He’d always wanted to become a ranger, to protect Mosswick and its people. That dream had taken root the day Brynnor first arrived in the village. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet the memory lingered, clear and sharp.

  He could still picture the scene. Dalke had been standing in the bustling market square, peddling his wares—bundles of pelts and fresh cuts of meat laid out neatly on a weathered wooden stall. At some point, an older, gruff-looking man had approached him. They had shaken hands and talked, but their conversation was drowned out by the hum of the crowd.

  The word around the village, however, was that Brynnor had been looking to sell rabbit pelts. Rumor had it he'd come to Mosswick for the chance to hunt the invasive wild boars that plagued the nearby forest. The Earl had granted Mosswick and its surrounding villages unrestricted rights to hunt as many wild boars as they could manage. A necessary measure, given the damage the boars had done to the farmland.

  Nelgar remembered the day clearly—a quiet morning, where the only sounds were the songs of the birds and the crunching of leaves. He’d been heading toward the woods, his bow slung over his shoulder, eager to practice his aim.

  Then came the voice, steady and confident, cutting through the chill morning air.

  “Do you know how to use that thing, lad?”

  Nelgar froze mid-step, his heart jolting. He spun around, startled to find a man striding toward him. Despite his sturdy build, the man moved with the silence of a predator, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Nelgar with unrelenting curiosity.

  “I—yes, I think so,” Nelgar stammered, his fingers tightening nervously around the bow’s grip.

  The man let out a warm chuckle. “Think so, eh? Let me see it.”

  Unsure but unable to refuse, Nelgar handed the bow over, watching as the stranger inspected it with practiced hands. The man’s scruffy beard, streaked with salt and pepper, framed a square, sun-weathered face. His clothes were simple but well-worn, like those of a hunter who spent more time in the woods than in a village.

  “This string’s too loose,” the man said, tightening it with a deft twist. “Won’t hit much like that. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he guided Nelgar to an old tree with a hollow in its trunk. “Aim for the hollow,” he instructed, his tone calm but firm. “Pull the bowstring up to your cheek, but breathe in as you draw and breathe out as you release. All in one motion.”

  Nelgar followed his instructions, his arms trembling slightly as he pulled back the string. He released as soon as the fletching brushed his cheek.

  The arrow sailed through the air, striking just above the hollow. Not a perfect shot, but better than he’d expected.

  The man clapped him on the shoulder, a subtle grin spread across his face.. “Not bad. You’ve got potential.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Nelgar replied, the praise filling him with a mixture of pride and relief. “Who are you?”

  “Brynnor,” the man said after a moment, extending a hand. “Just passing through, but I might stick around for a while.”

  That was just the beginning.

  In the weeks that followed, Brynnor took Nelgar under his wing. He taught him to track game through dense woods, set snares, and read the signs of wildlife. They spent countless hours honing skills that made Nelgar feel more capable with each passing day, his admiration for Brynnor growing steadily.

  Not long after, emboldened by his growing skills, Nelgar had brought his sword to Brynnor.

  He found him in front of Dalke’s house, sitting on a stump and skillfully peeling an apple with a small, worn knife. Brynnor glanced up as Nelgar approached, his sharp blue eyes flicking to the sword at Nelgar’s side. It was known that Brynnor had rented a room in Dalke’s cottage until the hunting season ended.

  Nelgar hesitated, gripping the hilt tightly. His mother had told him it was a family heirloom, something sacred, and that he was forbidden to take it out of the house. But he’d done it anyway. Each person who had seen the blade had stared in awe. Nelgar didn’t always enjoy being the center of attention, but he couldn’t deny the way it made him feel—important, maybe even special.

  Finally, after a deep breath, Nelgar slid the longsword from its sheath. The blade gleamed in the light, its weight familiar yet imposing in his hands. He held it carefully, resting it across his palms as though presenting it for judgment. He wondered if Brynnor would see the same value in it that he did—or if he’d question his right to wield it.

