The Essence Wars--An Envious God, page 49
For years, he had tested her. Each time he found a flaw in her ability, he forced her to recalculate, rebuild, and overcome. If she could read every movement, then he had to teach her how to face the unpredictable. He had taken pride in her progress, in sharpening her into a weapon unlike any other. But now, that very training would be his undoing.
Because Maerwyn had no weaknesses left.
None except chance.
And Salc had prepared for that, too. He had mastered the art of deception, not in words, instead, he had mastered it in muscle and movement. Over the years, he had trained himself to lie with his body, to trick even her heightened senses into perceiving a false attack.
He would let her feel the wrong movement first, a deliberate feint woven into the natural tension of combat. And in the instant that she committed to her counter, he would adjust with lightning precision, shifting his strike before she could react.
This would leave Maerwyn with only two choices.
Trust her ability, or abandon it.
For anyone else, it would be a simple gamble. But for Maerwyn, for someone who had built her entire skill set upon trusting her instincts, this was far more dangerous.
She would have only a fraction of a second to decide.
He was good at it. Very good. In training, Maerwyn had lost more duels to him than to anyone else. He had honed his technique over the years, perfecting it, teaching her everything except how to defeat this.
He had been most pleased with himself. And with his prodigy.
Now, his near-perfection of her ability meant she was almost unstoppable.
Almost.
Chance was all that remained.
And tonight, he would make sure that when the moment came, the odds would be against her.
The sleepy hamlet had settled into silence in the early hours of the morning. A thick, low-hanging darkness pressed against the village, the sky heavy with unbroken clouds. The air was dense, laced with the smoke curling from chimneys, a mingling of damp wood and peat from farmsteads and the modest hearths of the inn. No breeze stirred to carry it away. The stillness was absolute.
The last of the revelers had long since surrendered to their indulgences. Some lay sprawled on the floor of the inn, unconscious where they had fallen, while others had stumbled out into the night in search of another cup, another fire, another fleeting distraction to chase away their inhibitions. Now, with the doors shut and the streets abandoned, the hamlet felt hollow, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to descend.
A small spark from a flint ignited the oil-soaked cloth wrapped around the arrow’s tip, the flame flickering before catching fully. Salc nocked the arrow, drawing it back in a smooth, practiced motion. His target was precise, a glass bottle resting atop the bar inside the inn.
The innkeeper, still hauling an unconscious reveler toward the door, never saw it coming. He didn’t see it. He heard it.
A sharp whiz. The snap of glass shattering.
The arrow punched cleanly through the bottle, sending shards and a spray of high-proof liquor exploding across the wooden counter. Flames leapt as the liquid ignited the instant it met the heat still curling from the arrow’s shaft.
Fire erupted violently. Flames raced across the bar, feeding on the alcohol-soaked surface, crawling up the aged wood like hungry fingers. Within seconds, the inferno had taken hold, licking at the shelves, devouring bottles, and sending black smoke curling toward the rafters.
Salc did not wait to admire his handiwork. The fire would do the rest.
The innkeeper coughed, his lungs stinging from the thick smoke as he frantically grabbed the nearest cloth, slapping at the flames in a desperate attempt to smother them. But it was no use. The fire only leapt higher, the rush of air feeding it, turning flickering tongues into a roaring blaze.
Behind the bar, bottles cracked and burst under the heat, their contents spilling and igniting instantly. The flames spread faster now, climbing the walls, hungry and unstoppable.
His life’s work, his inn, his home, was burning.
Saved from the floodwaters only days before, and now claimed by fire.
He staggered to the door and shouted, lungs straining. ‘Get out! Everyone, get out!’
He already knew. There was no saving the inn.
Upstairs, where the guests slept, the only escape was now out the windows. The ground floor was lost. The inn was turning into a death trap.
