Because he knows.

They are coming.

The night is unnaturally silent.

Too silent.

Aldric, clad in only his trousers and a loose tunic, sits in the darkness, his sword resting within reach.

Then—the faintest shift in the air.

No sound. No creak of wood.

Just… presence.

Aldric does not move.

He does not breathe.

His body remains unnaturally still, as lifeless as a corpse.

Because in truth, that is what he is.

A shadow passes over the thin sliver of moonlight beneath the door.

There.

Aldric waits.

A long, tense silence.

Then—the door latch shifts.

Not a knock. Not a forced entry.

A careful, silent opening.

Whoever is coming for him is no common killer.

Aldric lets his eyes adjust to the shifting darkness.

Then, they enter.

A figure slips through the door, silent as death.

They are clad in dark, tightly wrapped leathers, their face hidden beneath a black hood and mask.

No exposed skin. No identifying marks.

Their movements are too smooth, too precise.

And their presence… is wrong.

Aldric can feel the taint of the Unseen Father.

The assassin does not approach immediately.

Instead, they pause, sensing.

Perhaps they expected to hear breathing. The rise and fall of a sleeping man's chest.

They hear nothing.

Aldric does not move.

Not yet.

The assassin steps closer, their dagger gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

Another step.

Closer.

Now.

Aldric moves like a corpse reanimating.

His hand snaps out, seizing the assassin's wrist with unnatural speed.

The assassin does not startle.

They react immediately, spinning with inhuman grace, wrenching free and lashing out with their blade.

Aldric leans back unnaturally, his skeletal frame twisting in a way no living man could.

The dagger slices air, missing him by inches.

The assassin lands smoothly, dagger poised.

For the first time, Aldric speaks.

"I was wondering when you would come."

The assassin does not respond.

They simply attack.

The assassin strikes with impossible speed, their blade flashing like a whisper of death.

Aldric dodges with inhuman precision, his body twisting at angles no mortal should move.

A thrust for his throat—he leans back, spine arching unnaturally.

A slash for his ribs—he pivots, twisting so that his torso bends without shifting his feet.

The assassin hesitates.

They expected a man.

Instead, they are fighting something else.

Aldric smirks.

"They don't know what I am."

Good.

The assassin adjusts their approach.

They flick their free hand toward him—a cloud of black mist erupts from their palm.

Dark magic.

Aldric does not move.

The mist wraps around him, clawing at his form.

A death curse. Designed to sap life, weaken the soul.

But Aldric has no life to take.

He steps through the magic untouched.

The assassin freezes.

Their first mistake.

Aldric lunges.

His hand snaps out, seizing the assassin's throat.

With one brutal motion, he slams them against the wooden wall, cracking the paneling.

The assassin grits their teeth—but does not panic.

Instead, they flip their dagger, driving it toward Aldric's ribs.

Aldric lets them.

The blade sinks deep.

But there is no pain.

No gasp of agony.

No blood.

The assassin's eyes widen.

Aldric leans close, his voice mocking.

"Did you think I would bleed?"

He grips the dagger, pulling it out himself.

The assassin jerks away, rolling into a crouch.

This time, they hesitate.

Aldric sees the moment of doubt.

And that is when he strikes.

Aldric moves faster than the assassin expects.

They try to fade into the shadows—a trick of dark magic—but Aldric reaches into the mist and seizes them mid-vanish.

He yanks them back, slamming them onto the floor.

Before they can react, his gauntleted foot pins them in place.

The assassin struggles, clawing at his boot.

Aldric tilts his head.

"Who sent you?"

Silence.

He presses down.

Bones creak beneath his weight.

The assassin laughs, voice rasping beneath their mask.

"You… cannot kill shadows, Twice-Blessed."

Aldric's eyes narrow.

The assassin's body shudders violently.

Then—black ichor pours from beneath their mask, bubbling unnaturally.

Aldric steps back, sword raised.

The assassin convulses—then suddenly, violently, collapses inward.

Their body implodes, melting into shadow.

A final whisper lingers in the air.

"He sees you."

Then… silence.

The room is empty.

The assassin is gone.

Aldric remains still for a long moment.

The air is wrong.

Not just in this room.

Everywhere.

The cult is no longer acting from the shadows.

They are making their move.

Aldric looks down at his hand, where the black ichor of the assassin lingers, refusing to fade.

His gods are silent.