Will barely had time to brace before Tharakar’s massive greataxe came crashing down. The impact sent a shockwave through his shield, the force rattling his bones. His boots dug into the damp earth as he gritted his teeth, refusing to be knocked off balance.
Another blow followed, relentless and crushing. Will absorbed it with a grunt, his knees nearly buckling.
Tharakar loomed above him, an armored titan of sheer brutality. Its cracked and scorched plate told the story of countless battles, yet the damage did nothing to hinder its assault. The Dread Knight was tireless, mindless in its destruction.
But Will was not alone.
Holly’s magic flared in response to each blow, reinforcing him, mending the fractures forming beneath his skin. She was a constant presence at his back, her power flowing not just from faith, but from the sheer force of her empathy. Every spell she cast was an unspoken promise: I will keep you safe, so fight on!
The relentless onslaught continued. Tharakar attacked with a single-minded ferocity, its strikes brutal and unceasing. Each clash rang through the battlefield, echoing off the ruined stones that surrounded them. Will gritted his teeth, every muscle in his body straining under the force of each strike. Despite Holly's support, he could already feel the dull ache setting into his limbs, the weight of the battle pressing down on him like a vice. He was the strongest among them, his strength a bulwark against the Dread Knight's fury. But he could not rely on strength alone. It was his unwavering determination and ability to endure that made him their shield, their line of defense. If he faltered, the others would suffer. He wasn’t the fastest, nor the most skilled in strategy, but he was the one who stood in the way of death.
The group moved with precision, falling into a rhythm born of trust and experience. Pierce’s arrows struck at weak points in the armor. Swan’s spells weaved dark currents that ensnared limbs, slowing the beast’s swings. Swan's stoic demeanor hid the vast experience she had over the others. She knew exactly where her magic was needed, and her calm, calculating approach ensured she was always in the right place at the right time. Holly’s magic pulsed in waves, continuing to reinforce Will’s defenses, keeping him upright under the relentless assault.
Kurt saw everything.
His eyes flickered across the battlefield, analyzing. The group was working in sync, their actions creating openings, small but significant. Tharakar’s armor, while damaged, still held—but its movements were just a fraction slower. Its footing, just a little less stable. These were weaknesses. Exploitable.
Yet something gnawed at the back of his mind.
Kurt’s sharp gaze flicked to Tharakar’s armor. Deep fractures split the blackened metal, some plates missing entirely, others barely clinging to the massive frame beneath. The damage hadn’t been inflicted by the fallen adventurers strewn across the clearing. They had been cut down too swiftly, their wounds too precise. Whatever had cracked Tharakar’s defenses had done so before this battle even began.
The question dug at him, but he pushed it aside. The present mattered more than the past.
Nera'Vul stood just beyond the fray, watching. Calculating. Its stance was poised, ready—but it had not moved. Not yet.
Kurt forced himself to stay focused. If it wasn’t going to act, he wouldn’t wait for it.
Kurt found his moment. As Tharakar swung wide at Will, Kurt moved like a shadow, weaving past its guard. Noctisbane flashed in his hands, a killing strike aimed at the exposed joint of its neck.
That was when Nera'Vul moved.
It was fast—unnaturally so. One moment it was standing at the battlefield’s edge, the next it was upon them, closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. It struck with precision rather than brute force, its attack aimed directly at Kurt.
Kurt barely had time to react. He twisted, bringing Noctisbane up just in time to intercept the blow. The impact rattled through him, his boots skidding across the dirt as the sheer force of the strike threatened to drive him off balance. Nera'Vul withdrew just as quickly, its stance shifting with the ease of something that had already predicted the exchange.
Kurt steadied himself, heart pounding, and finally locked eyes with the Darkborn Lieutenant.
It wasn’t just fast—it was precise, methodical. The strike was a test, a calculated attempt to probe for weakness. It didn’t fight with the reckless abandon of its subordinate. It fought with intention.
This fight had just changed.
---
Kurt tightened his grip on Noctisbane. He had no choice but to engage Nera'Vul. The others would have to handle Tharakar without him.
Kurt lunged at Nera'Vul with Noctisbane shimmering, a strike aimed straight for the Lieutenant’s center mass. But Nera'Vul’s reflexes were as sharp as its mind. It twisted, deflecting the blade with a forearm that should have been flesh and bone—but hit like steel. The impact reverberated through Kurt’s arm.
