Chapter Two
The Weight of Steel
The shop stank of hot metal and old blood.
A smell you didn’t forget once you’d breathed it deep enough.
Silas stood under a swinging lantern, its sputtering light throwing shadows across the shelves stacked high with twisted limbs, cracked servo cores, and torn wiring.
Behind the counter, the shopkeeper watched him without blinking.
Or breathing.
It wasn’t a man.
It was a Skeleton — one of the old ones.
Built before the world ended the first time, when cities still touched the clouds and men thought they could live forever.
They were machines given thought.
Survivors of a better, crueler age.
Now they ran places like this — forgotten corners where flesh and iron blurred together.
This one was rusted along the jawline, one optic dimmer than the other.
But it moved like a thing that had never once known weakness.
"You want an arm," it said, voice flat and mechanical, scraping against the inside of Silas’s skull.
"Not cheap. Not fast. Good arms cost blood."
Silas dropped a heavy pouch of coins onto the counter.
The Skeleton didn’t flinch at the weight of it.
"Blood's been paid," Silas said.
"Show me what you’ve got."
The Skeleton tilted its head, metal plates groaning.
It swept one long finger toward the wall behind it, where rows of mechanical arms hung like butchered meat.
"Lightweight combat models. Heavy-duty shock frames. Old-world relics. Broken dreams. Take your pick, fleshbag."
Silas stepped closer, eyes scanning the racks.
Most of them were junk — outdated, poorly repaired, half-corroded by the desert air.
But here and there, something better gleamed under the grime:
A shock-forged arm built for speed and swordplay.
A plated industrial limb built to block sledgehammers.
A sleek old-world design — thin, deadly, almost too elegant for a world like this.
He flexed his ruined shoulder, feeling the phantom ache where flesh met steel.
He needed something tough.
Reliable.
Not pretty.
Pretty got you killed.
Silas lifted one arm from the rack — heavy, simple, no polish — and turned it in his hands.
Servos still tight.
Grip strength tuned for crushing bone, not turning gears.
"This one," he said.
The Skeleton chuckled, a low grinding sound like rusted gears.
"Good choice. Ugly. Mean. Like you."
It reached for a battered toolkit, started prepping the installation with cold precision.
Silas watched without flinching as the Skeleton removed the ruined stump of his old arm, sparks flying, blood welling along the scar lines.
Pain was a small thing now.
A ghost.
Not real enough to stop him.
Outside, the night wind howled against the stone walls of Vain Hollow.
The world waiting.
Hating.
Promising death.
Silas gritted his teeth as the new arm locked into place with a hard, metallic snap.
The weight settled into his bones like it had always belonged there.
Stronger now.
Meaner now.
Ready.
Because somewhere out beyond the lights and the dust, something was coming for him.
And when it did, he planned to meet it with a smile and a blade dripping red.
***
The new arm still hissed and clicked as Silas flexed the fingers.
Good weight.
Good balance.
Better than the junk he'd been dragging around.
He left the Skeleton shop without a word.
Crossed the cracked stone streets of Vain Hollow, pushing through the market crowds — scavengers, mercenaries, traders smelling of dust and blood and old sweat.
Most men here bought food or drink when they got paid.
Some bought women.
Some bought promises.
Silas headed straight for the weapons merchant.
A crooked shack built into the side of an old stone wall, iron blades hanging like rotten fruit from the rafters.
No banners.
No fancy signs.
Just steel.
And steel was what mattered.
The shopkeeper was a man with one eye and no nose, a stitched scar where his mouth should’ve been.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
Silas nodded once.
The man nodded back.
A trade between survivors.
Simple. Clean.
Silas moved through the racks.
Most of it was junk — rusted cleavers, cracked sabers, chipped axes barely worth their weight in scrap.
But tucked away in the back, behind a row of broken short swords, he found it.
A saber.
Long, lean, perfectly balanced.
The blade was dark metal, matte-finished, with a single curved edge honed to a razor’s breath.
Old-world craftsmanship.
A weapon meant for killing, not for showing off.
Silas lifted it with his good hand, feeling the weight settle into his bones like it belonged there.
The balance was perfect.