Maerwyn woke to the sound of shouting, her mind still hazy with sleep as Braegor’s frantic barking filled the room. The acrid scent of smoke stung her nose, sharp and undeniable, and before her thoughts could fully settle, her instincts had already taken over. Grabbing her belongings, she hurled them through the open window, barely flinching as they crashed onto the muddy ground below. There was no time to be careful, no time to think about who might see or hear. The only things she kept were her Thunderbow and her Soulpiercers. Those, she would never part with. Turning to Braegor, she ran a hand over his thick fur, her fingers pressing against the muscle beneath as she whispered, ‘Sorry, boy, you’re going to have to jump.’
She didn’t wait for him to understand. There was no time. She shoved him forward, forcing him out of the window, hoping, praying that he would be able to land on his feet, that his size would protect him from the fall.
The impact was harder than she had expected. Braegor landed heavily, his limbs sprawling as the shock of the near two-story drop rippled through his body. Before he could recover, before he could shake the landing off, a metallic click snapped against his leather collar, followed by a hammering sound as a thick stake was driven into the ground. It happened too fast. One moment he was free, the next he was tethered, the heavy chain locking him in place before he could even attempt to run. His bark turned to a snarl, confusion giving way to rage as he strained against the iron hold, but the stake was buried deep, and every pull only made it tighter.
Maerwyn leapt after him, her body twisting mid-air as she braced for impact. She hit the ground hard, rolling to absorb the force, but before she could steady herself, she saw them. The boots. Dark, worn, planted firmly in the mud just a few feet away. Her Soulpiercers spilled from her grasp, clattering against the ground. Yet her fingers remained locked around the Thunderbow, her grip unyielding. The glint came too fast to think. She moved on reflex, the blade missing her by inches.
She recognized the blade before she recognized the attacker.
She moved without thinking, rolling sharply to the opposite side as the blade plunged into the ground where she had been just seconds before. The steel embedded deep into the mud, the force behind it undeniable, and as she twisted, pushing up on her hands, her mind caught up with her body. She knew that knife. She knew who wielded it.
And now, she knew exactly what kind of fight this would be.
The dagger, the one meant for the Council of the Eastern Accord, was now in Thalrice Arondar’s hands. His fingers curled around the hilt as he took a restrained step back, his lips twisting into a satisfied smirk. Without hesitation, he slid the blade into his belt, securing it as if it had always belonged to him. His other hand moved to the hilt of his sword, and in one smooth motion, he drew it free, the steel catching the light as he leveled it toward Maerwyn.
She lunged for the nearest Soulpiercer, before she could steady herself, a blur of movement cut across her vision. A sword came down, aimed to cleave through her, and she twisted away at the last second, just enough to avoid the deadly arc of Salc Theros’ blade. The impact sent a sharp gust of air past her, the force alone knocking her balance off just as she recognized him. Salc.
Her roll carried her further from her weapons, yet she had managed to grip a single Soulpiercer in the scramble. She came up swiftly, crouched, tense, Soulpiercer in hand, her sharp gaze flicking between the two men. Thalrice to her right, Salc to her left. She could see it in their eyes, the cold certainty that this was the end.
Behind them, Braegor fought against his restraints, snarling, his muscles coiled with fury. He should have been free, should have been tearing into the men before her. Still, the thick iron chain held him fast. His mouth steamed, heat rolling off his body in waves as his anger built to something dangerously close to ignition.
Salc shifted his focus, turning toward the massive wolfhound, studying the way the air wavered around him from the sheer force of his rising temperature. Maerwyn knew that look. He was calculating. Deciding if Braegor was a threat that needed putting down first.
That was all the distraction Thalrice needed.
He moved in fast, blade arcing for the kill.
Maerwyn reacted instantly.
Her Soulpiercer flew, a silver blur slicing through the night, loosed before she even had time to think. It was a wild throw, not aimed, not precise, but it was enough. Enough to make Salc hesitate, just long enough to throw off his stance. His focus shifted instantly. He no longer saw Braegor as the threat. The dog still pulled at the stake, muscles coiled, but Salc had made his decision. Maerwyn had to be eliminated first. Once she was gone, Braegor would be nothing more than an inconvenience, easy pickings.
Thalrice lunged at her in that instant, but the hesitation had already done its damage. His blade met nothing but air.
