Soren and Alaric entered the training room. In the centre stood a single practice dummy, beside it, a solitary dagger.

“This is different,” Alaric said.

Soren nodded. “Where’s Raz?”

A muffled grunt sounded from behind one of the walls.

Soren tensed, exchanging a glance with Alaric.

The door creaked open, and Raz stepped in. “Today’s lesson is about dealing with unexpected surprises.”

Before either Soren or Alaric could respond, Raz stepped back out of the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

For a moment, silence reigned.

With a crash, a section of the wall burst open.

A massive wild boar charged into the room, its tusks gleaming, its eyes blazing.

“By Creation!” Alaric dived to the side as the beast barrelled past.

Soren scrambled for the dagger. His fingers closed on the hilt just as the boar wheeled around for another charge.

“Alaric!” Soren tossed the weapon to him.

Alaric caught it, but hesitation flickered across his face.

The boar’s hooves clattered on the stone floor as it charged again.

Soren grabbed the practice dummy, using it as a makeshift shield.

The impact sent him stumbling backward, his arms jolting from the force.

“We need to work together!” Soren strained to keep his footing. “Distract it!”

Alaric nodded, circling to the side and waving his arms. “Hey, you overgrown pork chop! Over here!”

The boar’s attention snapped to Alaric, giving Soren a moment to catch his breath.

This was no training exercise—one wrong move could mean death.

As the boar charged Alaric, Soren rushed forward, slamming the dummy into the beast’s side. The impact threw the boar off course, sending it crashing into the wall.

“Now!”

Alaric lunged, dagger raised, but at the last moment, he hesitated.

The boar swung its massive head.

Its tusk caught Alaric’s leg, sending him sprawling.

“No!” Soren rushed to his side, placing himself between Alaric and the beast.

The boar scraped the ground, preparing for another charge.

Soren’s mind raced, recalling every lesson on anatomy and weak points. If the boar’s structure was anything like a human’s…

“The dagger! Pass it to me!”

Alaric tossed the weapon, and Soren caught it just as the boar began its charge.

Soren dodged to the side.

A searing pain tore through his left arm, the boar’s tusk grazing him.

As the boar dipped its head for another charge, Soren’s mind raced. The pain lanced through his arm, but he forced himself to focus.

“Alaric!” He dodged another rush from the boar. “We need to tire it out! Use the dummy!”

Alaric scrambled to his feet, blood oozing down his leg, and grabbed the practice dummy.

With a grunt, he hefted it in front of him.

“Hey, porky!” Alaric slapped the dummy’s chest. “Over here!”

The boar’s attention snapped to Alaric, its eyes blazing, snout grunting.

“Now!” Soren called. “Lead it to the wall!”

As the boar thundered towards him, Alaric waited until the last possible moment before diving to the side.

The beast, unable to change course, slammed head-first into the stone wall.

Soren winced at the impact. He rushed forward, dagger in hand, aiming for the boar’s exposed flank.

The beast wheeled around, catching Soren off guard.

He stumbled backward, barely avoiding the thrashing tusks.

“Soren!”

“I’m alright.” His left arm throbbed. “Again! We need to keep it moving!”

Alaric used the dummy to provoke charges, while Soren looked for openings to strike.

But the boar was relentless, its hide too thick for Soren’s glancing blows to do much damage.

“We need to end this.” Soren breathed hard, his left arm hanging bloody at his side. “I’m going to try and mount it.”

Alaric’s eyes widened. “Are you insane? That’s suicide!”

“We don’t have a choice. Get ready with the dummy. When I give the signal, provoke a charge. I’ll try to jump on its back as it passes.”

Alaric positioned himself near the wall, dummy held high.

Soren took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Now!”

Alaric slammed the dummy against the wall. “Come on! Come get some!”

The boar lowered its head and charged.

Soren waited, every muscle in his body tensed.

As the boar raced past, Soren leapt.

He grasped the coarse hair on the boar’s back. But his injured arm failed him.

Unable to pull himself fully onto the beast, Soren found himself dragged along the ground, the rough stone floor tearing at his clothes and skin.

With a desperate heave, he managed to roll free, gasping in pain as he collided with the wall.

“Sor! Are you alright?”

Soren struggled to his feet, his entire body screaming in protest. “I’m fine. This isn’t working.”

The boar thrashed its head and let out a series of grunts. Its breaths came in heavy snorts, steam rising from its heaving flanks.

“Call him.”

Alaric roared and shook the dummy. “Come on, piggy!”