The edge sang against the air.
He swung it once, slow and deliberate.
It whispered through the space before him, faster than thought.
Deadly and sure.
The price was carved into a scrap of bone wired to the hilt.
It wasn’t cheap.
It would cost him most of what he'd just earned.
He didn’t hesitate.
Silas dropped the pouch of coins onto the counter.
The one-eyed man counted them with quick, dirty fingers.
Then pushed a scabbard across the wood — rough leather, reinforced seams, built for hard travel.
Silas sheathed the saber slow, feeling the click of it locking home.
It felt right.
It felt final.
In this world, survival wasn’t about hope.
It wasn’t about faith.
It was about preparation.
The best arm he could afford.
The best weapon he could afford.
The will to keep moving when everything else burned.
He stepped out into the dying light, feeling the new saber at his side, the new weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
Out there, past the walls, past the false safety of Vain Hollow — death was still waiting.
Still hunting.
Silas didn’t plan on making it easy.
***
Silas had just stepped back into the street, the new saber resting easy against his hip, when a shadow broke from the alley ahead.
A man — broad-shouldered, sun-scarred, wearing armor pieced together from at least four dead factions.
A caravan leader, by the look of him.
The kind who lived long enough to stop pretending he was anything else.
He moved with the deliberate weight of a man who had survived too many bad years.
And when he spoke, his voice was sandpaper on stone.
"You’re Silas," he said.
Not a question. A fact.
Silas rested his hand lightly on the hilt of his saber.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
The man gave a tight, humorless smile.
"My name’s Dren. I run a caravan south. Heavy cargo. High risk. Good pay."
He jerked his chin toward the gate, toward the endless wasteland beyond.
"Lost half my guards to a river crossing two weeks back. Wild ones. Nothing left but bones and stains in the sand."
Silas said nothing.
Watched him.
Measured him.
Dren spat into the dirt.
"You’re good. Heard the stories. Heard about Shiggar’s Rest. You walk the line better than most."
He stepped closer.
"And I need men who walk the line. Not boys playing soldier."
Silas’s new arm flexed at his side, the servos purring low.
His saber shifted under his hand, familiar already.
He didn’t trust Dren.
Didn’t trust anyone.
But he trusted the hunger in the man’s voice.
The desperation.
That was real.
That was honest.
"What’s the cargo?" Silas asked, voice flat.
Dren shrugged.
"Doesn't matter. Not your problem. Your job's simple: keep the caravan moving. Kill what needs killing. Get paid."
Silas studied him a long moment.
The desert wind tugged at the edges of the market stalls.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked — or something pretending to be a dog.
Finally, Silas nodded once.
Short. Sharp.
Dren’s grin widened — a crack in a stone wall.
"We move at dawn. Meet me at the south gate."
He tossed a small coin pouch toward Silas.
Silas caught it out of the air with his metal hand.
Heavy enough.
Advance pay.
Serious.
Dren turned and disappeared back into the alleys, swallowed by the stink of iron and sweat.
Silas stood there a moment longer, the new saber at his side, the new weight in his palm.
Another job.
Another march into the teeth of hell.
But that was fine.
That was the deal he made with the world a long time ago.
Survive.
No matter what it cost.
He tightened his grip on the coin pouch and turned toward the broken skyline of Vain Hollow.
Tomorrow, the killing would start again.
And Silas would be ready.
***
Silas didn’t waste the rest of the night.
After the deal was struck, he moved through the alleys of Vain Hollow with purpose, staying clear of the drunken mercenaries and pickpockets lurking in the shadows.
First stop was a gear trader tucked behind the tanneries — a squat man with greasy hair and a voice like a rusted hinge.
Silas bought a splinter kit off him — battered but complete.
Enough tools and cables to do field repairs if the new arm locked up again.
He paid extra for a second-hand bottle of servo oil, the good kind that didn’t freeze up under desert cold.
Then he found a butcher still awake and bought dry meat — tough as leather, but it kept.
A few skins of stale water, probably filtered through cloth and prayer.
Good enough to drink if you didn’t mind the taste of old iron.
Last, he traded the last few coins for a new backpack — thick leather, reinforced with old plate metal.