  Brynnor’s peeling slowed, the knife pausing mid-slice. His eyes focused on the sword, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. Leaning forward, he studied the blade with an intensity that made Nelgar’s pulse quicken. “Where did you get that sword, lad?” Brynnor asked, his voice calm but deliberate, the weight of his gaze pressing down on Nelgar.

  Nelgar hesitated. He’d never thought much about the sword beyond the vague stories his mother had told him. “It was my father’s,” he said at last, his voice steady but quiet. His grip on the hilt tightened. “He carried it when he fought.”

  Brynnor’s eyes narrowed. “Your father?”

  Nelgar swallowed hard. He’d grown up knowing little about the man—only that he had died when Nelgar was too young to remember him. “My father died in battle,” he said simply.

  Brynnor leaned closer, his expression thoughtful as he examined the sword more closely. For a moment, his gaze seemed to harden, but just as quickly, it softened again. His thumb brushed absently along the edge of his apple, and when he spoke, his tone carried an almost imperceptible edge.

  “A fine blade,” he murmured. His eyes lingered a beat longer on the sword before meeting Nelgar’s. “Your father must have been a well-accomplished warrior”

  Nelgar felt a flicker of pride but couldn’t shake the sense that Brynnor’s eyes were seeing something beyond the sword, as if he were piecing together a puzzle Nelgar didn’t know he was part of.

  “You’d best learn to use it properly,” Brynnor said at last, his voice brightening slightly as he offered a faint smile. “A sword like that deserves more than sitting in a corner collecting dust.”

  That was the day his longsword training had begun. Brynnor hadn’t let Nelgar take the sword out of the house for a long time after that. Instead, he trained with wooden swords, which Brynnor had specially commissioned from the carpenter.

  “How did you learn how to fight?” Nelgar had asked one evening, wiping sweat from his brow after a particularly grueling sparring session.

  “I was a ranger in the service of the Duke,” Brynnor had replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “But that was years ago, lad.”

  “You’re quite skilled for a retired ranger,” Nelgar said, cracking a sly grin. “And for an old man.”

  Brynnor’s brows shot up in mock indignation. “This old man hasn’t shown you half of what he’s capable of yet! Guard up!”

  The training was relentless, and with the added demands of other lessons, Nelgar found himself occupied every day. Brynnor stayed in Mosswick well past the hunting season, his presence becoming a fixture in Nelgar’s routine.

  But one day, Brynnor announced that he had to leave. Nelgar remembered the moment clearly, the way Brynnor had rested a hand on his shoulder, his expression unusually serious.

  “You’d better keep training while I’m gone,” Brynnor had said, his voice firm. “And don’t go getting yourself hurt. You’re the only thing your ma has left.”

  The years that followed were marked by cycles of grueling training and quiet departures. Brynnor would come to Mosswick for weeks, sometimes months, drilling Nelgar in swordsmanship, archery, and the subtle skills of survival. When he left, Nelgar’s routines shifted to solitary practice, each day driven by the echoes of Brynnor’s sharp instructions and encouragement.

  With each return, Brynnor pushed him harder, raising the stakes with every sparring match and every challenge in the woods. They tracked deer through dense thickets, practiced setting traps, and scouted unseen paths through the forest. Under Brynnor’s tutelage, Nelgar grew stronger, faster, and sharper, his skills honed like the edge of a blade.

  The villagefolk had grown used to the ranger’s appearances, though whispers followed him wherever he went. Some said he was a drifter, while others insisted he was a skilled huntsman with a mysterious past. Nelgar didn’t care what the others thought; to him, Brynnor was a teacher, a mentor, and perhaps even the only father figure he had ever known.

  As the seasons passed, Nelgar found himself wondering less about where Brynnor went between visits and more about the lessons he left behind. The training filled the void left by his absence, and each time Brynnor returned, Nelgar couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride as he demonstrated his progress.

  And then, just as quickly as he came, Brynnor would leave again, with only a simple farewell: “Keep at it, lad. I’ll be back.”

  A soft meow pulled Nelgar from his memories, the sound coming from the shadows just ahead. He glanced down to see a scruffy tabby winding its way around his boots, its amber eyes glinting in the moonlight.

