Darian's hand flew to his knife, fingers curling around the hilt. With a flick of his wrist, the blade went spinning through the air. It sank into the bandit leader's eye with a sickening squelch.

The man crumpled, his scream cut short as he hit the ground. For a heartbeat, everything froze. Then the woods exploded into chaos.

"Get the brat!" a bandit roared, charging at Darian with his sword raised.

Darian scrambled back, fumbling for his bow. I’ve got to create some distance. His hands shook as he nocked an arrow. Breathe. Aim. Loose.

The shaft buried itself in the brigand's throat. He went down gurgling, blood bubbling from his mouth. But more were coming, their faces twisted with rage.

Breck leapt from the cart, a woodcutter's axe in hand. "Stay behind me, lad!" The smith barrelled into the fray, swinging the axe in deadly arcs. Steel clanged against steel as he met the bandits head-on.

Darian darted around the melee, firing arrow after arrow. Pick your targets. Make each shot count. Two bandits fell, shafts sprouting from eye and heart. Another took Darian's last arrow in the gut but kept coming, spittle flying from his snarling mouth.

"I'll gut you, you little bastard!"

Darian reached for another arrow. His fingers clutched at empty air. Out. Damn it! He snatched his second knife from his belt.

The bandit descended on him, sword flashing. Darian ducked and rolled, slashing at the man's legs. The knife bit deep, sending the brigand stumbling.

Darian pounced, driving the blade into the man's back over and over until he stopped twitching. Chest heaving, Darian whirled to find his next attacker.

Breck was holding his own, laying about with the axe like a man possessed. He'd cut down three bandits but he was tiring, his strokes slowing. A bandit darted in under his guard, stabbing at his side.

"No!" The cry tore from Darian's throat.

Ignoring the burn in his muscles, he launched himself at the bandit. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs. Darian ended up on top, his knife poised over the brigand's chest. The man's eyes widened in fear.

"Mercy! Please, I-"

Darian plunged the knife down with all his strength. Once, twice, three times. Hot blood spurted over his hands. The bandit shuddered and went limp.

"Darian! To your left!"

At Breck's warning shout, Darian threw himself sideways. A sword whistled past his cheek, nearly taking his ear off. He twisted around to see the bandit leader looming over him. Bloody foam leaked from the man's ruined eye socket.

"You...took my eye and…killed my boys," he rasped. "I'll carve out your liver and eat it raw!"

He lunged, his sword a blur of steel. Darian rolled frantically, trying to get his feet under him. Too slow. The blade sliced down his arm, almost slicing into the bone. White-hot pain exploded through him.

Got to... The world tilted and spun. Darian blinked hard, fighting to stay conscious. He fumbled for his knife, his fingers clumsy, slippery with blood. Where...

The bandit yanked Darian up by his hair, the tip of his sword pressed to Darian's throat. The man's breath was hot and fetid in his face.

"Time to die, whelp."

Darian spat a mouthful of blood into the brigand's good eye. The man reeled back, cursing. Darian kicked out wildly, his foot connecting with the bandit's knee. Something crunched.

The bandit howled and dropped to the ground, his leg buckling. Darian pounced, slamming his knife into the man's chest, his neck, his face. He stabbed until his arm was numb, until the bandit's head lolled on a ruined stump of neck.

Only then did Darian stagger to his feet, the blade falling from his blood-slick grip. He turned in a slow circle, ready for the next attack. But none came. Breck stood a few paces away, gore-spattered and panting. Around them lay the crumpled bodies of the bandits.

"Is... is that all of them?" Darian's voice sounded thin, distant to his own ears.

Breck nodded grimly. "Aye, lad. We got 'em all."

All. Dead. I killed... The world swayed. Darian took a stumbling step and fell to his knees. His stomach heaved and he retched, bringing up a stream of bile.

Breck limped to Darian's side, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. "First fight's always the roughest. You done good, lad. Damn good."

Darian spat, trying to clear the sour taste from his mouth. "Doesn't feel good. Feels... wrong."

"I know it does. But you did what you had to. Them or us." Breck squeezed his shoulder. "Killing ain't something to take lightly, but this world don't pull punches. Today you learned that hard truth. If they didn’t underestimate us, it would have been us lying here, boy.”

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Darian stared at the bloody scene, feeling sick. So much blood. I did this. I killed them. His head spun and he squeezed his eyes shut. Thought it would be like hunting, but...

"Easy now. Breathe." Breck's voice was gruff but gentle. He hauled Darian to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up. Then we best be moving on. Don't want to linger here."

Darian let himself be led to the cart in a daze. Breck sat him down and examined his wounded arm. "Hmm, nasty slice that. Needs a stitch or three. Hold still."

He barely felt the prick of the needle as Breck sewed his flesh together. He stared at the dead bandits sprawled in the dirt. I’m…I’m a killer. His hands started to shake.

Breck wrapped a bandage around his arm and tied it off. "There now, that'll hold. You hurt anywhere else?"

Darian shook his head numbly. Hurt, yes, but not from wounds. Inside. His guts were knotted, his mind reeling. But Breck was right, they needed to move on before the other bandits found out what happened to their leader.

He looked up at the old blacksmith. "What about... them? The bodies?" He cringed at how small his voice sounded.

"Leave 'em for the crows." Breck spat. "Thieving scum don't deserve better."

The smith strode over to the corpses and began rifling through their pockets, collecting purses and baubles. He tossed the loot into the back of the cart.

