Nzambi yawned deeply, weariness weighing on his eyelids as he held the musket. The night at the border was too quiet, disturbed only by the distant croaking of frogs and the occasional crackling of his own garrison's campfire. He looked toward the dark horizon, where the only response was the faint, dancing glow of another campfire—the one from the watch team on the adjacent hill. The smell of damp earth and burnt wood filled the humid air.

  What a sleep, he thought, shifting his weight against the adobe wall. There's nothing to do here but wait and watch this nothingness. I heard that in Mocambo they're already getting equipped with the new weapons, training with them... while we're here, freezing from boredom, just serving as bait. We have to wait for the reinforcement team to arrive with the new gear before we can finally launch the attack.

  His thoughts were abruptly cut off. For a split second, he saw something—a jerky movement of light on the hill in the distance, where the other garrison was. Not the slow, rhythmic pattern of a torch being carried, but a quick jerk, as if someone had forcefully raised and lowered it, before the light vanished completely, swallowed by the darkness.

  Nzambi's heart leaped. The protocol... they're supposed to either sound the horn or move a torch in specific patterns in case of an attack, he recalled, his fingers tightening on the musket's stock. The vision had been fleeting. Did I see wrong? Fatigue plays tricks on the mind... He strained his eyes to see into the gloom, but there was only solid darkness where the point of light had been. No... a chill ran down his spine. My gut says something is wrong. Very wrong.

  Wasting no more time, Nzambi abandoned his post at the entrance and turned into the small guard post, a cubicle of packed earth that housed his four companions. Corporal Ramiro and the other three soldiers slept on mats on the dirt floor, wrapped in blankets, their bodies forming dark mounds in the dim light cast only by the embers of a small brazier. The air inside was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat, sleep, and cold dinner porridge.

  With the urgency of premonition, Nzambi knelt beside Ramiro and shook his shoulder firmly.

  "Corporal! Corporal Ramiro, wake up!"

  Ramiro groaned, sinking deeper into sleep. Nzambi grabbed him by the arm, pulling him up.

  "Ramiro, get up! There's something strange on the—"

  The words died in his throat. Just as the drowsy Ramiro opened his eyes and began to mutter, "What is it, sold—", a wet, hissing sound cut through the air.

  Thwump.

  A sinister-looking arrow, with a tip that seemed made of crystal, pierced the earthen wall as if it were butter, with a low, deep sound of compacted earth being punctured. It didn't waver or deviate a millimeter. It struck Ramiro just above his right temple with a dry, bony impact. The corporal's body simply gave way, muscles relaxing at once, and he fell sideways to the ground with a dull thud, his eyes still half-open, glazed, reflecting the embers.

  The silence that followed was more terrifying than the sound of the impact. Nzambi froze, the scream stuck in his chest, his eyes fixed on the arrow now trembling slightly, embedded in his superior's skull.

  "SHIT!" the voice finally exploded from his lungs, rough and laden with panic. He turned to the other soldiers, who were beginning to stir. "WAKE UP! ATTACK!"

  Survival instinct spoke louder. He lunged toward the opposite corner of the guard post, where the horn bugle hung on a hook. His fingers, cold and clumsy, closed around the instrument.

  Meanwhile, the second and third soldiers, startled awake, tried to get up, confused, fumbling for their weapons in the dark. The arrow, from inside the guard post, moved.

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  With a low, almost imperceptible hum, it pulled out of Ramiro's skull, made an impossible curve in the air—so fast it was just a dark blur—and pierced the second soldier's chest. The man gasped, a hoarse sound of surprise, and fell forward. The arrow didn't stop. It continued its arc, scraped the wall, and entered the back of the third man, who had barely managed to kneel, before finally shattering against the front wall and falling to the ground, inert. It all happened in less than three seconds.

  Nzambi avoided looking at the bodies. The smell of blood, metallic and warm, began to mix with the other odors in the guard post. He brought the bugle to his lips and blew with all the strength of his lungs.

  The deep, urgent, anguished sound of the instrument echoed through the silent night, tearing through it like a scream of agony.

  The fourth and last soldier, a young man named Emerson, finally sat up, his pale face visible in the light of the embers. His eyes, wide with terror, scanned the bodies of his comrades, then fixed on Nzambi. He tried to speak, but only a groan came out.

  Before Emerson could get up, the arrow, lying on the ground, stirred. Without anyone touching it, it burrowed into the packed earth floor like a ghost mole, disappearing from sight. Nzambi saw the small mound of earth move in a straight line, heading straight for the mat where Emerson was.

  "Emerson, get out of there!" he shouted.

  But it was too late. The arrow erupted from the ground right under the young soldier, tearing through the mat, his body, and the wooden and thatch roof with a horrible sound of ripping and a dull impact. Emerson was lifted a few centimeters off the ground for an instant, a spasm running through his body, before falling sideways, life extinguished in his eyes. The arrow was gone, leaving behind only a hole in the roof and the deadly silence.

  Nzambi trembled, sweating cold. The bugle slipped from his fingers and rolled on the ground.

  My God... I have to wait for help... the others must have heard the horn... but how do I survive this damn arrow? It doesn't stop, it doesn't miss... it's like a phantom!

  His eyes turned to his waist, where his dagger was sheathed. The blade wasn't made of common metal but forged from a deep, almost black purple gem that seemed to suck in the faint light around it.

  To activate the dagger's power, I'd have to fix my gaze on the target... lock the target in my sight, he thought, desperate. But that damn arrow is too fast! It's lightning! No time to focus!

  He felt, more than heard, a whisper coming from the wall behind him. He spun in the same instant, the dagger already unsheathed in his hand. The arrow burst through the wall, the crystal tip pointed straight at his chest. Nzambi tried to raise the dagger, tried to force his eyes to follow the projectile's path, but he knew, with a cold certainty in his gut, that there wasn't enough time. Death approached at a silent speed.

  He tried to throw himself aside, but his muscles seemed frozen. The arrow was half a meter from his face when something dark and solid hit him from the side, knocking him to the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. The arrow whistled past where his head had been a moment before and shattered against the opposite wall, falling.

  Nzambi, dazed and gasping, looked up. A woman was crouched beside him. She was Black, and her long, loose black hair seemed like an extension of the darkness itself, absorbing light instead of reflecting it. She wore tight, dark clothes, and her serious, alert eyes were partially covered by a pair of thin-framed glasses, the lenses gleaming with a faint amber shimmer. Whisper.

  He tried to speak, his voice trembling.

  "Thank you... you..."

  "Save your thanks for later," she cut in, her voice a smooth contralto, but firm as steel. "And before you think about celebrating, I haven't even saved you yet. I just deflected the first blow. That thing will come back."

  She didn't look at him. Her eyes, behind the glasses, scanned the guard post, the corners, the ceiling, the floor, with an almost palpable intensity. Nzambi swallowed dryly, the taste of fear, sour and metallic, filling his mouth.

  Whisper frowned behind her glasses. Shit, she thought quickly. How did I not foresee this attack? My glasses detect magical signatures from hundreds of meters away... that arrow should glow like a beacon. Unless... The possibility chilled her inside.

  The arrow on the ground trembled again. This time, Whisper didn't wait. With a fluid and impossibly fast movement, she grabbed Nzambi by the arm and leaped toward the shadow cast by a crude table in the corner. It wasn't a jump into the shadow; it was as if they were absorbed by it. The darkness under the table seemed to thicken, swallowing them. Nzambi felt a strange sensation of cold and absence, as if suspended in a silent vacuum for a split second.