  “Hungry again, huh?” Nelgar muttered, crouching to scratch behind its ears. The cat purred, pressing against his hand before darting off into the darkness.

  As he straightened, the weight of the day settled back over him, and his thoughts turned to the morning. Brynnor’s words rang clear in his mind: “Someone’s watching the village.” He’d have to head out early, before the festival began, to see who—or what—had been on that ridge to the west.

  His house came into view, a modest structure that stood quiet against the night. The weathered wood gleamed faintly under the moonlight, the familiar sight stirring a pang of loss. His mother had left it to him when she passed, over a year ago now, taken by a sickness that no healer could cure.

  Nelgar slowed as he approached, his gaze lingering on the darkened windows. Once, he might have seen her shadow there, waiting with a smile and a gentle scolding for staying out too late.

  But now, there was only silence.

  He sighed, shaking the thought away, and climbed the steps to the door. His hand lingered on the latch as he glanced back towards the west, his jaw tightening. Whatever had been up there, he’d find out soon enough.

  Sleep eluded him that night, his mind filled with concerns and mixed emotions. He was close to becoming a ranger now—a real ranger. He’d grown up on stories of rangers, tales whispered in awe, and of course, Brynnor’s accounts from his years of service.

  “Nelgar, don’t pull your cart in front of the horse,” he could still hear his mother saying. “One step at a time, my son.”

  The memory brought a flicker of comfort, her voice a steadying presence even now. She had always known what to say during difficult moments.

  After her passing, the only people who had truly looked out for him were Brynnor and Liora’s aunt, Maris. Though Maris had more of a knack for scolding than offering any warmth, her sternness had its own way of keeping him grounded.

  That thought sparked another, and his eyes widened.

  Oh no.

  “I told Liora I’d go to the festival with her!” he blurted into the darkness, the sound of his voice startling the quiet room.

  He let out a groan, pressing a hand over his face. “I’ll check the cliff at first light,” he muttered, almost pleading with himself. “I’ll be back before the festival. I’ll make it work.”

  With that resolution, the whirlwind in his mind finally began to settle. The tension drained from his shoulders, and at last, sleep claimed him.

  Sleep had barely claimed him when the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in his shutters. Nelgar stirred, groggy but resolute, Brynnor’s words still echoing in his mind: “This will be your first test.”

  He shrugged on the gambeson his mother had sewn, the quilted layers of linen and wool snug against his frame. She’d spent weeks piecing it together after her long days sewing for the villagers. The deep green fabric was a hard-won victory—“Rabbits will see me a mile away in white,” he’d argued. His mother had only relented when he promised to earn the dye himself. That summer, he’d trapped and sold more rabbits than ever before, and the memory brought a faint smile to his lips.

  Next came the padded coif, dyed a matching green, its thick fabric hugging his neck and shoulders. His mother had insisted on making it after hearing Brynnor’s tales of close calls in battle. “You’ll thank me someday,” she’d said with a knowing smile. Nelgar tied the strings beneath his chin, the coif’s warmth both reassuring and protective.

  He pulled on his scuffed leather gloves, the familiar creak grounding him as he fastened the belt at his waist with practiced ease. Next, he swung his dark green cloak over his shoulders, tying it securely at his neck. The heavy fabric would ward off the creeping chill and, Karr willing, help him blend into the forest’s shadows.

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  The weight of his longsword rested against his hip, a steadying presence. It wasn’t the ideal weapon for the woods—too heavy and conspicuous—but it suited his purpose. He wasn’t planning to attack anyone. A bow, while practical for a hunt, felt wrong for this. He wasn’t a predator. If someone caught him, the sword would defend him, not make him the aggressor.

  He left the bow and quiver leaning quietly in the corner of the house—the same corner where his mother had once worked late into the night. He could still picture her there, her needle darting through fabric under the soft glow of lamplight. Though years had passed since her loss, there were moments—quiet, fleeting—when he thought he saw her. A shadow, a movement, a memory tricking his eyes. But whenever he tried to focus, the image slipped away, like a whisper lost to the wind.

