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.
Behind him, Elara struggled, muffled cries tearing from her throat.
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:
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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.
So he moved.
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…” he coughed,
“…run.”
For the first time—
Vorrek didn’t smile.
Ravenn watched closely now.
Not amused.
Interested.
The forest whispered as night fully claimed the road.
And Ashren stood—
broken, bleeding—
but not defeated.
To be continued…
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