Heavy, ugly, durable.
It would hold everything he needed.
Silas packed slow and methodical.
Splinter kit at the bottom.
Oil bottle wrapped tight in rags.
Meat and water lashed to the side pockets for quick reach.
Saber strapped across the outside for easy draw.
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Every piece had a place.
Every place had a reason.
When he was done, the backpack felt like a second spine across his shoulders — solid and certain.
Not comfortable.
But comfort didn’t keep you breathing.
The moons hung low and broken in the sky when he found an abandoned corner near the south gate and closed his eyes for a few hours.
Light sleep.
Knife in hand.
Metal arm resting loose at his side.
At the first breath of dawn, he was already awake.
The caravan was gathering — half a dozen wagons, beasts groaning under heavy loads, rough men sharpening swords, checking bolts, muttering about the road ahead.
Dren stood at the front, shouting orders, barking names.
Two fingers missing from his left hand.
Didn't slow him a bit.
Silas joined the line without a word.
No introductions.
No welcomes.
He wasn’t here to make friends.
He was here to walk the line between life and death a little longer.
And he had a feeling this road was going to make every step count.
***
Silas leaned against the rear wagon, arms crossed, and watched the others gather.
Guards. Mercenaries. Drifters.
Most of them wearing armor held together with twine and stubbornness.
He sized them up the way you sized up weapons on a rack — checking edges, balance, flaws.
Because out there, beyond the walls, it wasn’t the beasts that killed you first.
It was weak men.
Broken men.
Men who cracked under fear.
There was a kid near the front — maybe sixteen — still polishing his sword like he thought it mattered.
Wide-eyed, green, already dead in Silas’s mind.
Two more — brothers, by the look of them — heavyset, scarred, moving with the lazy arrogance of men who’d won more bar fights than battles.
They’d fight hard until the first time they bled.
Then they'd fold.
A wiry woman standing alone, crossbow slung across her back, knives tucked at every angle.
Silas watched the way her eyes moved — slow, deliberate.
She wasn’t here to make friends either.
Maybe she’d survive.
And at the head, Dren — barking orders, checking straps, keeping the beasts in line.
Hard man.
Not stupid.
But desperate.
Desperate men made bad choices.
And desperate choices got caravans buried under sand.
Silas took it all in, slow and steady.
Filed it away in the part of his mind that always stayed cold.
Noted who would run.
Who might stand.
Who would need killing if things went bad.
The sun crawled higher, bleeding across the wasteland in sheets of broken gold.
The gates of Vain Hollow creaked open.
Dren waved his arm, shouting.
"Move out!"
The wagons groaned under their loads.
The beasts snorted, pulling heavy against cracked harnesses.
The guards fell into a loose, ragged perimeter.
And the caravan rolled into the wasteland.
No fanfare.
No banners.
Just the slow, grinding march of men who knew that every step forward was another chance for the world to kill them.
The walls of Vain Hollow shrank behind them, swallowed by heat and dust.
Ahead, only broken hills, dead rivers, and the endless teeth of the desert.
Silas walked near the rear wagon, eyes scanning the horizon, feeling the new saber at his side and the new weight of the arm across his spine.
Every step kicked up dust.
Every step was a bet against death.
And Silas planned on winning, one step at a time.
***
The first day bled them slow.
The sun hammered the caravan from above, a white-hot fist pressing down without mercy.
Heat shimmered across the broken ground, making the hills dance like ghosts.
Dust clung to everything — armor, weapons, lungs.
By midday, the beasts were drooping in their harnesses, tongues lolling.
The wagons creaked louder, the wheels groaning against every rut and rock.
The guards moved in silence, heads down, mouths dry.
Even the kid up front stopped polishing his sword.
Now he just stumbled forward, eyes glassy.
Silas kept pace near the rear wagon, the new backpack digging into his shoulders, sweat slicking his armor.
The new arm radiated heat where the sun beat against the metal, but the servos hummed steady, clean.
Worth every coin.
He drank once around noon — a mouthful of lukewarm water from a battered skin — and saved the rest.
Too early to waste it.
Too early to die stupid.