Maerwyn dropped to one knee, her fingers digging into the dirt, slick with blood and ash, grasping desperately until they closed around another Soulpiercer. As she spun, Soulpiercer in hand, her gaze locked onto Salc.
He was already watching her, his expression shifting, calculating.
He had already ignited her fury, though she was his primary concern now. Braegor was still snarling, pulling, straining, the heat from his body intensifying until the metal of his collar began to glow a dull red. Though, Salc didn’t waver. He had fought against Gifted soldiers, Tripolists, and creatures touched by the Essence before, formidable opponents, each requiring precise and calculated strikes. Yet none of that mattered if Maerwyn still stood. The dog would be dealt with in time, and it would only happen once she was dead.
And Maerwyn was out of options.
She had no weapon, only her arrows. Her sword lay too far to reach, and Salc knew it. He had trained her. He understood exactly how dangerous she was, and yet he would exploit every advantage.
The sound of Braegor’s furious growls echoed through the night, an ever-present distraction, a gnawing pressure.
Then Thalrice lunged again.
She dodged.
Another lunge. She dodged again.
And again. And again.
Each time, her movements were growing sharper, more calculated, forcing Thalrice to overextend, adjust, chase her. She was edging around him, turning him, twisting his momentum, maneuvering him step by step until he stood between her and Salc.
Thalrice thought he had her on the run.
Salc, though, was the one she truly feared.
She couldn’t keep this up forever. She could only dodge for so long.
Then the next lunge came, yet something felt different. As Maerwyn twisted away from Thalrice’s sword, she sensed another presence behind her. Another attacker. She spun instinctively, just in time to avoid a second strike, only for steel to meet steel in a violent clash.
Thalrice’s blade, meant for her, instead collided with another sword, the sharp ring of metal cutting through the chaos.
Maerwyn’s breath caught as she saw who had stepped between them. Grantchu.
Where had he come from? How was he here? He had searched for her, ridden hard to catch up, only to find nothing. He should have been too far behind, should have arrived too late. And yet, somehow, he was here. He had reached the hamlet just in time to see the glow of flames against the night sky, to hear the crackling roar of the inn as it burned. It had pulled him toward the chaos, and when he arrived, he had found Maerwyn locked in a fight she could not win alone.
The burning inn roared behind them, smoke thick in the air, the orange glow casting flickering shadows across his determined face. He had found her, not through reason, not through tracking, through something else entirely, something unexplainable. A pull, a muscle memory, a force beyond logic that had guided him to this exact moment. She had no time to question it.
The swords clashed again, Grantchu driving Thalrice back just enough for Maerwyn to move. She scrambled for her sword, her fingers closing around the familiar grip, and pulled it free from the dirt. The fight was no longer hers alone.
Cyre remained tucked deep inside Grantchu’s pack, hidden from sight. The rising heat from the burning inn kept her still, the fire’s crackling glow enough to keep even the boldest creatures at bay.
Now Salc faced her, and the clash of swords began. Steel met steel with furious precision, their strikes ringing through the smoke-filled air. Sparks burst from Grantchu’s blade as he fought to drive Thalrice back, each blow carrying a crackling jolt of energy. However, Thalrice’s sword was Syllanian, its metal a poor conductor, rendering him largely immune to the electricity coursing through Grantchu’s weapon.
For a moment, Thalrice miscalculated, stepping too close, and Grantchu seized the opportunity. His fingers clenched around the hilt, the energy surging through him as he pressed his blade against Thalrice’s chest plate. The current snapped through the metal, and Thalrice jerked, his body locking up for an instant before he staggered back, cursing. Grantchu, however, had no armor of his own, nothing to shield him, and as Thalrice regained his footing, his sharp eyes locked onto the dagger hanging at Grantchu’s side. It was clear now. Thalrice knew exactly what he was looking at.