The Lieutenant countered instantly with a precise jab toward Kurt’s ribs. He barely managed to evade, the wind of the strike brushing against his side.
Kurt twisted, his heart pounding as he narrowly dodged the blow. Without missing a beat, he moved in a wide arc, his boots scraping against the dirt. The battlefield, scarred by the chaos of earlier fights, seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the surrounding forest a silent witness to the deadly dance. His eyes never left the Lieutenant’s, the only sound the rhythmic pounding of his own heart, echoing in his ears as he sized up the creature that loomed before him.
Nera'Vul, towering and shrouded in blackened, jagged armor, mirrored his movement, steps measured but deliberate. The Darkborn warrior’s gaze was a sharp, calculating focus. Its eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t flinch. It was as though nothing in the world could distract it—not even the impending storm of death between them.
Kurt’s breath was ragged, but he kept it controlled. He couldn’t afford to let his emotions rise; he couldn’t afford to lose focus. But the weight of the Lieutenant’s eyes—those endless pools of malice and precision—pressed down on him like a heavy stone. Each breath felt like an eternity as the space between them stretched further and further.
This is it, Kurt thought. He had faced countless threats, but this—this was something different. It had been four years since he last ventured into Darkborn territory, a time when his heart was consumed with rage and thoughts of vengeance after losing Helena. That anger had transformed over the years into a more just resolve, tempered by maturity. But now, facing a Darkborn Lieutenant for the first time since then, the anger bubbled up, rekindled by the familiar presence.
The air around them was thick and oppressive, charged with a tension that neither could ignore. It wasn’t just the fight—it was the weight of unspoken history, the lingering presence of past battles and lost loved ones. Kurt could feel it pressing down on him, a reminder of the pain and fury that once drove him. Yet his maturity fought to keep that anger at bay, focusing his mind on the present battle.
There was a certain awareness that neither of them was in control. Neither of them had the upper hand. Kurt's eyes locked onto Nera'Vul’s, and he saw the same calculating intensity reflected back at him. This was a clash of minds as much as it was a clash of steel, and Kurt knew that he had to stay focused, to keep his emotions in check. The battle ahead was as much about inner strength as it was about physical prowess.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the weight of it strangely comforting, and he forced himself to steady his nerves. Nera'Vul, for all its power and presence, was not invincible. But there was something—something beyond the warrior before him—that unsettled him now. The way Nera'Vul stood, the way it watched. It was as though the creature had already seen the outcome of the fight, as if it knew something Kurt did not.
Nera'Vul’s voice broke the silence, low and rasping. “You think you can win?” it asked, its words cold and measured, like the calculated precision of a general assessing a battlefield. “You stand against a storm and believe yourself unscathed. But you are nothing but the wind. Weak. Fleeting.”
Kurt’s jaw clenched. He could feel the heat rising in his chest once more, the old anger welling up—anger at the Darkborn, anger at the sheer arrogance of this thing. But he swallowed it down, focusing instead on the rhythm of the fight. He couldn’t allow himself to get caught in the Lieutenant’s words. It was a tactic. A manipulation. It wanted him to rise to the bait, to act on instinct and impulse.
Kurt took a slow step forward, trying to read Nera'Vul’s movements, watching the slight shifts in its posture. It was poised, like a serpent coiling to strike. It knew that a single misstep could be his last. And yet, in that moment, Kurt couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t just fighting the creature in front of him. There was something else at play here, something far darker. Something deeper.
The air between them seemed to crackle, filled with unspoken tension, both warriors locked in a silent battle of wills. What are you waiting for? Kurt’s mind raced, piecing together the movements, the angles. He had been in battles before, had danced this dance of anticipation and delay. But this—this felt like more. Like a trap waiting to be sprung.
And then, without warning, Nera’Vul lunged.
Kurt’s instincts took over. Noctisbane shot up in a blur, steel meeting steel with a flash of sparks. A sharp kick snapped toward his shoulder—he twisted just in time, deflecting it with his forearm. Even so, the force rattled through him, pushing him back, boots scraping against the dirt. But his eyes never wavered from Nera’Vul’s.
