“Lila, get the clean towels, now!” Gregor barked the order, and I heard her scamper off without hesitation.
His hands moved swiftly as he inspected the wound in my side and cursed softly under his breath.
I could feel the pressure as he pressed something—cloth, maybe—against the worst of the bleeding, but the pain didn’t register. I was too far gone.
“I told you to stay out of trouble,” Gregor muttered, his voice tight as he worked. “Damn fool kid.”
The sound of cloth tearing, the feel of bandages being wrapped around me—it was all happening too fast for my brain to process.
My body was shutting down, the world around me growing fainter with each passing second.
Even Gregor’s voice seemed to drift away, fading into the background like everything else.
I was slipping.
The last thing I felt was Gregor’s hand gripping mine, his voice low and urgent. “You’re not dying on my watch. Stay with me, Ethan.”
But then, the darkness took me entirely.
----------------------------------------
[POV Shift]
Luca’s heart pounded wildly as he tore down the narrow alley, each footfall a sharp crack against the cobblestones. He could hardly hear the world around him; only the ragged sound of his breath, desperate and panicked, filled his ears.
Kieran’s dead. The thought echoed relentlessly, each repetition pounding louder, harder, until it drowned out everything else.
Kieran—dead.
The image of Kieran’s lifeless body flashed through his mind again—blood pooling beneath him, eyes wide and unseeing, his strength completely snuffed out.
Luca’s pulse quickened further. How was this even possible?
Kieran, the enforcer and untouchable warrior, reduced to nothing more than a bloodied corpse.
And standing above him, like a specter of death itself—Ethan, drenched in crimson.
How could someone like Ethan defeat him? The question twisted in his mind, but Luca couldn’t untangle it. There was no time, no space for thought. Only escape. Survival.
His legs screamed for mercy, muscles burning with each stride, but Luca didn’t dare stop.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The streets of Hallowford blurred into indistinct shapes as he tore through, barely noticing the startled cries of townsfolk as he shoved past.
He didn’t care. Nothing mattered now, nothing except the Ironbrand Guild—a sanctuary, the only place that might shield him from the nightmare he had just witnessed.
The fortress loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, but to Luca, it was salvation.
His chest heaved, every breath labored as if his lungs were about to collapse. Still, he pushed forward.
Get to the guild. Tell them what happened. The thought surged through him like adrenaline, driving his battered body onward.
Bursting through the gates, he nearly collapsed from the effort.
The heavy iron doors slammed shut behind him, a final barrier between him and the horrors he’d left behind.
His chest burned, his throat raw, but the taste of safety, bitter and fleeting, lingered at the edge of his mind.
Kieran’s dead... Kieran... is dead.
Luca staggered through the guild’s cold stone corridors, his breath coming in frantic gasps.
Sweat drenched his clothes, and his limbs felt like lead. Still, he kept moving, driven by the overwhelming need to tell someone—anyone—what had happened.
The dull hum of voices and clatter of armor echoed around him, but he barely registered them.
All that filled his mind was the memory of Kieran lying broken in that alley and Ethan standing over him, drenched in blood.
As he rounded a corner, Luca nearly collided with someone—a figure who towered over him, broad-shouldered and commanding in both presence and stature.
His dark iron-clad armor gleamed faintly under the torchlight, the intricate engravings of a black iron fist gripping a red chain etched into the chestplate.
The man’s eyes, shadowed beneath a thick brow, were cold, calculating, and for a brief second, they locked onto Luca’s wild expression.
A wave of intimidation hit Luca, but it wasn’t enough to slow him down.
He barely registered the figure’s presence, so consumed by his own terror that all else was a blur.
The towering figure stood silent, watching as Luca stumbled past without so much as a word of acknowledgment.
He didn’t care who the man was, didn’t care about the iron symbol that marked him as someone important within the guild. There’s no time. His mind raced ahead. I need to find Lorian.
The heavy doors of Lorian’s office loomed ahead, and Luca slammed into them without hesitation, shoving them open as he burst inside, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Lorian looked up from his desk, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wooden surface, a steady, deliberate sound that filled the room’s silence.
The door had burst open with a crash, and now Luca stood there, panting, his face pale and drenched in sweat.
Before Luca could speak, Lorian’s gaze shifted to the figure standing just beyond the threshold.
Tall, clad in dark iron armor engraved with the unmistakable symbol of the guild—a black iron fist gripping a red chain—Gareth Ironbrand loomed in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
The Guildmaster.
Lorian’s eyes flicked back to Luca, who seemed oblivious to the imposing presence behind him, consumed by his own terror.
“Guildmaster Ironbrand,” Lorian said, his tone formal, laced with a carefully measured respect. “A rare visit.”
Gareth stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. His gaze passed over Luca for a moment before settling on Lorian.
“I was curious why one of my subordinates is acting like he’s seen death itself.”
Lorian allowed a thin smile to touch his lips, but there was no warmth in it. “It appears he has,” he replied, his voice calm. “Luca, I assume you’ve come with important news.”
Luca, still gasping for breath, barely managed to choke out the words.
“Kieran... Kieran’s dead.”