The ambush came at dusk.
Saezu had been tracking a stream that vanished into a ravine—too deep to cross, too steep to climb down. He’d turned to circle around when the sound of movement caught his ear. A crunch. A low chuckle.
Then pain.
Something slammed into his back, knocking him forward. He rolled, instinct taking over, sword out. Too slow. A second figure burst from the brush, swinging a club. Saezu blocked with the blade—wood met steel—but the shock traveled through his arms and dropped him to one knee.
“Got a fighter,” one of them said, stepping into view. A tall man, face painted in black lines. “Good. I like when they scream.”
Three of them. No armor, just hides and iron bits tied with rope. But they were strong. Fast. And better armed than the last group.
Saezu slashed upward, caught one in the thigh. The man cursed, staggered, but didn’t go down. Another circled behind. Saezu turned just in time to see a mace swinging at his side.
He moved—but not far enough.
The blow clipped his ribs. He dropped the sword.
Then came the boot.
They kicked him down into the dirt, laughing.
"Royal blood, eh?" one sneered, noticing the sigil burned into his ruined cloak. "Let’s see if it spills the same."
Saezu spat blood and tried to rise—but his arms trembled. His breath was sharp and useless. The pain screamed louder than his thoughts.
This was it.
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And then the air changed.
A sound—like stone cracking.
The bandit with the mace looked up.
“What the—”
The man’s head snapped sideways with a sickening crunch. His body folded like paper.
The other two turned too late.
A shape crashed into them—a massive figure wrapped in leather and scars. One flew backward into a tree with a sound like breaking wood. The last tried to run.
A hand caught his throat. Lifted him.
Saezu watched, stunned, as the giant of a man squeezed. The bandit gurgled once, then went still.
Silence.
The man dropped the body and turned.
He was taller than any man Saezu had ever seen—broad shoulders, thick arms knotted with muscle, face shadowed under a dark hood. Scars marked his jaw and neck. His eyes were pale gray, almost silver. His fists were bare, bloodied. No weapons.
He knelt beside Saezu.
“You alive?” the man asked.
Saezu coughed. “Barely.”
The man nodded, then scooped him up with one arm like he weighed nothing.
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, more to himself.
Saezu woke near a fire.
The smell of cooked meat filled the air—gamey, but real. His ribs ached. His arm was bandaged. His sword sat beside him, cleaned. He turned his head and saw the man who saved him sitting on a log, chewing on a stick of meat like it was a toothpick.
“You’re awake,” the man said without turning.
“You’re strong,” Saezu said hoarsely.
“You’re lucky,” the man replied.
Saezu sat up slowly. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Brannor. Some call me Iron Bull. I don’t correct them.”
Saezu winced, trying to adjust his position. “Why’d you help me?”
Brannor shrugged. “You looked like a prince trying not to die. Thought it’d be interesting to see if you make it.”
“That simple?”
Brannor finally looked at him. “You planning on dying?”
“No,” Saezu said. “I’m planning on taking back a kingdom.”
Brannor chewed. Swallowed. “That so?”
Saezu nodded.
Brannor tossed a piece of meat to him. “Then eat. You’ll need to stand before you can walk. Walk before you kill.”
Saezu caught the meat. His hands still shook.
“What were those men?”
“Raiders. Ex-soldiers maybe. The Farlands pulls in all kinds. Weak ones die. Mean ones take what they want.”
Saezu looked into the fire. “And you?”
Brannor’s voice turned low. “Used to fight for coin. Pits. Sand floors. Iron chains. Now I fight for myself.”
Saezu nodded slowly. “I don’t have coin.”
Brannor smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t ask.”
The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Saezu leaned back, eating slowly, pain fading with the heat and food.
For the first time since crossing the border, he didn’t feel alone.