The Lieutenant pressed forward, each movement deliberate, probing. A fist, hard as iron, shot toward Kurt’s ribs. He pivoted, angling his sword in a downward arc to intercept the blow. Blade met flesh, but Nera’Vul’s body was unnaturally dense—the strike barely slowed it. The impact sent a jolt through Kurt’s arms, forcing him back another step.
Then came the low sweep, a kick aimed at his thigh. Kurt reacted on instinct, bringing his sword down in a swift parry. Sparks flared between them, momentarily illuminating the battlefield. And in that flickering light, he saw it—the Lieutenant wasn’t just attacking. It was maneuvering him, shifting his balance, forcing him onto uneven footing.
Each strike was part of a sequence, a relentless push to corner him. A feint high, then a hammering elbow from the opposite side. Kurt barely caught the elbow on his blade, but the impact numbed his fingers. Another strike, this one aimed for his ribs. He spun away, lashing out with his sword in a counter. But Nera’Vul was faster—its forearm snapped up, knocking the blade aside with a force that sent tremors through Kurt’s arms.
He gritted his teeth. He wasn’t just fighting an opponent—he was being dissected. Every move he made was analyzed, every reaction noted. Nera’Vul was toying with him, tightening the noose one strike at a time.
The next attack came—a punch feigned toward his shoulder. Kurt moved to intercept. Too late. The true strike crashed into his exposed side like a battering ram. Pain exploded through his ribs, the force sending him staggering.
Air fled his lungs. His vision blurred for half a second, but he had no time to falter. Nera’Vul was already closing in, ready to finish what it started. Kurt forced his body to move, blade lifting in time to deflect the next strike. His mind raced. The real fight wasn’t against Nera’Vul’s strength—it was against its strategy. Every attack had been a trap, forcing him into the next mistake.
Not again.
He adjusted his grip, his stance. The Lieutenant had been leading the dance. It was time to change the rhythm.
Nera’Vul growled, the sound low and guttural, tinged with a hint of amusement. “Impressive. But how long will you last?”
Kurt adjusted his stance, his breath steady despite the relentless assault. The Lieutenant’s strikes were precise, calculated, unyielding—but Kurt had faced adversaries like this before. Nera’Vul fought with the unshakable confidence of something that had never been outmaneuvered. But confidence, Kurt knew, could be a weakness.
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They circled, the space between them measured not just in distance, but in intent. Every movement was calculated, each feint and shift a silent conversation between two warriors. Kurt wasn’t relying on brute strength to win this fight; he needed patience. Observation. An understanding of the rhythm his opponent was setting.
And then, he needed to break it.
Nera’Vul’s fists moved with mechanical efficiency, a sequence designed to wear him down, to exploit his instincts and force a mistake. But Kurt had shifted. He wasn’t just reacting anymore—he was analyzing, calculating. The Lieutenant was testing him, mapping out his defenses, probing for an opening, waiting for the moment he would falter.
That moment wouldn’t come.
His muscles burned, his lungs strained, but his mind remained razor-sharp. Every clash of steel, every step, every breath was deliberate. He wasn’t simply surviving the onslaught—he was waiting. Waiting for the exact moment to turn Nera’Vul’s own strategy against it.
Nera’Vul pressed forward, convinced Kurt would break under the pressure.
Kurt’s grip on his sword tightened. Not yet.
---
The battlefield was a storm of motion—strikes, counters, and shifting momentum. The group was holding their own, but Tharakar’s onslaught was unyielding. Each time it staggered, it surged back twice as strong, its massive greataxe carving through the air with relentless force.
Will anchored their defense, his shield absorbing blow after punishing blow, each impact driving him deeper into the churned earth. The metallic clang of the greataxe against his shield rang out through the forest, each strike threatening to shatter his guard. Sweat trickled down his brow, mixing with dirt and blood, streaking across his face. Swan’s magic wove around like ethereal chains, binding Tharakar’s movements, while Holly’s spells bolstered Will's endurance, her hands glowing with healing light.
Pierce, positioned at the perimeter, had abandoned his precision shots in favor of calculated disruptions. His eyes scanned the battlefield, constantly seeking an advantage. He loosed arrows that struck low-hanging branches, sending them crashing down on Tharakar or embedded into the ground to create obstacles, tripping up the Dread Knight. Each shot was a deliberate effort to shift the balance in their favor.
