Certain thoughts tend to cross one’s mind when face to face with death.

Things like ‘Why did I think this was a good idea?’, or ‘I probably should’ve just stayed inside the house’, and let’s not forget, “why the fuck did I leave the capital in the first place?”

Of course, Malt could very well have attempted to escape, but his body hurt to the point where he couldn’t muster the energy to do so.

Thus he resigned himself to his fate, raising a single feeble arm in a vain attempt at self-preservation. It was akin to trying to swat away an incoming truck with his bare hand, but at this point there wasn’t much else to be done.

Luckily (worryingly rather), he didn’t feel the impact that much. In fact he didn’t feel much of anything.

One second he was staring at the oncoming wall of blue chaos, and the next he was lying face first in mud, nearly prostrating himself. How much time had passed he did not know, but judging by the little wisps of black smoke that were still rising from the soot-stained earth around him, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

He willed his left arm to budge in an attempt to get himself back on his feet. Note the word attempt, because in reality he ended up with a faceful of dirt instead. He looked over to his arm, frustrated.

To put it simply, his forearm was bent backwards at an angle that should not have been possible, not for anyone with a working elbow anyway. Opting instead to push himself onto his knees using his forehead, he poked the mangled limb with his other hand and watched as it wiggled lifelessly.

Well that’s not right.

He ignored it as best he could, which wasn’t all that hard considering that he couldn’t feel anything from his left collarbone onward.

What followed was a complicated process of trying to get himself back onto his two feet without irritating the dozens of torn, burnt, or flat out broken parts of his body. It took an unhealthy amount of struggle and a prodigious amount of cursing, but he managed to get himself upright with a reluctant groan.

He blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his warped vision. Even before he could see clearly, the destruction of Nasir’s spell was made blaringly apparent.

The once-level ground in front of Mari’s home was now an uneven mess of mud and singed earth, peppered with bits of rock debris and smoldering wooden splinters. As his vision sharpened, he could even make out that a sizable portion of the woods beyond had been completely ravaged, with some trees having been split in half or outright uprooted along with great clumps of moist soil.

He made a quick mental note along the lines of ‘let’s not fuck with mages from now on’ and turned away to address a more pressing matter.

He could actually smell Pavel before he could see him. The unpleasant stench of singed fur wafted about, making locating the prick a simple matter.

The behemoth of a man lay on his side, breathing as if his lungs were being stabbed. Actually, judging by the pool of blood below the corner of his mouth, that’s probably exactly what had happened.

Malt scanned what remained of the landscape until his eyes landed on a faint glimmer of blue just a few feet away. He limped over and picked up the sword with his good hand, cursing and groaning as he bent over.

From there he began making his way to Pavel. The sword’s tip dragged along the rocky soil, scraping along the occasional patch of gravel. Anyone who owned a sword would call him out as a heretic upon witnessing this, but he couldn’t care less at this point.

There was no rush of adrenaline or morbid sense of accomplishment as he stood over Pavel’s soon-to-be corpse. As the sword’s pointy end hovered above Pavel’s throat, all he felt was a sense of relief, like he’d just caught that annoying fly that had bothered him for the past hour.

He slammed the weapon down, fully ready to smack the pesky little fly into oblivion.

Suddenly, a flurry of movement invaded his vision. Something leapt toward him so quickly that he couldn’t identify what it was, much less process what was happening.

In this moment of absolute chaos, his body lurched backward, compelled by an unknown and overwhelming force.

By the time he could even comprehend what his eyes were witnessing, he found himself neatly tucked under Nasir’s arm, as if he were a bedroll.

“Oi, why-”

He cut himself off upon feeling how tense Nasir was. Being one of the strongest and most confident people he knew, seeing Nasir this on-edge spoke volumes of the situation they were in.

Malt pried his head upward in order to see straight ahead, and laid his eyes on the scene before him.

The first thing he noticed was that they were somehow now several yards away from Pavel’s unconscious body. He could more or less guess as to why, but couldn’t begin to explain as to how.

This thought was secondary to him at that moment though, because one thing was occupying the lion’s share of his attention.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

A figure stood over Pavel. He was neither overly tall nor built, having a frame that was comparable to the average adult. In fact, he wasn’t even in a threatening stance, he stood as if he were waiting in line in front of a fruit stand, hands to his sides, relaxed and indifferent.

Yet every muscle in Malt’s body tensed as if he were staring down a tiger.

From the shoulders down, he was draped in an unassuming navy cloak that covered nearly every inch of his body. Despite this, the faint sound of clinking metal as he shifted about made it evident that he was wearing a hefty amount of mail underneath.

The most striking feature about him though was his helm.

The top half resembled the average conical helm that most Khods favoured, although this one was blackened by a layer of distinct scratches and hastily repaired indents.

They say a warrior’s armor tells a story, and this article told one of never-ending combat and unimaginable hardship.

The faceplate was similar in that regard, covering the entirety of his visage, with the only openings being the few holes near the mouth serving as circulation and the two half-circles that he peered out of, partially obscured by the rim of the helm.