The boar charged, its bulk a battering ram.

Alaric tried to dodge, but fatigue slowed his movements.

The beast caught him full in the chest, slamming him against the stone wall.

The dummy clattered to the ground as Alaric crumpled, gasping for air.

"Alaric!" Soren lunged forward, but the boar's sudden turn caught him off guard.

Its tusk sliced through the air where his head had been.

He stumbled backward, his boots sliding on the blood-slicked floor, and went down hard.

The impact drove the air from his lungs.

Through blurred vision, he saw the boar wheel around, preparing another charge.

He rolled desperately, feeling the rush of air as the beast thundered past.

"Get up! We can't stay down!"

Soren staggered back-to-back with Alaric as the boar circled them.

Blood ran down Soren's arm, and Alaric's breathing came in ragged gasps.

"Once more," Soren said. "We'll try to pin it against—"

The boar charged before he could finish. They dove in opposite directions, but Soren's injured arm gave way as he landed. He sprawled across the floor, the dagger skittering from his grasp.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Alaric snatched up the practice dummy again, but his movements were sluggish. The boar caught the edge of the dummy, spinning Alaric off balance before he crashed to his knees.

"We can't…" Alaric coughed, spitting blood. "We can't keep this up."

Soren's eyes darted around the room, desperate for anything they could use. His gaze landed on the table. "Help me with this."

Together, they staggered to the table and tilted it on its side, creating a wedge against the wall.

"When it charges." Soren retrieved the dagger. "The angle will force it up..."

Alaric nodded, too winded for words. He positioned himself to the side, clutching the dummy.

The boar grunted, its sides heaving, foam flecking its jaws. Blood and sweat had matted its bristly hide.

"Now!"

Alaric swung the dummy, and the boar charged.

The table caught its lowered head at an angle, forcing its bulk upward. For a moment, the beast seemed to hang in the air, its belly exposed.

Soren didn't hesitate. He drove the dagger up into the boar's unprotected underbelly, throwing his whole weight behind the thrust. Hot blood gushed over his hands as the blade found its mark.

The boar's squeal split the air. Its legs thrashed, but momentum carried it over the table. It crashed to the ground behind them, twitched once, and lay still.

“Is it dead?” Alaric asked.

“I think so.” Soren collapsed against the wall, chest heaving. Beside him, Alaric slid to the floor, the dummy falling from his fingers.

For a long moment, the only sound was their laboured breathing and the slow drip of blood on stone.

A guttural roar shattered the silence.

The boar heaved itself up, blood streaming from its wound, eyes blazing. Its hooves scraped against the stone as it gathered itself for another charge.

Soren’s fingers tightened around the blood-slick dagger.

Blood sprayed from its wound with each thundering step, leaving a crimson trail across the floor.

Soren didn't dive away this time.

He leapt into the charge, his body moving with an instinct he didn't know he possessed. The boar's bulk filled his vision, its hot breath on his face.

Soren twisted to the side. The beast's momentum carried it past as he pivoted, and in one fluid motion, he drove the dagger down into its heart.

The blade sank to the hilt.

The boar's momentum carried them both forward.

Soren held on, his fingers locked around the dagger's grip as they crashed to the ground.

The impact jarred every bone in his body, but still he held on, driving the blade deeper. Deeper.

The beast's final breath came out as a whimper.

Then stillness.

Soren lay there, half-pinned beneath the boar's massive bulk, his chest heaving. Blood—his and the boar's—pooled beneath them both.

"Sor!" Alaric limped over, helping him wrestle free from under the dead weight. "That was either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

"Probably both," Soren managed, his voice raw. He stared at the fallen beast, its eyes now glassy and vacant.

Soren’s left arm throbbed, blood seeping through his torn sleeve.

The door opened, and Raz entered, surveying the scene. “You both survived. Good.”

Soren helped Alaric to his feet, both of them battered and exhausted.

“Soren,” Raz said. “Your quick thinking and willingness to act decisively saved both your lives.” His gaze shifted to Alaric. “And you.” He sniffed, his lip curling. “Your hesitation could have cost you dearly. In our line of work, mercy is a fatal weakness.”

Alaric nodded. “I understand, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. Come, both of you, get cleaned up and tend to your wounds. “

Soren and Alaric followed Raz through the winding corridors of the Guild.

Soren’s left arm throbbed, blood still seeping from the gash left by the boar’s tusk.

Beside him, Alaric limped, his face pale and drawn.

