Padrin knelt frozen at the center of the clearing, his legs trapped in a sheath of enchanted ice that gripped him like iron. His breath came in heavy bursts. A green light flared around his body.
Tireuz staff glowed as he stood behind Bral. The magic worked fast. The gashes in Padrin's side and thigh knitted together. The bleeding stopped. The burn marks from earlier spells faded from his skin.
But it wasn't enough. Padrin gritted his teeth. "I can't… move."
His body was mended, but his muscles remained heavy. The poison still lingered in his blood. And worse, his legs and arms were still encased in thick magical ice.
He shoved against it again. Straining.
A loud voice rang out across the battlefield. One of the outlaws stepped forward, a sword resting across his shoulder.
"There's only two of them!" he yelled. "That guy can't even stand! Let's finish him—and then take care of these two like the weaklings they are!"
The group roared in agreement. Several moved forward, their weapons ready.
Padrin snarled low in his throat and pushed again. Through sheer force, he managed to free his right arm, shattering the ice. His fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword that lay on the ground next to him.
I just need one chance… one clear swing.
Behind him, Tireuz voice rang out sharply. "Padrin! Eyes up—don't look down!"
He looked up, just as a bowstring snapped.
The arrow was already in the air, cutting straight toward his face. Padrin didn't think. He raised his arm.
The arrow struck just where his eye would've been. Instead, it thudded into the meat of his forearm.
He grunted in pain, but stayed upright. Blood poured from the wound. But it had saved his life.
A heartbeat later, a swordsman burst from the crowd, barreling straight toward him with raised weapon.
Padrin didn't flinch. He shifted his grip on his sword with his injured arm and managed to parry the incoming strike with a desperate upward block, sparks flying from the collision.
But more ice surged from the ground—runes glowing with pale blue light. It climbed higher.
The ice rose up to Padrin's torso, capturing his right arm once again.
His blade dropped from his hand as the frost locked his elbow in place.
The swordsman recovered quickly, turning for a second strike. He raised his blade overhead—ready to bring it down on Padrin's neck in a final, clean execution. But, "Not on my watch!"
Bral exploded forward from the smoke.
The swordsman didn't even register the threat until Bral's longsword collided with his.
CLANG!
Bral's block stopped the executioner cold.
Then he turned, lifted one leg, and kicked the man. The outlaw flew backward, crashing into two others trying to approach from the flanks.
Padrin gasped in relief but didn't speak—he couldn't.
But more were coming. The outlaws surged forward again.
Bral's face tightened. He looked down at Padrin.
"Stay down," he muttered.
He turned, raised his greatsword high, and with a wide, sweeping arc, he slashed through the air in front of him.
A wall of fire erupted from the earth, cutting across the battlefield like a red-hot curtain.
The heat was immediate. Oppressive.
The outlaws on the other side stumbled to a halt, shielding their faces as the flame scorched the air around them.
One of them reached forward, felt the heat, and instantly recoiled. "It's too hot—we can't cross that!"
Bral's sword ignited, flames wrapping around it like a living creature.
He raised it again, preparing to shatter the ice holding Padrin down.
But—Thwip!
An arrow flew through the air, aimed with deadly precision.
It struck Bral's forearm, right below the elbow.
He shouted and staggered back, dropping his sword with a loud clang. Flames sputtered as the weapon hit the ground.
The outlaws saw the opening.
One of them jumped through the fire, screaming as he charged. His cloak caught flame as he leapt, but he didn't care. His sword was aimed at Bral, who was still recovering, trying to tear the arrow from his arm.
The man raised his weapon overhead for a killing strike—
But before it came down, the ground rumbled again.
A spike of earth erupted from the side and slammed into the attacker's shoulder, knocking him off-balance.
He stumbled to the side, his cloak aflame, his strike ruined.
Bral looked over his shoulder.
Tireuz had extended his staff again. Earth magic wasn't his specialty, but he had enough to make it count.
Bral nodded. "Thanks," he said simply.
The attacker staggered, trying to recover— But Bral was already moving.