Dren rode at the head of the line, wrapped in a cracked leather cloak, one eye always scanning the ridges.
The man knew how to move cargo through bad country.
Silas gave him that.
But he also saw the way Dren’s shoulders stiffened every time they crested a hill.
The way he checked the horizon a little too often.
Something was eating at him.
And Silas knew enough to recognize the scent of a man hiding something bad.
The wasteland stretched on, endless and empty.
Nothing but broken rocks, the bones of old outposts, and the long, cruel line of the sun dragging them east.
By nightfall, the caravan staggered into a hollow between two ridges.
A bad place to camp — too many blind spots, too many high points for watchers — but it was shelter from the wind.
They circled the wagons tight.
Tethered the beasts.
Lit small fires low to the ground, hidden as best they could.
Silas ate a strip of dry meat without tasting it.
Chewed slow.
Swallowed slower.
The guards spoke in low voices, grumbling about the heat, the pace, the pay.
Fear starting to creep into their voices.
The kind of fear that cracked men open when the real danger came.
Silas sat with his back against a wagon wheel, oiling the joints of his new arm in the dim firelight.
Watching.
Listening.
The desert didn’t kill you fast.
It wore you down.
Sucked the water out of your blood, the hope out of your chest.
And by the look of the men around him, it was already winning.
Silas finished the oiling.
Checked his saber’s edge by feel.
Rolled his shoulders.
Tomorrow would be worse.
It always was.
He closed his eyes for a few precious hours of sleep — light, ready, weapon close at hand.
Because out there, past the ridgelines, the desert was still watching.
Still waiting.
And it never waited long.
***
The second day started worse than the first.
The sun wasn’t even fully over the ridgeline when one of the middle wagons buckled.
A deep crack rang out across the flats — sharp, final — like a bone snapping.
Silas turned fast, hand dropping to the saber.
But it wasn’t an attack.
It was worse.
It was the rear axle on the third wagon, shearing clean in two under the weight.
The beasts stumbled, lowing in panic.
Crates of food and water supplies tilted sideways, spilling across the sand.
One barrel split open, bleeding precious water into the dust.
Curses broke out from the drivers.
The caravan lurched to a ragged stop.
Silas moved fast, boots crunching over the rocks, scanning the wreck.
The axle wasn’t just broken.
It was rotten through — eaten away from the inside.
Bad wood.
Bad maintenance.
Maybe sabotage.
Dren barked orders, red-faced, spitting into the dust.
The guards scrambled to lift the load, to brace the wagon with stones and battered shields.
Silas stood back for a moment, watching.
Thinking.
The wasteland didn’t forgive mistakes.
A broken wagon meant delay.
Delay meant exposure.
Exposure meant death.
He stepped up to Dren, voice low but cutting through the shouting.
"How long to fix it?"
Dren shook his head, jaw clenched tight.
"Half a day if we're lucky. Maybe longer."
Silas swept his eyes across the ridgelines — high, jagged shapes against the rising sun.
Too many places for eyes to hide.
Too many places for arrows to fly from.
"Then you better make it fast," Silas said.
"Or you’ll be fixing it under fire."
Dren didn’t argue.
Just spat again and turned back to the work.
Silas paced a slow circle around the perimeter, scanning the horizon.
Nothing yet.
No dust plumes.
No shapes moving against the rocks.
But he knew better than to trust empty horizons.
The desert was patient.
Predators even more so.
And they’d just hung a bloody flag for every raider, slaver, and hungry thing within twenty miles to see.
***
The scout came stumbling in just before noon.
Blood streaked his leathers.
Dust caked his face.
One arm hung limp at his side, useless.
He looked half-dead already.
Silas spotted him first — a flicker of movement against the emptiness — and moved fast.
Caught the man before he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
The scout’s mouth worked uselessly for a second, dry and cracked.
Silas pulled a flask from his belt, splashed a little water over the man’s tongue.
Enough to get words out.
"Bandits," the scout rasped.
"South ridge. Fifty... maybe more. Riding fast. Heavy armor. Bows, cleavers... gods..."
He coughed blood onto Silas’s boots.
Silas didn't flinch.
Just lowered the man to the ground and stood.