Maerwyn moved with precision, her blade meeting Salc’s in a clash of steel and force. Every strike answered with one just as sharp, just as fast. He was relentless, pressing forward with the calculated ease of a master swordsman, his movements honed by years of training and discipline. She had fought him before, had bested him at times, but never in a fight to the death, never with the weight of survival pressing down on her shoulders. He knew her style intimately, knew the way she anticipated an opponent’s strikes before they came, and he was already adjusting, throwing false movements into his attacks, baiting her instincts, forcing her to second-guess what was real. She dodged left, but he was already there, pivoting smoothly, his sword slicing toward her ribs. She barely turned her blade in time to deflect the blow, the force of it sending a sharp reverberation through her arm. He smiled. He was enjoying this, enjoying the challenge she presented, knowing he was still the better fighter, knowing she was his student first and his opponent second. Still, Maerwyn refused to let him control the rhythm. She twisted away, creating space, forcing him to move, forcing him to react. He was the better swordsman, but she was faster, more unpredictable, and she needed to use that against him. She feinted a retreat, drawing him in just enough before she snapped forward, her blade flashing toward his exposed side. He narrowly avoided the strike, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before his next attack came in twice as fast, twice as punishing. She was being pushed back, edged toward uneven ground, and she could feel it: the tightening in his stance, the shift in his grip. He was waiting for her to falter, waiting for the moment when instinct would fail her, when she would read the wrong movement and he would strike the killing blow. Yet Maerwyn had spent years learning from him, years studying every nuance of his technique, and she was about to show him that he had taught her far too well.
Grantchu drove forward, his blade crackling with raw energy as it met Thalrice’s in a violent clash. Each strike sent bright arcs of electricity snapping through the air, illuminating the haze of smoke and fire behind them. Thalrice braced himself, absorbing the force of each blow, his movements precise, controlled. But Grantchu wasn’t just swinging a sword. Every strike carried the pulsing charge of his gift, and though the Syllanian metal of Thalrice’s blade dulled its effect, it couldn’t protect him completely. A moment’s misstep sent Grantchu’s blade sliding against his chest plate again, and a jolt surged through the armor, locking Thalrice’s muscles for a heartbeat before he staggered back, cursing for a second time.
Grantchu pressed the advantage, closing in, his grip tightening as his instincts screamed at him to strike now, to end it before Thalrice could recover. But before he could drive the next blow, pain exploded across his back. His breath hitched, his momentum faltered as someone grabbed him. A hand tore at his belt, and before he could twist away, the dagger was ripped from his side. His body reacted before his mind caught up. He spun, blade flashing, feeling the sickening resistance of steel meeting flesh. A sharp, feminine gasp cut through the crackling of the fire.
He saw nothing.
Then, just beyond the glow of the burning inn, he caught a flicker of movement. A form, bare and glistening in the firelight, emerging from nothing. The Camouflager. Blood dripped from her arm where his blade had cut deep, but she wasted no time. In a single, fluid motion, she vaulted onto a waiting horse, the dagger clutched in her hand.
The horse reared, hooves striking the mudded ground, though still finding enough grip to launch forward into a full gallop. In the next breath, she was gone, vanishing into the night, swallowed by the darkness beyond the fire’s reach.
A surge of rage tore through him, but he had no time to process it. Thalrice was already moving, already exploiting the opening. A blade came for his ribs, and Grantchu barely turned in time, the impact jolting up his arm. He fought to regain his stance, deflecting a second, then a third strike, his instincts forced back into the present. Thalrice was relentless now, his attacks sharper, more controlled, his confidence growing. The dagger was gone. Even so, his mission was still salvageable, and only if Grantchu fell here.
Grantchu gritted his teeth, steadying himself, parrying each precise strike with equal force. He was fast, but Thalrice had the experience, the patience to wear him down. Sparks burst from his blade again, but without the dagger, the fight had shifted.
The real battle was over. The dagger, lost to the night. What remained was a brutal test of endurance between Grantchu and Thalrice. Sparks leapt from Grantchu’s sword as it clashed against Thalrice’s Syllanian blade, a resistive alloy muting the effects of Grantchu’s electrical surges. The general fought with ruthless control, his blade a masterclass in efficient violence, while Grantchu relied on raw aggression, using the bursts of energy to force Thalrice back when he could. Their movements shifted through the smoke-thickened air, the glow of the burning inn casting violent shadows across the muddy ground.