  Nelgar exhaled sharply, brushing the memory aside. The forest waited, and with it, the task that would test everything he had trained for.

  Swallowing the sudden ache that tightened his throat, Nelgar stepped outside, his jaw set with quiet determination. Whatever waited on the ridge, he was ready to face it.

  The village’s morning buzz was already underway. The faint clatter of tools and distant murmur of voices carried on the crisp morning air. The baker had likely been awake for hours, the scent of fresh bread wafting all the way to Nelgar’s doorstep.

  His stomach grumbled. He’d forgotten to eat—but there was no time.

  Nelgar walked briskly, his strides purposeful as he made his way toward the edge of the village. He crossed paths with early risers: a farmer hauling tools to his fields, a woman hanging damp linens on a line. His attire, while unusual, didn’t draw much attention. The villagers were used to seeing him dressed this way for his patrols.

  As he approached Liora’s cottage, he slowed. The small home sat quiet in the morning dew, its thatched roof glistening under the pale sunlight. In the backyard, a few chickens clucked softly, their movements rustling the overgrown herbs in the sprawling garden plot.

  Nelgar paused at the gate, his gaze lingering on the house. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he murmured, the words more to himself than anyone who might be listening.

  Then he reached the forest, the stillness of it almost overbearing. A squirrel ran past his foot, jolting him to his senses.

  “I need to keep my wits about me.” He whispered to himself.

  The climb was slow, the path winding through dense trees. Each crackle of leaves beneath his boots felt too loud, as though it might alert whatever—or whoever—had been watching the village.

  But he moved on, slowly and deliberately, his feet moving slower than he had planned on, but moving nonetheless.

  Eventually he arrived at the spot on the cliff that Brynnor had pointed out.

  He had to be careful, bandits or not, if Brynnor would spot him here, he would surely fail his first trial.

  He crouched low, moving one arm behind him to keep the bow and quiver from falling off his shoulder. As he scanned the cliff’s surface, he spotted tracks in the dirt. One set of boot tracks, too large and deep for them to be made by a child.

  Nelgar felt a cold sweat run down his brow.

  “Boot tracks don’t mean bandits” He told himself quietly.

  He decided to follow the tracks.

  Slowly, but methodically, Nelgar moved through the bushes, keeping himself low and quiet. He continued for what seemed hours, but it was likely no more than a dozen minutes.

  Nelgar crept closer, each step deliberate, every rustle of leaves setting his nerves on edge. The faint smell of smoke guided him, and soon the sounds of the camp reached his ears: low voices, the clink of armor, the scrape of metal on stone.

  Gingerly, he pushed aside a large blueberry bush.

  His breath hitched. Ahead of him lay a bustling camp. At least a dozen men moved between crude tents, some eating from bowls, others sharpening blades or donning bits of armor.

  He froze, his stomach twisting into knots.

  “How can this be?” The thought raced through his mind. “I’m going to die here.”

  But then, like a whisper through the chaos, he remembered his mother’s dying words.

  She came to him vividly, her face as clear as if she were standing before him. Even with her gaunt cheeks and the dark circles shadowing her eyes, she had been beautiful.

  She was very supportive of Brynnor’s training, especially due to how motivated Nelgar had been to improve his skills.

  “You’re a brave boy, Nel,” she had said, her voice rasping as though she hadn’t drunk in days, despite the waterskins he’d constantly brought her. “Protect them. They rely on you. They need you.”

  The memory steadied him. His breath slowed, and the trembling in his hands stilled. Fear dissolved, replaced by a calm, focused determination.

  He couldn’t run. Not yet. Not before he knew exactly how many there were.

  Nelgar moved back from his position and slowly retraced his steps. After he was out of sight of the camp, he looked for a vantage point. He had found it to the west, a small knoll covered in trees, that overlooked the area.

  He quickly made his way to it, adrenaline pumping through his body. He scampered up the knoll, noticing that one side of it sloped down all the way into the valley below.

  Nelgar took his position between a couple of firs and observed the camp.

