Royce fled. The reptilian that was the tactician for the raiders from Bardoo chased after, hungrily slurping each track Royce left in the light snow. Desperation clouded his features as he searched for anything that could help.

  A burning home in front of him. He ran into it as the tactician was at his heels. The man did not let up and chased him inside, to which Royce burst through the wall in the back, taking out the last remaining support and dropping the heap of fire and wood onto the tactician.

  Royce did not wait to confirm the death of the man. Instead, he ran for the forest in front of him, escaping into the darkness. A glance confirmed his fears.

  In a roar of rage, the tactician’s blades of wind cleared the rubble, though the man was worse for wear. “Come back here, you brat!”

  Royce created enough distance. He sprinted for his destination, his light in the darkness, then hid.

  Though the tactician had thrown away most of his caution, he still approached with a hint of hesitation. The man followed the tracks that were visible despite the dark, though he eyed every corner, waiting for an ambush. The dark woods would provide a perfect opportunity to turn the situation, and the man obviously realized that fact.

  That was until the tactician saw the light ahead of him. Royce’s fire illuminated the trail of footprints perfectly.

  “Fool, you should have kept running. I might have lost you in this dark forest, but now you’ve sealed your fate. Pride in your foolish Kingdom of Welkia will see you die young.” The man ran forward, sword raised high as he bellowed a war cry. One that he thought meant victory.

  Charging onward onto the thin ice. Then into the deep and freezing pond.

  The tactician screamed as he splashed but quickly recovered. The pond halted his progress and impeded him from going further, but the water only came to his abdomen. Using his deity, the man launched a vicious wind slash at the fire that cut into the wood that was holding it up.

  As the torch fell to the ground, the sound of a snapping bowstring echoed through the quiet forest. The tactician turned in shock to realize a crossbow bolt had pierced his back.

  “Bu..t h..ow?” The tactician could hardly speak over the gurgling of his blood.

  “I’m sorry, that should have finished you off in one blow. I might as well explain as I reload.” Royce spoke calmly, an icy chill in his voice as he slowly loaded another crossbow bolt. “I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to take you in a straight fight, so I prepared a little. I sought to lure you here and distract. Naturally, a lit torch obscured would appear to be my deity conjuring fire, once someone was familiar. I then created fake steps to the area so you would fall into the pond. After that, I hid my crossbow. I even scouted out a building to use to create space. You should be familiar with the concept of planning, as you are a self-proclaimed tactician.” Royce let out a hollow laugh as he aimed the crossbow once again.

  The former tactician gurgled as he begged for his life.

  “I am Royce of the Welkia Royal Guard, son of the Lord Captain and an inhuman, member of the band of the Promised One. But more than those claims, I am the chosen friend of Emerii and Arty. I would do anything for Dradris, but I would drag my very soul through the mud for those two. I’ve killed before, ones like you. Honor means nothing if you can’t protect what is important, though you know that. If your greed had not consumed your mind, you would surely have called for assistance.” A pause as Royce held the reptilian man’s life in his hands. “You whose name I don’t know, I bid you farewell with the knowledge that you never had the advantage.”

  The thrum of the crossbow sent the gurgling soldier beyond the grave, his last attempts at speech unknown to all but himself. Perhaps he was still begging for mercy, though the first bolt was undoubtedly lethal. Yet maybe he wanted his name to be known, a time-honored tradition for warriors. In any case, it fell on deaf ears.

  Artowen rose from the ashes, bloody and battered. His head hung in shame at the near defeat. Mind drifting to the well-being of his chosen friends. They would surely have already dispatched with their targets. What would Royce and Emerii think? What about Aunt Idwyn?

  “I’m surprised you are able to stand after that. It would have been easier for you if you had stayed down.” Liza approached, her strut full of the confidence of assured victory.

  “Easier, huh?” Artowen half murmured to himself. He thought back on Royce’s words. “Nothing is going to be easy from here on out.”

  “No, you’ll find peace and rest in death.”

  He found himself displaying a soft smile. This was the start of his journey, not the time to falter or find rest. The rage that usually filled his combat was replaced with gratitude. This was no time to hate his fellow Drajin, even though they were committing heinous acts. They were placed on his path for a reason. “Thanks to you, Liza, I can grow stronger.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You’re strength won’t surpass my skill.”

  “I don’t like how you look down on me, but ultimately, you’re correct. For now, that’s all I need.”

  She hissed, then resumed her assault. Whipping blade strikes more ferocious than before. Drilling stabs that threatened death with every thrust. Liza’s full skill was on display.

  Artowen countered all of it.

  An impossible task to match her ability, so he focused on the aspects he could see and control. She could bend her sword with her deity, but it was not as if she should control her sword with her mind. The skill Liza boasted was the control coming from her arm and wrist. Artowen observed, then moved in opposition.

  In the furious clash, he stuck close, knowing her style preferred distance, and it was where he could make the most use of his deity.