Turned to Dren.
"Fifty," he said, voice flat.
"Maybe more."
Dren’s face tightened, jaw grinding so hard Silas heard the teeth scrape.
He stared at the broken wagon, at the scattered supplies, at the tired beasts foaming at the mouth from heat.
They wouldn’t outrun it.
Not with the wagon down.
Not in this terrain.
The guards started murmuring, fear cutting sharp across the camp.
Some clutched weapons tighter.
Some edged toward the beasts, thinking about running.
Silas felt the shift in the air —
That split-second when a group could either fall apart or fall into line.
He stepped forward, voice cutting through the chaos like a drawn blade.
"Circle the wagons!" he barked.
"Form up! Shields outside! Bows ready!"
Some hesitated.
Some moved fast.
Enough moved to make it count.
Dren snapped out of his own frozen moment, roaring orders to the drivers, grabbing rope and spare wood to rig a quick defensive ring.
The camp shifted from panic to brutal necessity.
Steel scraped against steel.
Footsteps hammered across the hardpan.
Men and women dropped into firing positions, eyes wide and dry.
Silas drew his saber, feeling the new arm respond — fluid, heavy, deadly.
He rolled his shoulder once, feeling the tightness of the repaired joint.
Good enough.
It had to be.
The dust cloud on the southern horizon was rising now — a fat, ugly boil in the sky.
Banners fluttering — bone-white cloth, black handprints.
Outlaw marks.
Slaver gangs.
The worst kind.
Fifty riders.
Maybe more behind them.
Coming hard, coming fast, with murder in their eyes and chains in their hands.
Silas set his feet shoulder-width apart, saber loose and ready.
No speeches.
No fear.
Just survival.
He muttered low under his breath, so only the wind could hear him.
"Come and get it, you bastards."
***
The dust rolled in first.
Thick and red, clinging to armor, choking the lungs.
Then came the bandits — a wall of riders fanned out across the ridge, bows strung, cleavers flashing under the sun.
The caravan was surrounded.
No way out.
No bargains left to make.
Silas stood behind the barricaded wagons, saber loose in his hand, breathing slow.
The old rhythm settling in.
The one that said: survive now, bleed later.
Dren paced the line behind him, shouting rough encouragement.
The other guards — the ones Silas had judged worth the dirt they stood on — tightened their grips on blades and spears, faces set like stone.
No speeches.
No fear.
Just cold men ready to kill and die under a boiling sun.
Vesh crouched two wagons down, her crossbow balanced steady across a barrel, her face smeared with dust and dried blood.
Her eyes were flat.
Focused.
Good.
The bandits didn't charge right away.
They circled slow, wolves testing the fence, calling out jeers and promises about chains, food, water.
Trying to break nerves.
Trying to peel someone off the line.
It didn’t work.
Silas shifted his stance, feet braced in the sand, metal hand flexing once, slow and sure.
He knew how this would go.
He'd lived it a hundred times.
The first charge would come hard.
Fast.
No finesse — just weight, chaos, brute force.
And you either held your line.
Or you died.
The horn blew from the ridge — a harsh, broken note.
And the bandits came.
Fifty riders screaming down the slope, cleavers raised, bows snapping.
The ground shook under the hammering of hooves.
Silas didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
He waited —
Waited —
And when the first riders closed within spitting distance —
"NOW!" he roared.
Crossbows snapped from the wagons — tight, deadly lines of fire.
Vesh put a bolt through a rider’s throat — neat, efficient.
The man pitched sideways, trampled under his own beast.
Another rider lunged over the barricade, swinging a hooked axe.
Silas moved fast —
Steel met steel —
A brutal clash of force.
His saber cut low, severing the bandit’s leg at the knee.
The man fell screaming.
Silas stepped in, buried the saber in his chest.
Ripped it free without a second thought.
All around him, the guards fought like cornered beasts.
Hard, fast, ugly.
The brothers — the ones Silas thought might fold — held their ground, hacking with heavy cleavers, grunting like oxen.
Another guard — a wiry man with a tattooed scalp — gutted a bandit trying to climb the wagon bed, blood spilling like black oil.