  From his vantage point, Nelgar could see a large portion of the camp, though the full extent of it remained hidden by the trees. His gaze swept over cages lined near the edge of the clearing, where dogs sat quietly, too disciplined to bark or stir.

  They must be well trained, he thought.

  Then his eyes lingered farther into the camp where he saw rows of empty dog cages.

  No.

  Not dog cages.

  These were larger

  They were human cages.

  Nelgar’s stomach twisted, and he swallowed hard, his pulse quickening as the realization sank in.

  “Slavers in Eastmoor?” he whispered, the words barely audible.

  He had heard the stories—slavers in the southern duchy of Windsreach, infamous for their brutal raid on Greyhall. But this? Slavers this far north? It didn’t make sense.

  A wave of shame washed over him.

  This is my job—to know the threats to Mosswick.

  Somehow, he had missed this, and the villagers could pay the price.

  But his job wasn’t over yet. He still hadn’t finished assessing the danger. Nelgar forced himself to push the negative thought aside, turning his focus back to the clearing.

  The camp was alive with activity. Men moved about, eating from bowls, sharpening weapons, and preparing for the day. Some donned simple tunics, others strapped on boiled leather cuirasses. His stomach tightened when he spotted a glint of chainmail. Then another. His throat went dry when one of the men near the fire shifted, revealing a longsword strapped to his side.

  This isn’t a ragged band of thieves. This is a force.

  Nelgar began to count.

  Five. Eight. Twelve.

  Did I count that one twice?

  Thirteen. Sixteen. Twenty.

  A rustling broke his concentration.

  A man appeared to his right, looking out into the valley behind him.

  Nelgar froze. He held his breath, heart pounding in his ears. The man was so close, Nelgar could hear the faint rasp of his breathing.

  Seconds passed. They felt like hours.

  Finally, the man shifted, turning away. Nelgar dared not move.

  As the man moved away, Nelgar stepped back carefully, each step measured and deliberate. His eyes remained fixed on the figure ahead, watching as the man crouched beside a bush, rummaging through the branches in search of berries.

  A woodcutter’s axe rested across his shoulders, its worn handle balancing with ease. The sunlight glinted faintly off the blade, its edge nicked from years of use but still sharp enough to make Nelgar nervous.

  As he stepped back, Nelgar's boot came down on a dry twig.

  Snap.

  The crunch shattered the stillness, echoing louder than he could expect. Nelgar froze, his breath catching in his throat as a jolt of panic shot through him. His muscles tensed, every instinct screaming at him to stay perfectly still.

  Ahead, the man paused, his movements halting mid-reach. The axe remained balanced across his shoulders, the weight of it shifting as he straightened, turning slowly toward the sound.

  Nelgar’s pulse quickened. He dropped low, diving for a bush to his left and tucking himself into the shadows. His breath quick, but quiet, Nelgar tried to steady himself, he could feel his shoulders tremble.

  Then he heard it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. They grew louder, closer. Nelgar’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword, gripping it tightly as his heart pounded against his ribs.

  Through the leaves, Nelgar could see the top of the man’s head—a bald spot glistening in the morning sun. As the man turned towards him, his face came into view: a scraggly goatee framed his thin lips, his left eye glinted unnaturally, catching the light like polished glass.

  The sight sent a chill through Nelgar. The man looked more predator than person, the glassy eye fixed and lifeless in contrast to the sharp, calculating gleam of the other. As the man approached ever closer to Nelgar’s hiding spot, he knew that there was no other choice. He had to act.

  Nelgar sprang from the bush, unsheathing his sword in one swift, fluid motion. The blade sang as it left its scabbard, catching the morning light along its polished edge.

  The man let out a startled yelp as the blade grazed his arm, leaving a thin red line that welled with blood.

  Without hesitation, Nelgar redirected the momentum, bringing the sword back into a defensive guard. He steadied himself, feet planted firmly apart, and raised the blade to the Ox stance—his arms positioned high, the weapon angled forward and parallel to the ground, ready to strike or deflect at a moment’s notice.