But the strain was becoming evident.
Tharakar feinted low, then abruptly shifted its weight, driving an armored knee into Will’s shield with bone-crushing force. The impact sent him stumbling back, his footing faltering for the briefest of moments.
A fraction too long.
Tharakar’s crimson eyes locked onto the exposed figures of Holly and Swan. The realization hit Holly instantly. She shifted her focus, hands rising to redirect her magic from Will to Swan—but it was too slow.
The Dread Knight lunged.
Then, a flash of movement—Pierce.
Instead of targeting Tharakar directly, he fired at the shattered remains of a high branch. The arrow struck the weak point, sending a cascade of wood crashing into the Dread Knight’s path. At the same time, he pivoted, loosing another arrow in the span of a breath. This one landed just ahead of Tharakar’s advancing step, embedding into a slick patch of mud.
Tharakar’s momentum carried it straight into the mess Pierce had created. The falling debris forced it to raise its weapon in defense, and the unstable footing threw off its balance, even if only for a moment. A moment Holly seized.
Her magic snapped to Swan, reinforcing the sorceress just as her bindings tightened around the Dread Knight. Swan’s eyes blazed with arcane power as her voice chanted steadily, weaving the spell tighter, restraining Tharakar’s movements. The Dread Knight struggled, but its motions had become slower, less coordinated.
Will saw the opening. With a determined shout, he surged forward, his shield raised high. But this time, it wasn’t just a barrier. He wielded the shield as a weapon, swinging it with crushing force. The edge of it slammed into Tharakar’s helm with a resounding crash, sending a shockwave through the battlefield. The Dread Knight staggered, stunned for the briefest moment.
Tharakar’s bindings held firm, trapping it in place, but the Dread Knight was clearly disoriented. Will didn’t give it a moment to recover. He followed up with another brutal shield strike, this time aiming for Tharakar’s chest. The shield’s edge collided with the already damaged armor, the metal groaning and buckling under the force of his blow. As he pressed the attack, fragments of dark armor flew off, revealing the twisted, sinewy flesh beneath.
Holly’s voice rang out as her magic wove through the air, strengthening Will’s resolve. Her fingers moved in intricate patterns, channeling the energy that kept their front line intact. She stole a glance at Swan, who never once broke focus. The sorceress’s bindings tightened further around Tharakar, drawing the Dread Knight’s movements into a sluggish rhythm. Holly could feel the strain of her magic, but the need to protect her comrades pushed her to maintain her spell.
With each strike, Will’s determination grew. He saw the vulnerability beneath the armor, dark ichor seeping from the ragged wounds. He adjusted his grip, bringing the shield down in a final, crushing blow. The edge tore through the last remnants of Tharakar’s chest plate, exposing the corrupted flesh beneath. The Dread Knight’s body was now fully vulnerable, its defenses broken.
Pierce’s breath came in a sharp exhale, his eyes locking onto the exposed flesh of Tharakar. He didn’t seek approval from Holly or Swan—he was already in motion, calculating his next move. His mind raced, recalling every scrap of knowledge he’d absorbed about Darkborn anatomy. He nocked an arrow, drew back the string, and released.
The arrow struck true, embedding itself at the junction where sinewy flesh met twisted bone. Tharakar roared in agony, its movements becoming more erratic. Pierce didn’t hesitate. He loosed another arrow, this one aimed at a cluster of dark veins pulsing with corrupted energy. The shot found its mark, sinking deep into the Dread Knight’s vital points.
Each arrow was deliberate, targeting weak points with pinpoint precision. Pierce’s focus remained unwavering, his breath steady. He aimed for the joints, the exposed ribs, and the vulnerable flesh, each shot chipping away at Tharakar’s strength. The Dread Knight’s movements grew sluggish, its roars of frustration intensifying.
With a ferocious burst of strength, Tharakar shattered the bindings around its arm, the one wielding the greataxe. It swung the weapon in a wide, desperate arc, aiming to crush everything in its path. Will braced himself, his shield absorbing the blow, but the force was overwhelming. The shockwaves reverberated through his body, forcing him to dig his heels into the ground to hold his position.