Vesh reloaded and fired again, calm and ruthless.
Dropped another rider clean off his saddle.
The first wave hit the wall of wagons and broke like rotten wood.
Bodies crumpled against the shields.
Riders screamed and fell.
Beasts thrashed and died under the rain of bolts and blades.
Silas moved through it all like a ghost wrapped in iron.
Cutting.
Blocking.
Killing.
Every swing of the saber was tight, controlled, lethal.
Every movement of the metal arm was heavy, brutal, precise.
This wasn’t heroics.
It wasn’t rage.
It was work.
Simple, bloody work.
And Silas had always been good at his work.
The second wave was already forming at the ridgeline, thicker, meaner.
More banners.
More blood coming.
But the caravan still stood.
Still breathing.
Still ready.
Silas wiped blood off the edge of his saber with a torn scrap of cloth, eyes never leaving the horizon.
The desert wanted them dead.
The bandits wanted them chained.
But Silas wanted to live.
And he was willing to kill for it.
***
The second wave slammed into the caravan like a hammer.
More riders.
More arrows hissing down like hornets.
More weight smashing against the wagons, trying to crack the line open.
Silas fought in the thick of it — steel flashing, boots grinding deep into the dust.
His saber caught a bandit’s cleaver mid-swing, knocked it wide, and opened the man’s throat with a brutal backhand slash.
No time to think.
Only time to kill.
Another rider vaulted the barricade, swinging low.
Silas ducked under the blade, drove his saber up into the rider’s gut, twisted hard.
Somewhere behind him —
A cry.
Sharp, short.
He turned fast.
Vesh was down.
An arrow buried deep into her side, just under the ribs.
She was still upright, staggering backward, crossbow hanging useless from her fingers.
Blood was already pouring down her leathers, dark and heavy.
Silas moved.
No hesitation.
He reached her in three strides, knocking a bandit aside with the dead weight of his metal arm.
Slid an arm under her shoulder — the good side — and half-carried, half-dragged her back behind the wagons.
Vesh grunted low, teeth clenched against the pain, but she didn’t scream.
Didn’t beg.
Good.
She had a fighter’s soul.
He dumped her behind the wheel of the rearmost wagon, out of the direct line of fire.
Tore a strip of cloth from her belt.
Pressed it hard against the wound.
Her face twisted, but she nodded — understood.
Pain later.
Fight now.
"Stay low," Silas said, voice flat.
"Bleed later."
Vesh managed a bloody smile.
"Plan to."
Another volley of arrows whistled overhead.
Another rider slammed into the side of the wagon, clawing at the boards.
Silas spun back into the fight, saber rising.
The metal arm swinging wide, knocking the attacker off his feet.
A stomp to the throat ended the struggle.
He didn’t check on Vesh again.
Didn’t have to.
If she could still pull a trigger, she’d survive.
If not, she was already dead.
That was the world they lived in.
The second wave started to falter.
Too many dead.
Too much steel in their guts.
But the cost was rising.
And Silas could feel it —
The next wave would be worse.
The bandits weren't just here for loot.
They were here to wipe them out.
***
Silas caught the movement between the charges — a flash of better armor, a steadier hand among the chaos.
The bandit captain.
Riding a black desert hound, sword across his back, barking orders at the swarm.
Six bodyguards clinging close — big men, brutal weapons, hard eyes.
Not the usual rabble.
Killers.
Real ones.
Silas watched him for three heartbeats.
Made his choice by the fourth.
He tightened the straps across his chest, adjusted his grip on the saber, and stepped away from the line.
No orders.
No explanations.
Just a man walking into hell because it was the only way to make it stop.
The guards shouted after him.
Dren cursed his name.
Silas didn’t hear them.
Didn’t need them.
He moved fast —
Low and hard, weaving through the broken wagons, past the dead and dying.
Out into the open ground where the bandits massed for the next charge.
The first bodyguard saw him coming —
Raised a heavy axe, mouth opening to shout —
Too slow.
Silas drove his saber under the man's ribs, twisting hard.
The big man folded with a wet grunt.
The second turned — swinging a mace the size of a wagon wheel —
Silas ducked under the swing, his metal arm snapping out in a brutal arc.