  His opponent stared in disbelief, he stared at his bleeding forearm and then back at Nelgar and his stance. Nelgar could see it in the man’s eyes—this wasn’t a fight he was used to. The bandit had likely spent his days preying on defenseless villagers, not squaring off against someone with training.

  They began to circle each other, moving in sync like two predators testing their rival, boots crunching the coarse gravel underneath. The bandit’s grip tightened around his axe, his knuckles whitening, while Nelgar held his stance steady, the tip of his sword tracking every subtle movement.

  The bandit was heavyset, his broad shoulders and thick arms flexing as he hefted the axe with startling ease. If the injury to his arm affected him, Nelgar couldn’t tell. Despite his bulk, his movements were unnervingly nimble, his feet shifting with surprising precision. Nelgar’s chest tightened; though his training and more versatile weapon gave him an advantage, one misstep could spell disaster.

  But there was no time to dwell on the thought. The bandit lunged, his axe swinging in a powerful downward arc, the air whistling as the blade hurtled toward Nelgar.

  Adrenaline surging, Nelgar swung his sword to meet the descending axe, the clash of steel ringing out in the quiet forest. The force rattled his arms, but he pushed through, deflecting the heavy blade to the side. His momentum carried the sword forward, its edge hurtling toward the bandit’s neck—a strike meant to end the fight.

  But his movements were too rushed, too clumsy. The blade veered slightly off course, biting into the bandit’s cheek instead. It wasn’t a killing blow, but the cut was deep enough to draw blood.

  The man staggered back, his lips twisting into a snarl that revealed crooked teeth. Blood trickled down his face, glistening in the morning light. He swiped at the wound with a rough hand, his gaze narrowing as he stared at his blood-stained palm.

  Nelgar felt a flicker of confidence as his muscles relaxed slightly. But the moment of reprieve was short-lived. The bandit kicked out suddenly, spraying a cloud of dust at Nelgar’s face.

  The attack that followed was swift and brutal. The axe swung in a sharp arc, catching Nelgar off guard. His instincts took over. With a desperate motion, he brought his blade up to meet the strike, deflecting it with barely a second to spare.

  The force of the clash jolted Nelgar, but he pivoted into a thrust, aiming to capitalize on the opening. His blade struck true—at least, it should have. Instead of piercing flesh, the blade glanced off thick wool, the strike awkward and misaligned.

  Nelgar’s legs felt weak, trembling with every step as if the ground beneath him might give way. His arms burned with the effort of holding his sword steady, the familiar weight now a burden.

  This isn’t sparring, he thought, the realization hitting him like a blow to the chest.

  This is real. He could die here—one wrong move, one misstep, and that axe would cleave him in two.

  His breath came in shallow bursts, each one sharper than the last. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to unsteady his resolve. He cursed under his breath, shaking his head as if to clear it.

  Focus, damn it.

  Forcing his feet apart, he repositioned himself, blade raised, bracing for the next attack.

  The bandit wasted no time, swinging his axe in a fierce upward arc, the blade cutting viciously through the air.

  Nelgar saw the move coming and stepped back just in time, the axe narrowly missing his torso. Exploiting the bandit’s momentum, Nelgar countered in one fluid motion, his sword arcing toward the man’s exposed left side. He remembered the glass eye—its wide blind spot—and focused his assault there, determined to use every advantage he could.

  The blade bit into fabric and flesh, drawing a sharp grunt of pain from the bandit. Nelgar withdrew quickly, stepping out of the man’s immediate reach. His heart pounded, but his movements were steady, precise.

  “You fight better than you look, boy,” the bandit growled, his voice thick with rage.

  The words caused Nelgar a brief lapse in concentration. In that instant, the bandit stepped forward, closing the distance with a sharp, deliberate motion.

  Nelgar barely registered the movement before the axe came swinging again, faster and closer than he anticipated. The blade rushed past his head, so close he felt a sharp sting as it nicked his ear, warmth blooming as blood trickled down his neck.

  A wave of panic swept through him, his breath came in ragged and his ears began ringing as dark thoughts swirled in his mind.

  If I fall here, the village falls with me. There’s no one else to warn them. No one else to stop this..