Because Maerwyn had no weaknesses left.
None except chance.
And Salc had prepared for that, too. He had mastered the art of deception, not in words, instead, he had mastered it in muscle and movement. Over the years, he had trained himself to lie with his body, to trick even her heightened senses into perceiving a false attack.
He would let her feel the wrong movement first, a deliberate feint woven into the natural tension of combat. And in the instant that she committed to her counter, he would adjust with lightning precision, shifting his strike before she could react.
This would leave Maerwyn with only two choices.
Trust her ability, or abandon it.
For anyone else, it would be a simple gamble. But for Maerwyn, for someone who had built her entire skill set upon trusting her instincts, this was far more dangerous.
She would have only a fraction of a second to decide.
He was good at it. Very good. In training, Maerwyn had lost more duels to him than to anyone else. He had honed his technique over the years, perfecting it, teaching her everything except how to defeat this.
He had been most pleased with himself. And with his prodigy.
Now, his near-perfection of her ability meant she was almost unstoppable.
Almost.
Chance was all that remained.
And tonight, he would make sure that when the moment came, the odds would be against her.
The sleepy hamlet had settled into silence in the early hours of the morning. A thick, low-hanging darkness pressed against the village, the sky heavy with unbroken clouds. The air was dense, laced with the smoke curling from chimneys, a mingling of damp wood and peat from farmsteads and the modest hearths of the inn. No breeze stirred to carry it away. The stillness was absolute.
The last of the revelers had long since surrendered to their indulgences. Some lay sprawled on the floor of the inn, unconscious where they had fallen, while others had stumbled out into the night in search of another cup, another fire, another fleeting distraction to chase away their inhibitions. Now, with the doors shut and the streets abandoned, the hamlet felt hollow, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to descend.
A small spark from a flint ignited the oil-soaked cloth wrapped around the arrow’s tip, the flame flickering before catching fully. Salc nocked the arrow, drawing it back in a smooth, practiced motion. His target was precise, a glass bottle resting atop the bar inside the inn.
The innkeeper, still hauling an unconscious reveler toward the door, never saw it coming. He didn’t see it. He heard it.
A sharp whiz. The snap of glass shattering.
The arrow punched cleanly through the bottle, sending shards and a spray of high-proof liquor exploding across the wooden counter. Flames leapt as the liquid ignited the instant it met the heat still curling from the arrow’s shaft.
Fire erupted violently. Flames raced across the bar, feeding on the alcohol-soaked surface, crawling up the aged wood like hungry fingers. Within seconds, the inferno had taken hold, licking at the shelves, devouring bottles, and sending black smoke curling toward the rafters.
Salc did not wait to admire his handiwork. The fire would do the rest.
The innkeeper coughed, his lungs stinging from the thick smoke as he frantically grabbed the nearest cloth, slapping at the flames in a desperate attempt to smother them. But it was no use. The fire only leapt higher, the rush of air feeding it, turning flickering tongues into a roaring blaze.
Behind the bar, bottles cracked and burst under the heat, their contents spilling and igniting instantly. The flames spread faster now, climbing the walls, hungry and unstoppable.
His life’s work, his inn, his home, was burning.
Saved from the floodwaters only days before, and now claimed by fire.
He staggered to the door and shouted, lungs straining. ‘Get out! Everyone, get out!’
He already knew. There was no saving the inn.
Upstairs, where the guests slept, the only escape was now out the windows. The ground floor was lost. The inn was turning into a death trap.
Maerwyn woke to the sound of shouting, her mind still hazy with sleep as Braegor’s frantic barking filled the room. The acrid scent of smoke stung her nose, sharp and undeniable, and before her thoughts could fully settle, her instincts had already taken over. Grabbing her belongings, she hurled them through the open window, barely flinching as they crashed onto the muddy ground below. There was no time to be careful, no time to think about who might see or hear. The only things she kept were her Thunderbow and her Soulpiercers. Those, she would never part with. Turning to Braegor, she ran a hand over his thick fur, her fingers pressing against the muscle beneath as she whispered, ‘Sorry, boy, you’re going to have to jump.’