  Artowen’s mission was to prevent any gap from being made. With every step Liza took back, he took two leaps forward. The wounds on him no longer mattered. His mind and actions were set on the future, his image of victory. He poured all of his deity, that putrid festering sensation, into the key points of his body that would give him the strongest and swiftest strikes.

  It did not matter if he was struck in return. Her blows were heavy, but if they traded, he would be the victor. When he swung, he knew their swords would land at the same time. He did not flinch, but she attempted to retreat, putting her on the back foot.

  The time was now.

  He continued the deathly game, sacrificing defense completely for a perfect offense. Liza was consumed by his aggression. Her parries were unable to deflect the strength in his attacks, her blocks leaving her staggered.

  The brawl continued for some time. Though it was mere moments, it felt like years to those in that dilation of time. Both battered and beaten, it was Liza whose stamina was first to give out. It was obvious she sought to end the fight.

  That was the moment Artowen had been truly waiting for.

  Liza coiled and spun her blade in a circle that was gaining more and more speed. It was the attack from earlier that utterly destroyed his defense and put him on the edge of death. Satisfied with the buildup, she launched her strike at Artowen. He bared his teeth in the joy of combat as he brought his blade down with everything he had.

  The two clashed in a single powerful move of martial prowess and summoned deities.

  Liza had made the mistake of using force against Artowen, as she lost the struggle. Artowen cleaved her from shoulder to hip, felling the captain of the Bardoo raiders.

  She hit the ground. Artowen stood above her, soaking in the breath of new victory. He knew this was a time he would come to reflect upon.

  “It does not matter who or how many you brought, Promised One,” Liza managed to say her final words. “One of Bardoo’s greatest warriors is on this battlefield. Someone far stronger than I.”

  Silence.

  Artowen locked eyes with the dying woman and bore the most self-assured smile he had ever had in his life, “Maybe he can give her a bit of a challenge then. We’re more similar than I first thought, Liza. Don’t worry, your companions will be following soon.”

  Emerii sighed. What am I doing?

  Royce.

  Arty.

  This is not the place where we are meant to fall. Maybe years from now, on a grander battlefield, they would give their lives to the future of Dradris and their ideals. But not here. Her honor would not allow it. Did she not promise Vice that she would see Arty through?

  She stood. The memories festered. The nausea rocked her. These were constants in her life that would never go away, though the degree was different depending on circumstances. The torment of a village on flame happened to stir trauma, the week of using her deity left her stomach destroyed and her body fevered.

  She was stronger than her issues. Her daily life proved it.

  So fuck it.

  A cruel grin split her face as she cackled to the sky. The enrapturing of combat poured into her veins, the sinful ecstasy taking her.

  “I am Emerii, strongest of the Band of the Promised One and the second strongest warrior of Welkia. Each day, each hour, each minute, my skill grows. It is not a dream but an inevitability that I will be recognized as the greatest warrior in the world.”

  The Bardoo warrior’s eyes widened.

  Emerii rushed forward, “See if you can entertain me a little, you who would put yourself on the same level as me!”

  “The blow rocked you’re senses!” The warrior roared. “I don’t know what your deity was capable of, but approaching without it summoned is madness.”

  “I don’t need it for one such as you. Now, let us dance, for words are worthless!”

  Even without her deity, there was a fire in her head and stomach, but she marched onward. The flurry was more intense, the warrior using all six of his swords became a whirlwind, but Emerii matched him with her single longsword.

  Somehow they were even despite her fever. Emerii was smiling fiercely as she displayed her skill that had been ingrained since she could first walk. Every move of dance and merrymaker performance was on display in her sword technique.

  Then the warrior summoned two more scimitars. The strain on his face was obvious.

  Emerii still equaled him. No, she began to overwhelm him. Then, a final two swords appeared. Ten arms wielding swords, all seeking her blood.

  Emerii was not herself. Far from peak, or even normal condition. She had walked the graveyard of dreams and life long past, and a flaming field of new death.

  Even so, she danced.

  She hummed and roared her courage. She deftly used the precision of her hands, a soft touch that did not waste any strength. Gracefully, she walked the tightrope of victory and defeat.

  That was right, wasn’t it? She was all of them, all of her. Aspects of those long gone that poured into her and remained more stalwart than any fragmented memories. She could never erase the witnessing of those final moments with happier times, but now, who they were blossomed in her.

  A fierce golden flower for her brother’s courage, a romantic rose for the songs and voice of her sister, an array of soft flowers in the warm sun for the gentleness of her father, and white lilies for the elegance and gracefulness of her mother.

  Emerii now walked a field of flowers as she performed, spinning her twirling ribbon just as she was taught.

  The warrior could barely keep up as the merrymaker peeled away his defense, blade by blade. Ten swords were not enough. A thousand would not be enough.

  She was Emerii, the warrior and merrymaker, the man before her simply another step to her dreams that she had already passed. His nameless head was hers, the deity already gone with the conjured blades as the body fell.

  A reaffirmation of goals. This was not a dance of vengeance, but of prevention and of moving forward. Fire and her deity would continue to disturb her, but she would not linger any longer.

  She would not look to the past, for they were with her now.