The sun hung low behind the trees, casting long shadows that stretched like claws across the carrot fields.

Smoke still lingered in the air—the bitter kind that clings to fur and fabric. Cottonwell had gone quiet again—but not the peaceful quiet of morning. This was the breathless hush before something worse.

At the edge of the field, I stood beside Nick, watching the treeline. The riders hadn’t moved in hours. They waited just beyond sight, their torches flickering like warning stars. Watching. Measuring.

My fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. The bow felt heavier today, like it knew something was coming.

“They’re not here to scare us,” Nick said, voice low. “They’re here to break us.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

Behind us, villagers worked fast—hammering shutters closed, dragging barrels into place, lining the narrow paths with whatever could slow a horse. Elder Moss moved among them with quiet determination, her staff tapping out a steady rhythm.

A rabbit kit tripped near the well. Another helped him up.

The whole village was moving. Preparing.

Nick turned toward me. “When it starts, stay close. Don’t go off playing hero.”

I gave a faint nod. “What if they go for the hall?”

“Then we stop them,” he said. “One way or another.”

A breeze stirred the trees.

Then—

The first torch flew.

It arced through the fading sky, trailing embers. It hit the outer fence and shattered into a burst of flame.

Cries went up. The rabbits scrambled—buckets, sand, shouting. The fire was small, not meant to destroy, but to start something. A signal.

Then came the pounding.

Hooves on packed dirt. Dozens.

Nick grabbed my shoulder. “Go. With the others. Protect the hall.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stall them.”

“Nick—”

“No time. Go!”

He was already moving, darting through a narrow side path that ran along the vegetable beds. I hesitated for a heartbeat too long, then turned and ran, the bow bouncing against my back.

The main path to the hall was chaos.

Rabbits dragging carts into place, tipping barrels. Older ones armed with pitchforks and carrot-root spears. Younger ones—some barely older than kits—helping carry water. Elder Moss stood on the steps of the hall, her voice sharp and calm like a blade.

“Buckets to the front! Guards at the east fence! Keep low—don’t clump together!”

I slid beside her, heart hammering. “They’ve started.”

She didn’t look at me. “I heard.”

A distant yell—then a crash. A plume of smoke lifted above the trees to the west.

“How many?” she asked.

“Couldn’t see,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “More than ten.”

She turned to the nearest runner. “Tell the northern guard to pull back. Make them come to us.”

The rabbit bolted.

I looked out across the path leading into Cottonwell. Smoke curled where the torch had landed, but the fire had been stamped out. Beyond the trees, I saw movement—riders slipping between shadows. Fast. Calm. Predatory.

Then they were in the clearing.

The first wave came hard—five riders, cloaked in ash-colored cloth, faces hidden beneath soot-streaked masks. Their mounts weren’t horses. They looked like wolves and deer twisted together—lean and wrong.

One rider raised a curved blade.

The defenders stood firm—Nick’s traps already working. A false path collapsed under one mount’s hooves. It crashed, throwing its rider.

Another rider veered straight for the hall.

I stepped forward, raised the bow.

Breathe in. Draw. Breathe out. Release.

The arrow flew. Hit the rider’s shoulder. He screamed, veering off and crashing into a cart of tools.

Elder Moss shouted something behind me—orders I didn’t catch. Everything blurred into noise and motion.

The battle wasn’t like the stories. It wasn’t clean or heroic. It was shouting and fear and the taste of ash. I fired again and again. Missed once. Hit another. The bow pulsed with every shot.

synchronization

[ 0.197 ⇒ 0.311 ]

I stumbled back, gasping. The blue shimmer had flashed again, just for a moment, just for me.

“Sebastian!” someone called.

It was Nick—blood on his sleeve, breath ragged, but alive. He dragged something—one of the riders—half-conscious, tied at the wrists.

“We got one,” he said. “He talks.”

I stared at the masked figure. Behind him, the others were retreating—at least for now. Fires smoldered on the edges of the field. The air stank of smoke and fear. Cottonwell stood, barely.

Nick looked at me, then at the prisoner. “You up for answers?”

I nodded slowly, chest tight.

“Good,” he said. “Because I think we just survived the easy part.”