Even from afar, the effects of the man’s stare could be felt.

Perhaps accentuated by the threatening shape of the helm’s eye openings, his eyes could best be described as dead. They were devoid of any emotion, no hint of amiability nor anything positive in general could be perceived. Only indifference, disdain, and a sinister grimness.

Malt could barely see his frigid, greyish-blue orbitals, but he was somehow sure that whatever face hid under the helm, it was wrought with unhealthy paleness and dark bags.

The matted, wispy grey hair that hung a few inches down from inside the helm, only further validated this notion.

Every fiber in Malt’s being told him that he should be paying attention to this figure. He felt like shrinking under his grim gaze, like a rabbit does when stared down by a wolf. He was struggling against his body’s instinctual fight or flight response by just being within eyesight of this man, and he was heavily leaning toward the flight option.

Whilst he was in this trance, a dull flash caught his eye.

He could just make out a mail covered hand partially hidden by the cloak. It held a nasty looking knife, more of a cleaver than anything, one that dripped with a dark red substance.

Just then did he register the dull throbbing on the side of his neck.

He turned to look at the area, before realizing that trying to look at himself in his current position would be fruitless. Yet as he felt beads of warmth gushing from where the heat originated, the questions answered themselves.

His blood ran cold as he connected the dots. This figure was something on a whole other level, no, an entirely separate plane than Pavel.

Nasir was the first to initiate conversation, loosening his body with impressive speed considering the circumstances.

“Well, who might you be? Not that I expect you to humour me though.”

Ignoring Nasir’s charismatic (albeit forced) remark, the figure dropped to one knee and began looking over Pavel’s many wounds.

“And you’d be right. I’ve no reason to indulge you.”

His voice was just as dead as his eyes, but carried a certain sense of foreboding.

Malt heard Nasir give a little chuckle from under his nose, whether it was one of humour or nervousness, he would never know.

Ignoring the figure’s callous response, Nasir pressed on.

“Is there any chance that you could leave that brat with us? We’ve gone through an awful lot of trouble to get him to that state.”

It was a rhetorical question, there was no way that he would comply and everyone knew it.

To their dull surprise, he responded.

“If it were up to me, I’d let you do whatever you want to this idiot. I’d actually prefer if it played out that way.”

Propping the still unconscious Pavel upright, he draped the body’s limp arm around his shoulder and lifted him up with surprising ease, especially considering the difference in their statures.

“But the Captain has labelled him necessary, as unfortunate as it is.”

As he began to make his way back to the forest, Pavel’s limp body twitched.

His head slowly rose, swiveling around in confusion. His face began to contort into anger and frustration as he seemed to begin to realize that he was being dragged away from a fight that he’d lost.

He launched into a belligerent rage, pushing himself off from the figure and swinging his arms with blind ferocity, likely unaware of the damage that he was causing to his own body.

He lunged at the figure with both hands, like he was a child throwing a tantrum.

The cloaked figure reciprocated in kind, catching both of Pavel’s meaty hands with his own.

The two men engaged in a contest of raw strength, and it quickly became apparent who the winner was going to be. Malt wasn’t even surprised at this, he knew from a glance at the figure that he was immensely powerful.

His grim eyes didn’t as much as flicker as he easily overpowered the man-child.

With a swift, brutal quick between Pavel’s open legs, he fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth. Malt instinctually closed his legs together, despite he himself having just been trying to kill the guy just seconds prior.

In quick succession, he raised his mail-clad fist and struck Pavel’s head with such violence that Malt could feel the impact from where he was watching.

Pavel’s listless body once again fell to the mud.

For good measure, the man kicked Pavel, now curled up and sniveling, once again square in the gut. Pavel’s limp body jerked violently in compliance with the pummeling, traveling a few feet at high speed before crashing painfully into a nearby tree. Malt felt like he could physically see Pavel’s soul leave his body as leaves fell, distrurbed from the canopy overhead.

Now that Pavel was undeniably out of it, the man grabbed his ankle and unceremoniously began to drag the meatbag away.

Before he could disappear into the forest once again, Nasir called out in a last ditch effort to gather information.

“Judging by the little show you just put on, I reckon you could have killed the both of us and been on your way, no?”

The man answered whilst stalking off.

“I probably could’ve, but I’m not so sure that I could get this useless dimwit out in one piece if I had. It’s unfortunate, but I’m sure that I’ll get the opportunity to in due time.”

He continued, stopping only once he stood at the edge of the thicket.

“I’d warn you against chasing me, but I’m sure someone of your caliber would understand as much already.”

He turned around, flashing his cold, dead eyes a final time.

“Am I wrong, puppet of Femreth?”

And with that, he disappeared into the forest.

Nasir’s mouth morphed into a genuinely amused, although very clearly dangerous smile.

“You’ve really done your research, haven’t you?”

Malt’s mind swirled with confusion. After a few seconds of mulling though, it became apparent that he was in no condition for deep, complex thought.

Now that the danger was out of sight, the adrenaline faded along with his battered consciousness.

The last thing he saw was the door of the cottage opening.