She didn’t wait for him to understand. There was no time. She shoved him forward, forcing him out of the window, hoping, praying that he would be able to land on his feet, that his size would protect him from the fall.
The impact was harder than she had expected. Braegor landed heavily, his limbs sprawling as the shock of the near two-story drop rippled through his body. Before he could recover, before he could shake the landing off, a metallic click snapped against his leather collar, followed by a hammering sound as a thick stake was driven into the ground. It happened too fast. One moment he was free, the next he was tethered, the heavy chain locking him in place before he could even attempt to run. His bark turned to a snarl, confusion giving way to rage as he strained against the iron hold, but the stake was buried deep, and every pull only made it tighter.
Maerwyn leapt after him, her body twisting mid-air as she braced for impact. She hit the ground hard, rolling to absorb the force, but before she could steady herself, she saw them. The boots. Dark, worn, planted firmly in the mud just a few feet away. Her Soulpiercers spilled from her grasp, clattering against the ground. Yet her fingers remained locked around the Thunderbow, her grip unyielding. The glint came too fast to think. She moved on reflex, the blade missing her by inches.
She recognized the blade before she recognized the attacker.
She moved without thinking, rolling sharply to the opposite side as the blade plunged into the ground where she had been just seconds before. The steel embedded deep into the mud, the force behind it undeniable, and as she twisted, pushing up on her hands, her mind caught up with her body. She knew that knife. She knew who wielded it.
And now, she knew exactly what kind of fight this would be.
The dagger, the one meant for the Council of the Eastern Accord, was now in Thalrice Arondar’s hands. His fingers curled around the hilt as he took a restrained step back, his lips twisting into a satisfied smirk. Without hesitation, he slid the blade into his belt, securing it as if it had always belonged to him. His other hand moved to the hilt of his sword, and in one smooth motion, he drew it free, the steel catching the light as he leveled it toward Maerwyn.
She lunged for the nearest Soulpiercer, before she could steady herself, a blur of movement cut across her vision. A sword came down, aimed to cleave through her, and she twisted away at the last second, just enough to avoid the deadly arc of Salc Theros’ blade. The impact sent a sharp gust of air past her, the force alone knocking her balance off just as she recognized him. Salc.
Her roll carried her further from her weapons, yet she had managed to grip a single Soulpiercer in the scramble. She came up swiftly, crouched, tense, Soulpiercer in hand, her sharp gaze flicking between the two men. Thalrice to her right, Salc to her left. She could see it in their eyes, the cold certainty that this was the end.
Behind them, Braegor fought against his restraints, snarling, his muscles coiled with fury. He should have been free, should have been tearing into the men before her. Still, the thick iron chain held him fast. His mouth steamed, heat rolling off his body in waves as his anger built to something dangerously close to ignition.
Salc shifted his focus, turning toward the massive wolfhound, studying the way the air wavered around him from the sheer force of his rising temperature. Maerwyn knew that look. He was calculating. Deciding if Braegor was a threat that needed putting down first.
That was all the distraction Thalrice needed.
He moved in fast, blade arcing for the kill.
Maerwyn reacted instantly.
Her Soulpiercer flew, a silver blur slicing through the night, loosed before she even had time to think. It was a wild throw, not aimed, not precise, but it was enough. Enough to make Salc hesitate, just long enough to throw off his stance. His focus shifted instantly. He no longer saw Braegor as the threat. The dog still pulled at the stake, muscles coiled, but Salc had made his decision. Maerwyn had to be eliminated first. Once she was gone, Braegor would be nothing more than an inconvenience, easy pickings.
Thalrice lunged at her in that instant, but the hesitation had already done its damage. His blade met nothing but air.
Maerwyn dropped to one knee, her fingers digging into the dirt, slick with blood and ash, grasping desperately until they closed around another Soulpiercer. As she spun, Soulpiercer in hand, her gaze locked onto Salc.