The rider was slumped against a broken crate, wrists bound with a length of old climbing rope. His mask had been pulled down—beneath it, a gaunt rabbit face, older than I expected. Pale fur, scorched at the tips. His left ear had a long, jagged tear.

He stared at us with glassy, unreadable eyes.

“You’re lucky we don’t treat guests like you treated our fences,” Nick said, crouching in front of him.

The rider didn’t answer.

Smoke curled lazily from the fields behind us. Somewhere in the village, a child was crying—quiet and hiccuped, like they were trying not to. Water splashed in buckets. Wood creaked as repairs began. But it all felt temporary.

I could feel it in my bones.

They weren’t finished with us.

Nick pulled a cloth from his pocket, wiped the blood from his fingers. “You didn’t come here for carrots,” he said flatly. “What do you want?”

The rider’s mouth twitched. “You should’ve run.”

I stepped forward. “Why? So you could burn it all down without resistance?”

He looked at me. Really looked. There was something hollow in his expression—like the part of him that once understood mercy had been carved out.

“They don’t care if you fight,” he said. “Or if you kneel. It’s all the same to them in the end.”

“Who?” I asked. “Who’s giving your orders?”

A pause.

Nick leaned in, voice low. “If there’s another wave coming, you’d better hope we’re in the mood to take prisoners again.”

The rider didn’t blink. “There won’t be time for prisoners.”

I felt the bow at my back again, suddenly heavier.

“Nick,” I said. “He’s stalling.”

Nick turned sharply. “Moss!”

But she was already moving. “Double the outer guard! Everyone inside—move now!”

The village snapped into motion, like a body waking from shock. Rabbits scrambled into place, reinforcing barricades, dragging more carts and planks to the lines.

Nick stood, hauling the prisoner up. “You’re coming with us.”

“For what?” the rider said through clenched teeth. “You’ve already lost.”

“Not yet,” I said. “We’re still standing.”

He smiled, as if that fact amused him more than anything.

We dragged him toward the hall. The sky had turned a bruised purple now, the last of the daylight bleeding away behind the hills. Lanterns flickered to life across Cottonwell, glowing like fireflies caught in jars.

The village had survived the first fire.

But night was coming fast.

And the next would burn hotter.

The first thunder of hooves rolled through the trees long before the riders appeared—a distant rumble that grew louder with every heartbeat.

 Shadows spilled out from the forest’s edge—dark shapes, mounted figures riding like the storm itself had taken form. Their armor glinted dully in the dying light, faces hidden beneath dark helmets, eyes burning with cold intent.

The riders surged forward, a wave of menace crashing toward Cottonwell’s fragile defenses.

“Archers, ready!” Nick’s voice cut through the tension like a whip.

From the barricades, bows lifted and strings hummed. The first volley tore through the air—arrows slicing through the dusk, some finding marks, others swallowed by the gathering smoke and dust.

Nick was already moving. His bow came up in one fluid motion, the string pulled back to his cheek as his sharp eyes tracked a rider closing fast on the village edge. He released, the arrow flying true—straight between the rider’s visor and shoulder—dropping him from his mount with a grunt.

Without missing a beat, Nick launched himself forward. His legs coiled, propelling him upward with astonishing speed and grace.

 He landed lightly atop a broken fence post, sword drawn in a single sweeping motion. The blade flashed in the lantern light, a streak of silver cutting through the dark.

A second rider charged, sword raised high. Nick ducked low, twisting his body with feline fluidity to the side. The sword whooshed past where his head had been moments before.

With a powerful kick, Nick sent the rider stumbling back. He leapt down, landing silently behind his foe. His sword pressed to the rider’s throat—quick and merciless.

The rider froze, eyes wide with shock.

Nick whispered, voice calm but deadly: “Yield or fall.”

The rider’s hand twitched toward his belt, but before he could draw, Nick’s blade flicked—disarming him in a heartbeat.

Without hesitation, Nick spun away, sliding along the muddy earth to intercept another attacker. His bow was back in his hands, arrows flying like deadly shadows. Each shot was measured, precise—never wasted.

He wasn’t just fighting—he was dancing through the chaos, a silent hunter weaving between flashes of steel and screams.

I could only watch, heart pounding, as Nick took down rider after rider with swift, practiced grace.

