A low groan escaped Elara’s throat.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Cold metal pressed against her back.

Her wrists throbbed—bound tight.

Her vision blurred as lantern-light swayed above her.

Where…?

The memory slammed into her.

The darkness.

“Elara…?” a voice whispered faintly through her daze.

She turned her head weakly.

Behind the rumbling tanker, through the swinging lantern shadows—

A horse.

A rider.

Ashren.

Her heart lurched.

He was chasing them.

“No…” she tried to speak, but the gag muffled her voice. “Ash… run…”

But he didn’t hear.

Ravenn slowed his black armored horse, raising a fist.

The entire convoy braked, metal grinding against dirt.

One of the Hunters lifted his rifle.

“Target approaching. Permission to fir—”

“Lower it.”

Ravenn’s voice cut like steel.

The soldier hesitated.

“But sire—”

“I said lower it.”

Reluctantly, the rifle dipped.

The mage whispered, “He’s alone. Unarmed. Weak. Why waste time?”

Ravenn smirked.

“Because he keeps coming back.”

A dangerous curiosity lit his eyes.

“And I want to see why.”

The convoy came to a stop.

Ashren pulled the horse forward, breath ragged, eyes blazing with fury and desperation.

Ravenn turned in his saddle, watching him approach with an almost bored expression—yet something sharp flickered beneath.

“Well, well…” Ravenn drawled.

“You really are determined to die tonight.”

Elara shook her head violently, eyes wide, pleading with Ashren.

Go back. Please. RUN.

Ashren ignored everything—

the tankers, the rifles, the mage, the monsters stirring in the trees…

He only saw her.

“Elara!”

His voice cracked as he pulled the horse right in front of Ravenn.

Ravenn watched him with cold amusement.

“You made it,” he said softly.

“I didn’t expect the boy from a dirt village to chase us into the night.”

Ashren’s glare hardened.

“Let her go.”

Ravenn chuckled.

“Bold. Stupid. Predictable.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“You do understand you’re surrounded by armed Hunters… and two tankers with mounted rifles… and a mage who could turn you into ash with a flick of his fingers?”

Ashren swallowed once—but didn’t back down.

“I don’t care.”

“Elara is not yours.”

Ravenn’s smirk faded.

For a moment, the forest held its breath.

“You speak,” Ravenn said slowly, “as if you have the right to decide anything about her.”

Ashren’s fingers tightened around the reins.

“I’ll fight you if I have to.”

One of the Hunters burst out laughing.

“Fight? You? Look at him! He doesn’t even have a weapon—”

Ravenn lifted a single finger.

Silence.

His gaze locked onto Ashren, evaluating him like a puzzle.

“You followed us.”

“You rode alone into the night.”

“You didn’t flee even when you saw the whole party waiting for you.”

Ravenn turned slightly, looking at Elara—whose eyes shook with panic and fury.

Then back to Ashren.

“…You’re interesting.”

He nudged his horse forward until he was just a few feet away.

Then he whispered:

“So show me, boy.”

Ashren stiffened.

“Show me why you think you deserve to stand in front of her.”

Elara gasped behind her gag.

Ravenn leaned back, raising his hand—

and the Hunters moved aside, forming a wide circle around them.

A killing ground.

A stage.

“For her,” Ravenn said softly,

“fight.”

Ashren’s breath hitched—

but then Ravenn lifted a lazy hand.

“Not with me,” he added.

A cruel smile tugged at his lips.

“Weaklings aren’t worth my blade.”

He turned his head slightly.

“Vorrek.”

Vorrek stepped forward—massive, iron-club on his back, armored wrists gleaming.

He cracked his knuckles, eager.

Ashren felt the ground tremble under the man’s steps.

Ravenn continued, voice smooth as ice:

“Show him what happens when someone mistakes courage for strength.”

Elara shook her head violently, muffled cries spilling behind the gag.

Ashren’s heart thundered—fear, anger, helpless resolve all mixing into fire.

Ravenn’s gaze sharpened.

“Let me see,” he whispered,

“what you’re willing to bleed for.”

The circle of Hunters tightened around him.

Lanterns hissed as they were lowered, harsh light carving long shadows into the dirt road.

Tankers idled at a distance.

The forest fell silent.

Ravenn dismounted.

He moved with deliberate calm, boots crunching softly against the dirt.

He drew a sword from his side—dark steel, worn but balanced—and tossed it forward.

The blade slid across the ground and stopped at Ashren’s feet.

“I’m not cruel enough to let you die unarmed,” Ravenn said evenly.

“Pick it up.”

Ashren’s fingers closed around the hilt.

He looked down at the blade.

Then at Ravenn.

His jaw tightened.

“You’re the one talking about cruelty?”

His voice trembled—not with fear, but with restrained anger.

“My village burned.”

“People who had nothing to do with your war were hurt.”

His grip tightened around the sword.

“And my uncle…”

For a moment, the anger disappeared beneath something heavier.

“…I lost him.”

“Because of you.”