  The weight of that truth bore down on him like the bandit’s next swing. Instinct took over. Nelgar’s sword was already in motion, but his parry missed its mark by a hair’s breadth. Instead, his blade followed through with a counterstrike, thrusting at the bandit’s shoulder. The sword’s edge bit deep into the gambeson, slicing through fabric and drawing blood.

  The bandit staggered, letting out a sharp grunt of pain, but Nelgar couldn’t dwell on his success. His grip tightened on the hilt, his knuckles white. This wasn’t just a fight anymore; it was a battle to protect everything he’d ever known.

  The bandit’s hand shot up to clutch his wounded shoulder, and Nelgar noticed his right arm hanging lower than before, the strength in it visibly faltering. The cutthroat took another step back, his wide-eyed gaze locking onto Nelgar’s. Fear flickered in his expression, replacing the earlier rage.

  With his opponent’s defense compromised, Nelgar knew this was his chance to end the fight. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the opening clear. But hesitation gripped him. Reacting to an opponent’s strikes came naturally, but delivering a decisive blow to someone so vulnerable felt different—calculated, deliberate.

  If I hesitate now, it won’t just be my life. He’ll slaughter the village. Every death will be on me.

  The thought sharpened the weight of his decisions, but before Nelgar could act, the man let out a guttural roar. He lunged forward with sudden ferocity, closing the distance in an instant. His woodcutter’s axe swung high, its brutal arc descending toward Nelgar’s head with deadly intent.

  He was fast—faster than Nelgar expected. The axe descended with terrifying momentum, the air splitting with its force. But Nelgar’s training kicked in. His body moved without thought, the motions ingrained over countless drills. Being in the ox stance, his sword was already positioned for a high block, and he brought it up with practiced ease.

  Steel met steel in a harsh clang. Nelgar absorbed the impact and immediately pushed his blade downward, dragging the axe along with it. The bandit’s momentum betrayed him, pulling him off balance and exposing his chest.

  Nelgar didn’t hesitate this time. He pivoted on his back foot, shifting his weight forward, and thrust his blade toward the man’s exposed torso.

  His blade thrust forward with precision. He could feel resistance as the blade sank deep into the bandit’s chest, the hilt trembling in his grip. For a moment, everything froze—the bandit’s wide eyes, his silent gasp, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air.

  Relief and grim realization washed over Nelgar. He had killed someone.

  With a trembling hand, he pulled the blade free from the man’s chest, blood trailing down its edge. The man’s eyes fluttered, their light fading as the axe fell from his hands and his body sagged.

  But then they snapped open.

  A guttural scream tore from the bandit’s throat, his bloodied face twisted in raw, animalistic rage. Before Nelgar could react, the man lunged, his calloused hand clamping around Nelgar’s neck with a desperate, iron grip.

  The weight of the bandit’s body drove Nelgar backward, his boots skidding on the loose dirt. Blood dripped from the man’s mouth, hot and sticky, splattering across Nelgar’s face and seeping into the neckline of his coif.

  Nelgar stumbled, his boots scraping helplessly against the shifting gravel as he fought to regain his footing. The slope loomed closer, its jagged edge a silent warning, but the bandit’s grip only tightened. His strength, fueled by adrenaline and fury, was impossible to break.

  With a final, guttural roar, the bandit threw all his weight forward. Nelgar’s balance broke. The world lurched, the ground vanishing beneath him. He tumbled backward, the incline swallowing him as rocks and dirt dug into his gambeson, tearing at fabric and skin.

  The last thing Nelgar saw was the bandit’s flailing form, his wounded body pitching after him, arms thrashing wildly as they both careened down the slope.

  Pain exploded as Nelgar’s head struck something hard—a jolt so sharp it blurred his vision instantly. He couldn’t tell if it was a rock or a root. All he knew was the world tilted, spinning wildly as everything slipped away. He reached out blindly, grasping for anything to stop his descent, but his hands found only air and dirt.

  The sliding didn’t stop. Momentum carried him downward, faster and faster, until the darkness consumed him entirely.