My breath caught in my throat as I watched Nick disappear into the blur of dust and steel. He was everywhere—flashing between shadows, leaping from crates to rooftops like the wind had given him legs.

But I couldn’t just stand there.

The bow thrummed against my back like it wanted out.

I turned toward the northern path, where a fresh wave of riders was already breaking through the outer traps. The barricades groaned. Someone screamed. And then it was just me—running toward it.

I didn’t feel brave. I felt like I was falling and had no choice but to aim the landing.

One of the riders spotted me and turned his beast toward the path. Its hooves churned the earth. A curved spear pointed at my chest.

I drew the bow.

Breathe in.

Draw.

Breathe out.

Release.

The arrow caught him in the thigh—not enough to kill, but enough to twist his charge into a stagger. He tumbled off his mount with a shout.

I didn’t wait. I dashed forward and loosed a second shot into the ground ahead of his hands. A warning. “Stay down.”

But he didn’t.

He lunged—pulling a knife from his boot. I dropped the bow and grabbed the staff slung to my back, twisting it outward in time to block the slash. The blade scraped across the wood, sending a jolt up my arm.

I pivoted, slammed the staff into his chest, then brought it down hard against his shoulder. He dropped the knife.

I could’ve ended him right then.

But I didn’t.

He looked up, surprised.

“Go,” I said.

And maybe he would’ve.

If the next rider hadn’t appeared behind him.

She didn’t speak. Just rushed me.

No time to retrieve the bow. I shifted my stance, gripping the staff like I remembered Nick showing me—not strong, not perfect, but tight enough to hold.

She came down with a jagged blade aimed for my ribs. I stepped aside, let her momentum carry past, and jabbed upward—catching her side. She stumbled, then slashed low. I jumped.

Not high enough.

The edge clipped my leg. Warmth bloomed.

I gritted my teeth and swung wide. She dodged. Then I spun the staff backward—one quick move—and caught her behind the knee.

She hit the dirt.

I fell too. My leg gave out.

For a moment, we both just lay there, catching breath in the smoke. Then I crawled to the bow, grabbed it, and crawled further—into the brush, into cover.

Voices shouted. The clash of metal nearby. I forced myself upright.

I was limping now. But I was alive.

Another rider broke through the trees. Smaller. Younger. I saw his hesitation. His mount was foaming at the mouth, spooked.

I raised the bow again. My arm shook.

He saw it—and turned. He didn’t want to fight me. Or maybe he did, but not today.

I let him go.

Not because I couldn’t shoot.

But because something inside me told me not to.

Focus, I told myself.

The ground shook again—another group pushing through the east path. Defenders there were faltering. I could see two down already.

I couldn’t stop that. But I could slow them.

I found a rise of earth and climbed it, ignoring the pain in my leg. From there, I had a clear shot at the path.

I pulled the bowstring.

One shot. Two.

Both hit.

A third—missed. I cursed and adjusted.

Fourth—direct hit to the lead rider’s arm. He screamed, rearing his mount back, tangling into the rider behind him.

I fired again.

And again.

The blue shimmer flickered across my vision—just for a breath.

synchronization

[ 0.311 ⇒ 0.475 ]

Something in me opened.

I didn’t feel stronger. I felt clearer. Like the air was speaking directly to my hands. My eyes caught movement faster. My arms knew the draw before my brain told them to.

And I kept firing.

Until I lost count.

Until my quiver was almost empty.

Until the last rider in sight dropped their blade and turned tail.

Smoke curled from broken carts. Arrows still jutted from fence posts. Fires smoldered along the northern line.

But the riders… they were falling back.

Running.

I didn’t move for a long time. I stayed at the top of that hill, bow shaking in my hand, the last of the adrenaline slipping through my ribs like cold wind.

Then someone called my name.

I turned. A small figure was running toward me through the haze.

A rabbit kit.

Wide eyes.

“You—You were everywhere!” he said, breathless. “We saw you from the roof! You made them stop!”

I didn’t answer right away. Just looked back down the hill.

Where the blood soaked into the dirt.

Where broken armor glinted like shattered mirrors.

Where my arrows still stood.

I whispered, “It’s not over yet.”

But for now, Cottonwell still stood.