He was already watching her, his expression shifting, calculating.
He had already ignited her fury, though she was his primary concern now. Braegor was still snarling, pulling, straining, the heat from his body intensifying until the metal of his collar began to glow a dull red. Though, Salc didn’t waver. He had fought against Gifted soldiers, Tripolists, and creatures touched by the Essence before, formidable opponents, each requiring precise and calculated strikes. Yet none of that mattered if Maerwyn still stood. The dog would be dealt with in time, and it would only happen once she was dead.
And Maerwyn was out of options.
She had no weapon, only her arrows. Her sword lay too far to reach, and Salc knew it. He had trained her. He understood exactly how dangerous she was, and yet he would exploit every advantage.
The sound of Braegor’s furious growls echoed through the night, an ever-present distraction, a gnawing pressure.
Then Thalrice lunged again.
She dodged.
Another lunge. She dodged again.
And again. And again.
Each time, her movements were growing sharper, more calculated, forcing Thalrice to overextend, adjust, chase her. She was edging around him, turning him, twisting his momentum, maneuvering him step by step until he stood between her and Salc.
Thalrice thought he had her on the run.
Salc, though, was the one she truly feared.
She couldn’t keep this up forever. She could only dodge for so long.
Then the next lunge came, yet something felt different. As Maerwyn twisted away from Thalrice’s sword, she sensed another presence behind her. Another attacker. She spun instinctively, just in time to avoid a second strike, only for steel to meet steel in a violent clash.
Thalrice’s blade, meant for her, instead collided with another sword, the sharp ring of metal cutting through the chaos.
Maerwyn’s breath caught as she saw who had stepped between them. Grantchu.
Where had he come from? How was he here? He had searched for her, ridden hard to catch up, only to find nothing. He should have been too far behind, should have arrived too late. And yet, somehow, he was here. He had reached the hamlet just in time to see the glow of flames against the night sky, to hear the crackling roar of the inn as it burned. It had pulled him toward the chaos, and when he arrived, he had found Maerwyn locked in a fight she could not win alone.
The burning inn roared behind them, smoke thick in the air, the orange glow casting flickering shadows across his determined face. He had found her, not through reason, not through tracking, through something else entirely, something unexplainable. A pull, a muscle memory, a force beyond logic that had guided him to this exact moment. She had no time to question it.
The swords clashed again, Grantchu driving Thalrice back just enough for Maerwyn to move. She scrambled for her sword, her fingers closing around the familiar grip, and pulled it free from the dirt. The fight was no longer hers alone.
Cyre remained tucked deep inside Grantchu’s pack, hidden from sight. The rising heat from the burning inn kept her still, the fire’s crackling glow enough to keep even the boldest creatures at bay.
Now Salc faced her, and the clash of swords began. Steel met steel with furious precision, their strikes ringing through the smoke-filled air. Sparks burst from Grantchu’s blade as he fought to drive Thalrice back, each blow carrying a crackling jolt of energy. However, Thalrice’s sword was Syllanian, its metal a poor conductor, rendering him largely immune to the electricity coursing through Grantchu’s weapon.
For a moment, Thalrice miscalculated, stepping too close, and Grantchu seized the opportunity. His fingers clenched around the hilt, the energy surging through him as he pressed his blade against Thalrice’s chest plate. The current snapped through the metal, and Thalrice jerked, his body locking up for an instant before he staggered back, cursing. Grantchu, however, had no armor of his own, nothing to shield him, and as Thalrice regained his footing, his sharp eyes locked onto the dagger hanging at Grantchu’s side. It was clear now. Thalrice knew exactly what he was looking at.