“I thought we were done for back there.”

Soren nodded, unable to find the words. The memory of the boar’s final moments played out again and again in his mind—the resistance as the dagger plunged in, the terrible squeal, the light fading from its eyes.

But it was necessary. And the training helped.

Raz led them into a small room, its walls lined with shelves stocked with bandages, vials, and various medical instruments. In the centre stood an examination table.

Raz gestured to the table. “Sit.”

Soren pulled himself up onto it, wincing at the pain in his arm.

“Today, you learn to heal yourselves,” Raz said.

Alaric’s eyes widened. “But we don’t know the first thing about—”

“Then it’s time you learned.” Raz moved to a nearby shelf, selecting a needle, thread, and a bottle of clear liquid. “Pay attention. This lesson may save your life one day.”

Raz held up the needle. “First, sterilisation is crucial. Infection will kill you as surely as any blade.” He dipped the needle in the clear liquid then held it over a small flame. “Now, for the wound.” Raz turned to Soren. “Remove your shirt.”

Soren complied, cringing as the fabric peeled away from his injury.

The gash was ugly, running from his biceps nearly to his elbow.

“Clean it thoroughly.” Raz handed Soren a cloth soaked in alcohol. “This will hurt.”

Soren gritted his teeth as he pressed the cloth to the wound.

The stinging brought water to his eyes.

But he forced himself to continue, cleaning away the dirt and dried blood.

“Good. Now, the sutures. Watch closely.” Raz demonstrated the technique on a piece of leather, showing how to pierce the skin and tie off each stitch.

Soren watched, his mind focused despite the pain.

"Your turn." Raz handed Soren the needle and thread, his face impassive as ever.

Soren stared at the curved metal, its tip gleaming in the torchlight. The wound in his arm throbbed, blood still seeping from the ragged gash.

"Clean it first. Thoroughly."

Soren's hands trembled as he poured spirits over the wound. The liquid ignited every nerve ending, sending spots dancing across his vision. He watched, oddly detached, as pink-tinged alcohol ran down his arm, dripping onto the stone floor.

Raz examined the wound. "Keep the stitches close. You don't want it reopening."

Across the room, Alaric looked on, his face growing paler by the moment.

Soren took a deep breath and pinched the edges of the wound together. The sensation made his stomach turn—raw flesh against raw flesh, slick with blood and cleaning spirits. "Like this?" He positioned the needle.

"Angle it perpendicular to the wound. And don't hesitate. The longer you wait, the worse it feels."

The first pierce of the needle made him gasp. It was a different kind of pain than the initial injury—sharp, precise, demanding his complete attention. He watched, mesmerized, as the metal disappeared into his flesh, then emerged on the other side.

"Steady now. Pull it taut, but not enough to tear."

Soren drew the thread through, fighting a wave of nausea at the crawling sensation of it sliding through his skin. Blood welled around the entry points, but he forced himself to focus. "Am I doing this right?" He tied off the first stitch, his breath coming in short bursts.

"Well enough. Keep them evenly spaced."

Alaric made a choking sound and stumbled toward the door.

The second stitch was somehow worse than the first—now he knew exactly what to expect. But as he continued, a strange rhythm began to emerge.

Pierce, pull, tie.

Pierce, pull, tie.

The pain became almost mechanical, something he could observe rather than experience.

"The body is like any other material," Raz said. "It can be broken, cut, torn. But it can also be mended. Remember this feeling. You may need to do this again someday."

Soren nodded, sweat running down his temples. The wound was slowly coming together under his hands, angry and puckered but sealed. Each stitch felt like a small victory, a triumph of will over flesh.

The final knot brought an unexpected sense of accomplishment. He sat back, suddenly exhausted, and examined his work. The line of black stitches was uneven in places, but it would hold.

"Here." Raz handed him a clean bandage. "Not too tight. The wound needs to breathe."

Soren felt the pull of the stitches as he nodded. The pain was still there, but it felt different now, duller, throbbing.

“Now you.” Raz said, turning to Alaric.

Alaric’s face, already pale, seemed to lose what little colour remained. “I…I don’t think I can.”

“You can and you will. Or would you prefer to bleed out on your next mission?”

Alaric swallowed hard and nodded, taking the needle with shaking hands.

As he began to clean his wound, Soren moved to help him.

“No.” Raz clamped a hand on Soren’s shoulder. “He must do this himself. In the field, you won’t have someone to rely on.”

Soren stepped back, watching as Alaric struggled with the needle.