Tharakar continued its rampage once more, using its freed arm to tear through the remaining bindings. The Dread Knight’s raw power shattered the magical restraints, leaving it momentarily free to unleash its wrath.
---
Nera’Vul was faster than the Dread Knight, more refined in its movements. Every strike from the Lieutenant was a deadly dance—no wasted effort, no hesitation, only lethal precision. Each blow tested the limits of Kurt’s reaction time, and yet, through the intensity, Kurt had adapted.
Their clash had become a rhythm, a battle of wits as much as skill. While Nera’Vul focused on attacking, Kurt had mapped out the battlefield, carefully tracking the shifting positions of his comrades. He knew when to act, when to wait, and most importantly—when to strike.
As the battle raged on, a flicker of frustration crossed Nera’Vul’s face. The Lieutenant had anticipated Kurt would weaken, that the constant onslaught would make him falter. Instead, Kurt had only grown more formidable. His counters were sharper, his timing more precise. Nera’Vul’s eyes narrowed, recognizing that Kurt was no mere mortal. This was a fighter who adapted, who learned with every move.
A subtle shift in the Lieutenant’s demeanor told Kurt that the pressure was getting to Nera’Vul. The strikes had become harsher, more desperate, a last-ditch effort to force Kurt into submission. But Kurt’s resolve remained unbroken. The slight hesitation in Nera’Vul’s eyes became the flicker of an opening—a sign of weakness. Kurt pressed forward with renewed intensity. He knew if he could keep pushing, the perfect moment would come.
And then it did.
Kurt had seen it all—the intricate dance of attacks, the pattern, the timing. He had been waiting for the moment when Nera’Vul would overcommit, when the Lieutenant’s arrogance would blind it to its own vulnerability.
Pierce’s deflection had caused a shift in Tharakar’s assault, opening the door for Kurt to strike. At that same instant, Kurt baited Nera’Vul, shifting his body just enough to force the Lieutenant to overreach.
Nera’Vul, thinking it had Kurt cornered, lunged with a strike aimed at his ribs—an attack that should have sealed their fate. But Kurt had left a small, deliberate opening, a feigned weakness, knowing Nera’Vul would take the bait.
The strike came with full force, but Kurt was already in motion. He pivoted gracefully, the blow sailing past him, its momentum carrying the Lieutenant forward. The opening was perfect. In a single, fluid motion, Kurt twisted and brought Noctisbane’s edge into the exposed side of Nera’Vul’s torso.
The blade cut through the armored plating with surgical precision, dark ichor spilling from the wound. A hiss of pain escaped Nera’Vul’s lips, and for a moment, the Lieutenant staggered, its balance undone.
Kurt wasted no time. He sidestepped swiftly, his movement smooth as water. In one seamless motion, he positioned himself behind the towering Tharakar, who, consumed by its rage, remained oblivious to Kurt’s presence. Before the Dread Knight could react, Kurt’s blade drove deep into the fractured armor.
Tharakar’s body shuddered, a guttural roar erupting from its mouth as dark energy bled from the wound. It staggered, then, with a final, defiant breath, collapsed heavily onto the ground. The once-mighty Dread Knight fell silent, its massive body crumpling into the dirt.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
The air was thick with the echo of battle, the forest holding its breath as the noise of combat faded into a stunned quiet. The world seemed to pause, as if the land itself were taking in the magnitude of the moment.
Kurt stood tall, his sword drawn from Tharakar’s lifeless body. Dark ichor dripped from the blade as he turned slowly to face Nera’Vul. His eyes met the Lieutenant’s, cold and unyielding.
This wasn’t a victory—it was a reckoning.
With a fluid motion, Kurt wiped the blade clean and locked eyes with Nera’Vul, his voice carrying the weight of everything that had led to this moment.
“It’s just you, now.”
His voice cut through the silence like a blade, carrying the weight of their recent triumph and the promise of what was to come. The words hung in the air, a challenge and a declaration all at once.
The battlefield had changed once more.
---
For the first time, Nera'Vul faltered.
Not in pain. Not in fear.
In comprehension.
Kurt was no longer fighting him alone. He was orchestrating the entire battlefield.
Nera'Vul recalculated.