He pointed the blade toward Ravenn.

“You’re a monster.”

Ravenn’s expression hardened.

“Hmm.”

“So that’s what happens when you put a blade in someone’s hand.”

“I thought you came here for the princess.”

A pause.

“But now I wonder.”

His voice became quieter.

“Did you come for her…”

“…or did you come for revenge?”

“Revenge?”

Ashren gave a bitter laugh.

“If I wanted revenge, I had my chance back in Edger.”

His eyes hardened.

“When your men attacked the village, I could have gone after you.”

He tightened his grip around the sword.

“I could have aimed for you when I had the chance.”

His voice lowered.

“But I didn't.”

He looked directly into Ravenn's eyes.

“I'm not foolish enough to chase revenge and call it justice.”

“I came because Elara was taken.”

Ravenn studied him for a long moment.

“And what about my men?”

Ashren frowned.

“The two who died in your village.”

Ravenn’s voice remained calm.

“They had lives too.”

Ashren’s expression darkened.

“You brought them there.”

“You gave them the orders.”

He stepped forward.

“Don't ask me to carry the weight of choices you made.”

Ravenn’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough.”

His voice was suddenly colder.

“You know nothing about this world.”

He gestured toward the sword.

“You think words decide who is right?”

His gaze moved across the gathered Hunters.

“They don’t.”

Then back to Ashren.

“Out here, when everything else has been stripped away…”

Ravenn’s hand tightened around his sword.

“…the blade decides who walks away.”

“So stop talking.”

“Fight.”

Behind them, Elara struggled.

Vorrek rolled his shoulders, amused.

Ravenn stepped close to him.

So close that no one else could hear.

He leaned in and whispered, barely moving his lips—

“Do not kill him yet.”

Vorrek’s grin widened.

Ravenn straightened, voice normal again.

“Begin.”

Ravenn smiled faintly.

Ashren raised the sword.

Not wildly.

Not clumsily.

He took a stance—feet shoulder-width apart, blade angled forward.

His uncle’s voice echoed faintly in his memory:

Don’t swing first. Watch the shoulders.

Vorrek stepped forward, amused.

“No shaking?” Vorrek said.

“Interesting.”

Then he moved.

Fast—but not reckless.

Ashren shifted, not back but to the side.

Vorrek’s punch tore through empty air.

The Night Hunters murmured.

Ashren didn’t waste the opening.

He slashed low—not to kill, but to force distance.

The blade scraped Vorrek’s thigh, cutting cloth and skin.

Blood beaded.

Vorrek stopped.

Slowly, he looked down at the wound.

Then up.

“…You’ve held a blade before.”

Ashren’s breath was steady.

“Enough to know when I’m about to die.”

Vorrek grinned.

“Good.”

He charged.

Ashren blocked—steel ringing hard as Vorrek’s forearm smashed against the blade.

The impact rattled Ashren’s bones, but he held.

He twisted, slipped under Vorrek’s next strike, and drove the pommel into Vorrek’s ribs.

Not hard enough to crush.

Hard enough to sting.

Vorrek grunted.

Ravenn’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Ashren backed away, circling.

He wasn’t stronger.

He knew that.

Dodged.

Redirected.

For several heartbeats, he survived.

Then Vorrek adapted.

A feint.

Ashren shifted—

Too late.

Vorrek’s elbow slammed into his chest.

Air exploded from Ashren’s lungs.

He rolled with the hit, barely keeping his footing, sword scraping dirt.

Vorrek didn’t give him time.

A knee smashed into Ashren’s side.

Something cracked.

Pain screamed.

Ashren staggered—but didn’t fall.

He slashed again, desperation sharpening his aim.

The blade cut Vorrek’s shoulder—deeper this time.

Blood ran.

The Night Hunters fell silent.

Vorrek touched the wound.

His smile faded.

“You learn fast,” he said.

Then he stopped holding back.

The next punch shattered Ashren’s guard.

The sword flew from his hand.

Vorrek grabbed Ashren by the collar and drove him into the ground.

The impact knocked the world sideways.

Ashren gasped, blood filling his mouth.

Vorrek’s fist came down again—

Ashren raised his forearm just in time.

The blow cracked bone.

Ashren screamed—but stayed conscious.

Elara sobbed.

“No—stop—please—!”

Vorrek stepped back, breathing harder now.

Ashren lay shaking, vision blurred.

But through the pain, one thought burned clear:

If I stay down… she’s gone.

Ashren moved.

Slowly.

Agonizingly.

He pushed himself to his knees.

Then to his feet.

Blood dripped from his chin.

His arms trembled.

But his eyes were steady.

“I won’t…”

Ashren coughed, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.

He forced himself upright.

“…run.”

For the first time—

Vorrek didn’t smile.

Ravenn’s expression changed.

Not amusement.

Not contempt.

Interest.

The boy wasn’t strong enough to win.

But he was still standing.

The forest whispered as night fully claimed the road.

And Ashren stood—

broken, bleeding—

but not defeated.