He ducked the broken swing and stepped in, delivering a kick straight into the man's chest.
The force of the blow launched the flaming attacker backward—into the wall of fire.
He screamed.
The flames swallowed him as he tumbled inside, writhing for a few horrible seconds before collapsing motionless in the center of the inferno.
Bral exhaled, finally yanking the arrow from his arm. Blood ran freely for a moment—but then a familiar warmth wrapped around it. Tireuz was already casting again.
Green light wove over his skin, knitting it back together.
One of the outlaws, a short and wiry man with a twisted scar down the side of his face, pointed a bloodied dagger toward the healer.
"That damn healer!" he shouted. "Target him first!"
The order came with immediate consequence.
All remaining archers raised their bows. Three strings tightened in unison. Tireuz, standing a little further, didn't even hear it—until the air split.
Thwip!
The first arrow struck him hard in the chest, right below the collarbone. The impact knocked him off-balance, and he dropped to one knee, his staff wobbling in his grasp.
His breath left him in a choking gasp. The pain radiated through his shoulder and down his ribs, sharp and blinding. His vision blurred for a moment, and everything slowed.
Then, a flicker of orange glowed in the corner of his eye. Fireball was coming at him.
He looked up just in time to see it—a spiraling mass of flame hurling toward him.
He raised his staff and willed.
A simple ward, hastily cast, flared into being in front of him—a shimmering disk of golden light. The fireball collided with it just as the shield stabilized.
The explosion sent dirt and flame flying in every direction, the shockwave flattening nearby grass and rattling loose rubble from the ruined stone.
Tireuz was flung backward from the force, rolling once before digging his staff into the ground to stop himself. His clothes were singed, his breath short. But he was alive.
He barely had time to stand when a shadow loomed in the smoke. The spearman.
His tall frame emerged from the dust, spear gripped low like a lance, spinning the blade. The edge whirled unnaturally—it was enchanted, and it drilled through the air with vicious precision.
Tireuz stumbled back, thrust his palm toward the ground, and cast. A slab of earth rose in front of him, cracking upward to form a protective wall.
But the spearman didn't stop. With a savage yell, he drove his weapon forward.
The spear spun like a corkscrew, the head glowing faintly green as it drilled into the wall. The stone cracked and groaned—and then shattered, the broken chunks flying outward like shrapnel.
Tireuz barely got his staff up in time before the spear rammed through his shoulder, tearing into muscle.
He screamed, falling backward. The pain was overwhelming.
The spearman stepped forward, yanked the weapon free, and raised it overhead to finish the job.
But he never got the chance.
A shape cut across the clearing in silence.
A blur of movement, followed by the quiet shnk of metal through flesh.
The spearman jerked—his body lifted slightly from the ground, as if struck by something invisible. Then his hands loosened. The spear dropped from his fingers. His knees buckled.
He collapsed backward, a blade lodged cleanly beneath his throat, blood seeping through the wound.
Behind it stood Amukelo.
He didn't say anything at first. He looked down at the man, watching his last breath leave.
He let it happen.
Slowly, he crouched and pulled the sword free, wiping the blade once on the man's cloak.
Then he turned to the healer, eyes calm. "Are you alright?"
The healer coughed and gave a faint nod. "Thanks to you."
Amukelo nodded once, already standing, already looking away. His gaze lingered on the fallen man. There was no pride in his stance. No adrenaline high. No anger. Only weight.
As he turned, he whispered, almost too softly to hear. "I will remember you."
He looked down at his sword again. His grip tightened slightly. "I will not forget… any life I've taken."
He meant it.
Every single one would stay with him.
Not as trophies. Not as guilt. But as names burned into the path he chose to walk.
He raised his eyes to the field again.
Six more melee fighters remained, spaced out with loose footing. Three archers stood behind them, bows drawn but hands trembling. One mage stood to the far right.
Amukelo stepped forward, dragging the tip of his sword across the ground, his pace slow but steady.
"Resign now," he said, "and no one else will die."