Maerwyn moved with precision, her blade meeting Salc’s in a clash of steel and force. Every strike answered with one just as sharp, just as fast. He was relentless, pressing forward with the calculated ease of a master swordsman, his movements honed by years of training and discipline. She had fought him before, had bested him at times, but never in a fight to the death, never with the weight of survival pressing down on her shoulders. He knew her style intimately, knew the way she anticipated an opponent’s strikes before they came, and he was already adjusting, throwing false movements into his attacks, baiting her instincts, forcing her to second-guess what was real. She dodged left, but he was already there, pivoting smoothly, his sword slicing toward her ribs. She barely turned her blade in time to deflect the blow, the force of it sending a sharp reverberation through her arm. He smiled. He was enjoying this, enjoying the challenge she presented, knowing he was still the better fighter, knowing she was his student first and his opponent second. Still, Maerwyn refused to let him control the rhythm. She twisted away, creating space, forcing him to move, forcing him to react. He was the better swordsman, but she was faster, more unpredictable, and she needed to use that against him. She feinted a retreat, drawing him in just enough before she snapped forward, her blade flashing toward his exposed side. He narrowly avoided the strike, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before his next attack came in twice as fast, twice as punishing. She was being pushed back, edged toward uneven ground, and she could feel it: the tightening in his stance, the shift in his grip. He was waiting for her to falter, waiting for the moment when instinct would fail her, when she would read the wrong movement and he would strike the killing blow. Yet Maerwyn had spent years learning from him, years studying every nuance of his technique, and she was about to show him that he had taught her far too well.
Grantchu drove forward, his blade crackling with raw energy as it met Thalrice’s in a violent clash. Each strike sent bright arcs of electricity snapping through the air, illuminating the haze of smoke and fire behind them. Thalrice braced himself, absorbing the force of each blow, his movements precise, controlled. But Grantchu wasn’t just swinging a sword. Every strike carried the pulsing charge of his gift, and though the Syllanian metal of Thalrice’s blade dulled its effect, it couldn’t protect him completely. A moment’s misstep sent Grantchu’s blade sliding against his chest plate again, and a jolt surged through the armor, locking Thalrice’s muscles for a heartbeat before he staggered back, cursing for a second time.
Grantchu pressed the advantage, closing in, his grip tightening as his instincts screamed at him to strike now, to end it before Thalrice could recover. But before he could drive the next blow, pain exploded across his back. His breath hitched, his momentum faltered as someone grabbed him. A hand tore at his belt, and before he could twist away, the dagger was ripped from his side. His body reacted before his mind caught up. He spun, blade flashing, feeling the sickening resistance of steel meeting flesh. A sharp, feminine gasp cut through the crackling of the fire.
He saw nothing.
Then, just beyond the glow of the burning inn, he caught a flicker of movement. A form, bare and glistening in the firelight, emerging from nothing. The Camouflager. Blood dripped from her arm where his blade had cut deep, but she wasted no time. In a single, fluid motion, she vaulted onto a waiting horse, the dagger clutched in her hand.
The horse reared, hooves striking the mudded ground, though still finding enough grip to launch forward into a full gallop. In the next breath, she was gone, vanishing into the night, swallowed by the darkness beyond the fire’s reach.
A surge of rage tore through him, but he had no time to process it. Thalrice was already moving, already exploiting the opening. A blade came for his ribs, and Grantchu barely turned in time, the impact jolting up his arm. He fought to regain his stance, deflecting a second, then a third strike, his instincts forced back into the present. Thalrice was relentless now, his attacks sharper, more controlled, his confidence growing. The dagger was gone. Even so, his mission was still salvageable, and only if Grantchu fell here.
Grantchu gritted his teeth, steadying himself, parrying each precise strike with equal force. He was fast, but Thalrice had the experience, the patience to wear him down. Sparks burst from his blade again, but without the dagger, the fight had shifted.
The real battle was over. The dagger, lost to the night. What remained was a brutal test of endurance between Grantchu and Thalrice. Sparks leapt from Grantchu’s sword as it clashed against Thalrice’s Syllanian blade, a resistive alloy muting the effects of Grantchu’s electrical surges. The general fought with ruthless control, his blade a masterclass in efficient violence, while Grantchu relied on raw aggression, using the bursts of energy to force Thalrice back when he could. Their movements shifted through the smoke-thickened air, the glow of the burning inn casting violent shadows across the muddy ground.