The battlefield was not a predictable series of maneuvers, but a shifting, living thing that moved against it. This group—this collection of adventurers—had adapted faster than expected. It had assumed they would be like the others: competent, skilled, but ultimately flawed in cohesion. It had been wrong.
Kurt had never fought like a reckless human. From the beginning, he had dictated their duel, countering not only with skill but with strategy. And now, the rest of his group had returned to his side, emboldened by their victory against Tharakar.
The Lieutenant stood alone. Outnumbered.
Yet its stance did not waver.
The Darkborn adjusted, its stance shifting ever so slightly—a subtle change, but a meaningful one. The flick of a wrist, the shift of weight. Small, deliberate movements. A lesser opponent would have dismissed them. Kurt did not.
He saw them for what they were: the prelude to something dangerous.
Nera'Vul was no longer engaging as a duelist but as a tactician. It had already mapped out the group’s positioning, identified the weak points in their formation, and chosen its next move. If left unchecked, it would cut through them before they even realized what had happened.
Kurt wouldn’t allow it.
He moved before Nera'Vul could.
Noctisbane flashed as he lunged, forcing the Lieutenant to intercept. The clash of steel reverberated through the air, but this time, Kurt wasn’t aiming to strike—it was about control. He altered his momentum at the last second, twisting his blade in such a way that forced Nera'Vul’s weight off balance.
Will capitalized on the moment. His shield slammed forward, the impact resonating like a thunderclap. Nera'Vul skidded back, its footing briefly compromised. Holly and Swan wasted no time, their magic converging—one bolstering their allies, the other ensnaring their foe.
The Lieutenant tore through the bindings with sheer force, but the delay was all Pierce needed.
A single arrow streaked through the chaos, aimed with precision. It struck the exposed side of Nera'Vul’s torso, where Noctisbane’s edge had already carved through the armored plating. The arrowhead drove deep into the wound, tearing through flesh and sinew with devastating force. Nera'Vul staggered, dark ichor gushing from the injury, its balance disrupted and its movements becoming more erratic.
And in that moment, Kurt struck.
No hesitation. No wasted movement.
His blade slipped past Nera'Vul’s defenses, piercing beneath its left arm, rupturing organs and severing its vertebrae. This time, there was no counter, no calculated retreat. Noctisbane sank deep.
Nera'Vul’s breath hitched.
For the first time, it staggered—not by design, not as a feint, but because its body no longer obeyed. The strength in its limbs faded, the cold realization setting in.
It had lost.
The battlefield, once meticulously controlled, had turned against it. Not by chance. Not by miscalculation. But by an opponent who had dictated the flow from the very beginning.
Even now, as its vision dimmed, as the weight of its existence began to fade, Nera'Vul’s gaze remained fixed on Kurt. Recognition. A silent admission of defeat. Its body convulsed as strength drained from its limbs, its breath now slow, labored.
And still, its gaze never left Kurt.
“You are strong, warrior,” Nera'Vul’s voice was thick with defeat, but there was an edge of something else. “Stronger than you know… But your efforts are in vain. Each moment spent in this skirmish leaves him more vulnerable, more exposed to our wrath. Your souls—linked by fate and the abyss—cannot escape the darkness that binds you both.”
The words hit Kurt with the force of a physical blow, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. Souls linked by fate and the abyss? The phrase twisted in his gut, resonating with some hidden meaning. How could it know? The Darkborn spoke as if it understood their origins, as if it knew of the connection between Gavin and him. Somehow, it spoke of truths that Kurt had never questioned—truths that now seemed disturbingly plausible.
“What do you know of us?” Kurt’s voice was low, steady, but the question burned through him. He tried to find some semblance of reason, but all he could grasp was the nagging fear that maybe—just maybe—there was more to the Darkborn.
Nera'Vul’s eyes barely blinked. It didn’t speak again; the heavy silence spoke volumes. It had said enough before its demise. Yet Kurt couldn’t help but feel the weight of unfinished questions pressing in on him.
A noise broke the reverie—distant, but unmistakable. The sounds of battle. Kurt’s heart skipped a beat. Gavin.
“I don’t care,” Kurt whispered to himself, the words a quiet mantra as he set his jaw. He cast aside all doubts, all questions. There was no time. The answers could wait.