"This will fetch a pretty penny in town," he said with satisfaction. "We'll split it even. Only fair, after the fight you gave."

Splitting the spoils of the dead. Darian's stomach lurched and he bent over, heaving. Nothing came up but thin strings of bile. He spat, trying to clear the sour taste.

Breck paused, frowning. "Lad? You gonna be sick again?"

Darian shook his head, wiping his mouth. "I'll be alright." He hoped that wasn't a lie. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled himself into the cart. "Let's just go."

"Right, then." Breck climbed up beside him and took the reins.

As the cart lurched into motion, Darian kept his eyes fixed forward, trying not to look at the bodies. But he couldn't stop hearing it - the meaty thunk of his knife striking flesh, the wet, ragged breathing of dying men. It echoed in his head, over and over...

"Takes a toll, don't it?" Breck spoke up after they'd left the ambush site far behind. "The killing."

Darian hugged his knees to his chest. "I didn't... I mean, I knew what I was doing, I chose to, but... I didn't really think on how it would feel. After."

"Aye, and that's natural. Fighting, killing - it goes against all we're taught as youngens. But sometimes it's needful."

"I know, but..."

"Speak your mind, lad. Better out than in."

Darian chewed his lip. The words wanted to spill out of him, but he'd never been good at giving them voice. "It's just... I thought it would be like hunting, y'know? Taking down a deer or a boar for the table. Life and death, simple. But this feels..." He swallowed. "Different."

"Aye, 'tis different. A deer don't rightly understand death the way we do. It will fight to live, fierce as any beast, but it ain't choosing to kill you. 'Tis just nature's way."

That made a sort of sense. But...

"Those bandits, they did choose. They threatened us, meant to rob and murder us."

"They did, lad. And we answered that threat. Met them even. It was us or them - you kept your wits, made the hard choice, and you came out standing. Take heart in that."

Darian wanted to. Wanted to square his shoulders and put the ache aside, be strong like Da. Like Breck. But the twisting in his guts wouldn't let him. The smell of blood still clung to his skin, no matter how he rubbed at it.

"What does that make me, then? I took their lives so easy." His voice cracked. "I'm not sorry for it, does that mean I'm as bad as them?"

"No, lad." Breck tugged the reins, stopping the cart. He turned to Darian, his eyes hard and serious. "You listen here - feeling it don't make you weak, and not feeling don't make you wicked. There's no sin in grieving a life lost, any life. But them bastards set on this path. They chose thieving and murder, knowing where it ends."

Darian opened his mouth, but Breck held up a hand. "You've a gentle heart, lad, and that's a fine thing. But you've steel in you too, to do what needs doing. Those bandits sought to kill us. In ending them, you saved us - you saved me. And for that, I owe you my life."

Breck leaned forward, hands on Darian's shoulders. "Taking a life should never sit easy. The day it does, you've lost a piece of yourself. But when killing is needful - to protect kith and kin, to serve the right - then it is no sin. You understand?"

Slowly, through a haze of swirling emotion, Darian nodded. Breck was right. He'd done what he had to. To save himself, to save his friend. No more and no less. That didn't wash the blood from his hands... but maybe it could let him live with it.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything. I'd be lost without you."

Breck gripped his shoulders tighter. "'Tis what I'm here for, lad. You're not alone in this. I've got your back, come what may."

He turned back to the road and clucked the horse on. "Now buck up. We've ground to cover yet. Arbrook awaits!"

The casual words were like a bucket of cold water. Arbrook. The test. In the chaos of battle and his roiling thoughts, Darian had almost forgotten where they were bound. He straightened, blinking.

"Right. The test." He swallowed thickly. "Do you... do you think I have a chance? After... all this?"

His gaze strayed to the blood staining his tunic, the hastily bandaged gash on his arm. Would they even let him sit the test like this? What must he look like, a scrawny peasant boy all over gore...

"Stop that." Breck's voice was firm. "You've as much chance as any, and more than most. Today you showed grit and mettle beyond your years. They'd be fools not to take you."

Mettle. Darian wanted to laugh. Mettle was just a prettier word for killing. For doing the hard, ugly thing. But he knew what Breck meant. He'd proven himself, in a way. Shown he had the steel to survive. That had to count for something.

And in a strange, unsettling way... he was almost glad of the bandit attack. Not for the bloodshed, never that. But because it had given him a taste, however bitter, of what lay beyond Brookhaven. Of a world where danger lurked and hard choices stalked. If he couldn't face that, what chance did he have at the academy?

No. He would not falter now. He'd come too far, through too much. Da was gone, lost to his own wanderlust. Darian would not abandon his future the same way. He'd pass the test, earn his place, make something of himself. For Ma, for Talia. For his village.

And maybe, just maybe... for himself. To prove he was more than a poor weaver’s son. More than the scared, shaking boy who'd spilled blood today.

Slowly, Darian uncurled from his huddle. He reached into his pack and withdrew the pouch Thomas had given him. The river stones clicked together, cool and smooth against his palm.

Lucky charms. Huh.

After today, he'd take all the luck he could get.

He closed his fingers around them. Focused on their solid weight, the realness of them. Forced his breathing to steady. "You're right," he said quietly. "I can do this. I'm ready."

And for the first time since the bandits fell, he almost believed it. He settled into his seat, eyes on the horizon. On the future he would grasp, come what may.

It was a long road yet to Arbrook. But he would walk it. One step, one breath at a time.