The metal fist connected with the man's jaw —
Bone cracked —
The man dropped like a butchered ox.
The other bodyguards surged forward, shouting, blades flashing.
Silas moved like water over broken stone.
Precise.
Deadly.
He sidestepped a clumsy spear thrust —
Carved the wielder's throat open with a short, brutal slash.
Another tried to grab him —
Silas let him close —
Metal arm locking around the wrist, yanking hard —
Pulled the man off balance and ran him through with a cold, clean thrust.
Four down.
Two left.
The fifth came hard, swinging a rusted cleaver.
Silas caught the blow on his metal arm — sparks showering —
And kicked the man's knee sideways, snapping it backward.
The man shrieked — Silas silenced him with a boot heel to the throat.
The last bodyguard hesitated —
Saw death walking toward him and turned to run.
Silas didn’t chase.
Didn’t need to.
The desert would finish him.
Now there was only the captain.
The black-hound mount reared, snorting, foam dripping from its jaws.
The captain drew his sword — a long, curved blade etched with old bloodstains.
Silas stepped forward.
One man against another.
Steel against steel.
No mercy.
No second chances.
And Silas didn’t plan on dying today.
***
The bandit captain swung first.
A wide, arcing slash meant to take Silas’s head off.
Fast — faster than a man that size should have been.
Silas ducked under it, feeling the air split above his scalp.
He moved tight, inside the captain’s reach, and drove his saber for the ribs —
But the captain twisted, armor plates grinding, and slammed an elbow into Silas’s chest.
Hard.
Enough to knock the wind out of him, send him staggering back across the dust.
The crowd of bandits roared from the ridge, hungry for blood.
The captain grinned — yellow teeth flashing under the battered helmet — and came forward, relentless.
Sword high. Shield low.
A butcher’s rhythm, steady and merciless.
Silas reset his stance, metal hand flexing once.
The saber felt heavier now.
The sun burned hotter.
His blood pounded against his temples.
The next exchange was pure violence.
The captain swung low —
Silas caught it with the flat of his blade —
Twisted —
Rammed his metal shoulder into the captain's chest.
Both men grunted from the impact.
The captain recovered first —
Ripped a dagger from his belt —
Slashed low for Silas’s gut.
Silas jumped back just in time, the blade singing past his stomach.
Sweat poured into his eyes.
He wiped it away with the back of his arm, breathing hard through clenched teeth.
The captain pressed harder, sensing the fatigue.
Feints. Slashes. Bludgeoning shield bashes.
Silas blocked what he could.
Dodged what he couldn’t.
Took hits on the metal arm when he had to — metal shrieking against steel, bruises blooming deep inside the bone.
The duel dragged on.
Breaths grew ragged.
Swings grew heavier.
No finesse now.
No grace.
Just two men locked in the oldest kind of war —
Who could stand longer.
Who could bleed more without falling.
The captain feinted left, pivoted, came for the knee —
Silas saw it too late —
Took a shallow cut across the thigh, blood pouring fast and hot down his boot.
He hissed through his teeth.
Stepped forward instead of back.
Met the captain’s advance head-on.
They crashed together like bulls.
Saber against sword.
Metal arm against battered shield.
Boots grinding deep ruts in the sand.
Silas’s arm caught the next shield bash dead center —
Locked it.
Held it.
He drove his forehead forward —
Cracked the captain’s nose flat with a wet snap.
The man reeled back — stunned, bleeding, snorting like a wounded ox.
Silas didn’t hesitate.
He shifted his grip.
One clean movement.
The saber punched up under the captain’s breastplate —
Deep.
Final.
Done.
The captain gasped once — a soft, broken sound —
Then dropped to his knees.
Then dropped to the dirt.
Silas stood over him, breathing like a man drowning.
Blood dripping from his blade.
Sweat pouring from every pore.
The desert wind tugging at his torn armor like fingers trying to pull him down.
Above them, the bandits wavered.
Hesitated.
Saw their captain fall.
And fear — real fear — broke across their line like a crack in old stone.
Silas planted his saber into the dirt beside the captain’s corpse.
