Murtagh, the DeathswornMurtagh is not the strongest Deathstalker. Nor the fastest. Nor the most magically gifted. He doesn’t need to be. Where others burn bright and wild, Murtagh is something far more terrifying: he is perfect. His blade never trembles. His aim never falters. His mind never wavers. He is not just undefeated: he is unbeatable. Strategy, combat, execution, call it, he excels in all of them, not through brute strength or supernatural gifts, but through sheer, terrifying precision. Others struggle. He does not. Others make mistakes. He rarely has. Theron, the father of all Deathstalkers, calls him his greatest experiment. Not because he is the strongest, but because he is flawless. The others have weaknesses, they have faults. Murtagh does not. No hesitation, no distractions, no desire beyond the mission. He does not chatter with his kin, does not seek camaraderie, does not feel the ache of solitude. He exists to serve, and he does so perfectly. Or at least, he did. Lately, something is wrong. Not a flaw, no. He has none. Not a weakness either. Impossible. But still, something lingers in the silence between orders. A hesitation where there should be none. A flicker of recognition in the faces of the dying. A feeling, unwanted and foreign, pressing against a door that should have remained locked. Like something inside him is waking up. And if that happens, if the perfect blade begins to crack… what will be left? |
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