His friend’s hands shook, and more than once he had to stop, closing his eyes, and taking deep breaths.

“You can do this,” Soren said. “One movement at a time.”

Alaric nodded, his jaw set.

Slowly, he began to close his wound. Each stitch seemed like a battle, but the gash began to close.

“It’s not pretty,” Raz said as Alaric tied off the last stitch. “But it will hold.”

Alaric sagged, colour returning to his face.

“You’ve both done well today. You faced death and emerged victorious. You’ve learned to heal your own wounds. These are crucial skills for any contractor.” He paused, his gaze moving between them. “But remember this—the wounds you can see are often the least dangerous. It’s the ones you can’t see, the ones that bleed inside, that can truly destroy you.”

Soren felt a chill at Raz’s words. The trauma of taking a life, the constant dance with death—these were the unseen wounds that could fester and rot.

“Return to your quarters and rest. Tomorrow will bring new challenges.”

Soren winced as he adjusted his position in bed, trying to push away the throbbing pain in his left arm.

“Sor, I never properly thanked you. You saved my life back there.”

Soren turned to face him, ignoring the twinge of pain the movement caused. “We had each other’s backs. That’s what partners do.”

“Partners, Right.”

“We’re stronger together. Always have been, always will be. You know this.”

Silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the soft crackle of the candle flame.

“How did you do it? How did you kill that boar?”

Soren stared at the ceiling, considering the question. The memory of the boar’s death flashed through his mind—the weight of the dagger in his hand, the resistance as it plunged into flesh, the life fading from the beast’s eyes. “I didn’t think. I just did what I had to do. It was us or the boar, and I chose us.”

Alaric nodded. “Do you think you could do that with a person? Take a human life?”

“Yes. We’ve already been through the Threshing. We’ve seen death up close. We’ve…caused it. We’ve killed. Both of us.”

“That was different.” Alaric sat up in his bed. “The Threshing was about survival. Self-defence. But carrying out a contract…that’s something else entirely.”

Soren shook his head, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his arm. “Is it really so different? In the end, it’s all about applying what we’ve learned, putting our training into practice. It’s all about survival.”

“But we’re talking about ending a life—a cold, calculated murder. Someone’s son, daughter, parent. How can you be so calm about it?”

Soren sat up as well, meeting Alaric’s gaze. “Because this is the path we chose. We can’t afford to hesitate or second-guess ourselves”

Alaric looked away. “I’m not sure I can be that detached. That cold.”

“It’s not about being cold. It’s about being professional. Doing what needs to be done, no matter how difficult it might be.”

“And what about our humanity? Where does that fit in?”

Soren had no answer. The question echoed his own doubts, the ones he tried so hard to push aside. He thought of his father, of the justice he sought, of the monster he was becoming. Was he willing to sacrifice his humanity in pursuit of that goal?

“I just know that we’re in this now, for better or worse. We have to see it through.”

Alaric nodded. “I guess. I just…I hope I’m strong enough for what’s to come.”

“You are. We both are. “

The candle sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

In the quiet that followed, Soren listened to Alaric’s breathing even out as his friend drifted off to sleep.

But for Soren, rest remained elusive.

He revisited the day’s events in his mind, analysing every move, every decision.

The boar’s charge, the feel of the dagger in his hand, the precision required to suture his own wound.

Was he losing himself in pursuit of his goal?

No. He was still Soren, still an artist. He wasn’t a monster, could never be a monster.

The ease with which he had taken the boar’s life, the clinical detachment he felt when discussing the possibility of killing a person—were these signs of his growing mastery, or symptoms of a deeper change within himself?

Soren thought of his father, of the questions surrounding his death.

He had joined the Guild seeking answers, seeking justice, seeking revenge.

Not the lure of mastery.

Not the artistry of it all.

Not the feeling that he could be great at this—the best.

Each throb of his wound seemed to pulse in time with his thoughts.

In the darkness, Soren flexed his injured arm, feeling the pull of the stitches. There was an odd beauty to it—the precise placement of each stitch, the careful mending of torn flesh.

Like his sculptures, but different.

Living art.

Each stitch represented a decision—to endure, to learn, to become something more than he was.

The Guild was changing him, sculpting him into something new. But unlike stone, he could feel every cut, every strike of the chisel.

He thought of the boar's eyes as the light faded from them, of the way his hands hadn't shaken at all in that final moment. The kill had been clean, precise—beautiful, even, in its own terrible way.

He wasn’t a monster—he was an artist.