Raised his metal arm high.
No words.
No shouts.
Just the image —
One man standing.
Fifty broken.
The bandits broke and ran.
No orders.
No discipline.
Just raw survival instincts sending them scrambling back into the dust.
The desert swallowed them up.
Silas stayed standing until the last of them disappeared into the heat haze.
Only then did he sag against the saber, blood soaking into the sand around him.
Alive.
Still standing.
For now.
***
Silas yanked the captain’s sword free from the dirt.
The blade was heavy.
Not made for finesse.
Made for cleaving through armor and bone.
He slung it over his good shoulder.
Next, he knelt — slow, grimacing — and stripped the dead man’s armor.
Chestplate, pauldrons, reinforced greaves.
Good steel, scarred and battered, but still worth real coin in the right hands.
Blood soaked through the straps as he worked, but Silas didn’t flinch.
Didn't wipe his hands clean after.
Out here, blood was just part of the weight you carried.
When the gear was secured, he stood — swaying a little — and limped back toward the circled wagons.
The guards watched him come.
Silent.
Still.
Eyes wide, faces tight.
Respect was too soft a word for what they felt.
Fear was closer.
He crossed the open ground without a word.
Walked up to the nearest wagon.
Hefted the sword and the armor.
Dropped them onto the flatbed with a heavy clang.
The sound echoed across the hollow — sharp and final.
Silas turned, facing the others.
Spoke flat, loud enough for all to hear.
"Captain’s sword and armor belong to me."
No arguments.
No protests.
By caravan law, good spoils were meant to be split.
Divided clean so nobody starved while others grew rich.
But nobody spoke.
Nobody even breathed heavy.
Because they’d all seen what Silas had done.
Seen him walk alone into the teeth of fifty men and come back dragging their leader’s death behind him.
Some things earned you more than a cut.
Some things earned you the right to take and not ask.
Silas nodded once — a small, sharp movement — and stepped away.
He leaned heavy against the wagon’s side, blood seeping from the cut on his thigh, sweat drying to salt on his skin.
Vesh limped over a few minutes later — still pale, one hand pressed to her side.
She said nothing.
Just helped him lash the spoils down tight so they wouldn’t jostle loose on the road.
The sun burned overhead.
The dust swirled.
The desert watched.
But for now, the caravan still stood.
And Silas had earned another day breathing.
***
The caravan didn’t move that night.
Too many dead.
Too many wounded.
Too much blood soaked into the sand.
The guards set a double watch.
Those who could still stand took turns staring into the dark, weapons in hand, listening for the next bad thing that might crawl out of the night.
Silas sat with his back against the wagon, the captain’s sword and armor lashed tight beside him.
His wounds were wrapped crude — cloth and pitch — but the pain gnawed at him like an old dog.
He didn’t care.
Pain was just another weight to carry.
He sat still for a long time, cleaning his saber by the low firelight.
Slow. Careful.
Every scrape of the rag across the blade steady as breathing.
Vesh found him there.
Silent.
Moving with that same stiff, hard grace of someone too stubborn to fall down.
She knelt beside him without a word.
Close enough for the fire’s heat to blur the line between them.
Silas glanced up once.
Met her eyes.
Saw the thing there —
Not softness.
Not romance.
Just something raw and real.
Gratitude.
Loneliness.
The simple hunger for something human in a world that wanted them dead.
Neither spoke.
No need.
Vesh leaned in first — slow, careful.
Silas met her halfway.
The night didn’t soften for them.
The pain didn’t disappear.
The wounds still throbbed, the sand still blew cold across the hollow.
But for a little while, none of it mattered.
They shared what they could —
Warmth.
Breath.
Life.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t clean.
But it was real.
And that was enough.
Later, when the fire burned low and the stars ground their slow way across the sky, Vesh lay curled against him, her hand resting light on the metal of his ruined arm.
As if to say: even broken things could still hold some kind of worth.
Silas stared out into the desert.
Eyes open.
Always open.
Tomorrow, the killing would start again.
Tomorrow, the road would eat them one mile at a time.
But tonight, for a little while,
he wasn’t alone.
And in this world,
that was the rarest victory of all.
