The forest had been Arno's only teacher in the long years of exile, and it had taught him violence with the patience of a relentless master.
He had learned the precision of the heron's strike, watching the wading birds spear fish with movements so swift they barely rippled the water. He had mimicked the wolf's circling patience, the way it waited for weakness before committing to the kill. Even the lowly scorpion had lessons to offer—its poison delivered not with brute force, but with the casual flick of a tail, efficient and unhesitating. Nature did not waste energy, and neither did Arno.
His fighting style was a patchwork of stolen instincts, honed in solitude. He fought like a creature with no lineage, no formal training, just the raw arithmetic of survival. Every motion was pared down to its barest necessity. No flourishes. No wasted breath. When he struck, it was never with the intent to wound—only to end.
This was the hollow art. The art of a man with nothing to lose. He had never used it on another person before the day the stranger arrived. But clearly, it was effective.
The hooded stranger watched him skin the dead assassin's dagger belt with the same detached focus he'd once used to field-dress rabbits.
"You're not what I expected," the stranger said, leaning against the splintered doorframe. The crossbow hung loose in their grip, but their eyes were sharp—calculating.
Arno didn't look up. "What did you expect?"
"A victim." The stranger kicked one of the corpses. "Not someone who fights like he's been starving for it."
The knife in Arno's hand paused. Ten years ago, he might have flinched at the accusation. Now, he only resumed his work.
"I had time to study," he said flatly.
The stranger's lips quirked. "Studied what? The poetry of murder?"
"Nature." Arno wiped the blade clean on the dead man's cloak. "It's better at killing than people are."
A beat of silence. Then the stranger pushed off the wall, suddenly serious.
"We need to move. The Cabal doesn't send hunters in singles. There'll be more."
Arno stood, testing the weight of the new dagger at his hip. The residual starlight in his veins made the movement smoother than it should have been, the blade settling into his grip as if magnetized.
"Why help me?" he asked.
The stranger hesitated just long enough to matter.
"Let's say I'm curious about that card of yours." They nodded to Arno's chest, where the blank card lay hidden. "And what happens when it stops being empty."
"How do you even know about this card? I barely even picked it up myself." Arno said, exasperated.
The stranger exhaled sharply through their nose, a sound caught between amusement and exhaustion, before reaching up to lower their hood. Dark eyes, sharp as flint, studied Arno with the clinical detachment of a surgeon assessing a wound.
"You really don't know, do you?" they said. "You've been sitting in this hut for a decade, and no one ever told you why the Cabal whispers your name like a curse. They have just been watching you so far, but i doubt they'll sit idly anymore"
Arno kept his grip on the dagger. The residual starlight in his veins made his pulse too loud in his ears.
"The man who bled out on your floor," the stranger continued, nudging the corpse with their boot, "was Jaren of the Veiled Star. One of the Cabal's own. Stole a blessing of the star from their vault two weeks ago. Thought he could outrun them." A humorless smile. "He was wrong."
The wind outside carried the scent of wet pine and old blood. Arno forced his breathing steady.
"And the card?"
The stranger's gaze dropped to his chest, where the blank card lay hidden. "The Cabal has spent centuries tracking every Deck ever forged. They have records of every draw, every fate twisted by the cards' whims." Their voice dropped. "Except yours."
A log cracked in the hearth. Somewhere in the forest, an owl cried out.
"Your draw wasn't just a failure, Arno. It was an impossibility. The Deck doesn't produce blank cards. Ever." The stranger leaned in. "So either the gods made a mistake that day... or you drew something they didn't want seen."
The words settled like stones in Arno's gut. He remembered the silence after his draw. The way the priest had turned the card over and over, searching for a trick.
"And you?" Arno asked. "Why hunt a dead man and a broken card?"
The stranger's smile didn't reach their eyes.
"Because I'm the one who told the Cabal where Jaren was heading." They tapped the constellation etched into their own wrist—a mirror of the assassins' masks. "And I'm very curious what happens when a weapon meant to hold one blessing tries to swallow two."
Outside, the first snow of winter began to fall. It coated the bloodstains around the hut, turning them to pale ghosts.