Without another word, Kurt turned toward the distant echo of combat, urgency propelling his every step. Pain radiated from his side where Nera'Vul's blow had landed, each breath a reminder of the cracked ribs he now carried. He winced slightly, trying to mask the pain, but his movements betrayed him. His mind was still reeling from the Lieutenant's words, but he pushed the thoughts aside. He couldn't afford to be distracted now.
The rest of the group—Swan, Pierce, Holly, Will—exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes reflecting a mix of concern and determination. They had noticed the uncharacteristic silence that had settled over Kurt, the tautness in his movements that spoke of a mind preoccupied and a body in pain. Pierce's keen eyes caught the subtle wince, and he glanced at Holly with concern. Deciding they couldn’t ignore it, they fell into step behind him, preparing to address the issue.
Holly moved closer to Kurt and placed a gentle hand on his arm, halting his steps. "Kurt, wait. You're injured," she insisted, her voice firm yet compassionate.
Kurt hesitated, the pain in his side a constant reminder of his vulnerability. But the concerned looks from Holly and Pierce left him no room for argument. He sighed and nodded, allowing Holly to nurse his fractured ribs. A warm, soothing light enveloped him, and he felt the pain begin to dissipate, his strength gradually returning.
"We need you at your best," Pierce said quietly, his eyes steady on Kurt.
As Holly worked, her eyes widened in disbelief. "Kurt, how were you even able to keep fighting with these injuries?" she asked, her voice a mix of awe and concern.
Kurt nodded again, appreciating their concern. He cleared his throat, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. Once Holly had finished mending his wounds, he straightened up, avoiding their gaze momentarily. "Thank you," he said, his voice resolute, eyes affirming Holly, and then Pierce.
Together, they resumed their path, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. Kurt would find Gavin and unravel these mysteries that bound them. Whatever truths awaited, he was ready to confront them head-on. For Gavin, and for the answers that eluded him.
***
The thought passed through Gavin’s mind with the cold clarity of a machine—one more enemy fallen, but not the last. The shadows shifted once more, their presence immediate and suffocating.
Dralok, another Warden, stepped forward with a fluid, menacing grace. Its dark armor seemed to absorb the very light around it, and its eyes burned with an inner fire, the glow of its power all too apparent. At its side hung a whip of dusk, long and sinuous, while its hands gripped twin shadow blades that shimmered with dark energy, promising swift and deadly precision.
The other figure, Sardoc, was equally imposing—a towering presence whose armor bore the marks of countless battles, each dent and scar a testament to its brutal prowess. Its aura pulsed with dark energy, its every movement a threat in itself. Strapped across its back was an abyssal shield, jagged and intimidating, while its grip tightened around an obsidian warhammer, its surface etched with runes of destruction.
They were no mere Darkborn. These were Darkborn Dread Wardens, and they were prepared for a fight.
Gavin’s internal sensors whirred softly, analyzing the new arrivals with cold precision. These figures that emerged were dangerous—each just as dangerous as Jorazek, which he did not defeat unscathed.
Threat assessment: Dralok. Rank: Dread Warden. Combat efficiency: high. Specialization: shadow manipulation and close-quarters combat. Weaponry: twin shadow blades, whip of dusk. Armor: dark, light-absorbing plating.
Threat assessment: Sardoc. Rank: Dread Warden. Combat efficiency: extreme. Specialization: brute force and defensive capabilities. Weaponry: obsidian warhammer, abyssal shield. Armor: battle-scarred, dark energy-infused plating.
Probability of survival: low.
Initiating tactical retreat?
The suggestion came from his internal system, an alert that flashed across his visual display. It was a logical recommendation—Gavin’s systems were still damaged, his reserves of energy depleted from the fight with Jorazek. His chances of survival against these two new Wardens were growing slimmer by the moment.
But Gavin could not retreat. He was well aware of the increasing presence of adventurers nearby, drawn by his battle with Jorazek as well as their clash against the Darkborn all around. His body tensed, the mechanical whirr of his joints barely audible over the heavy silence that had settled over the forest. His stance shifted from offensive to defensive, his daggers gripped firmly in his hands. The Mask of Shadows flickered across his face, the edges of his form blurring as he became one with the darkness once more.