Tanlor fought with every ounce of strength he had, his muscles screaming as he clashed with the rak chief wielding two massive axes. The brute swung with the force of a charging bull, each blow sending shockwaves through the ground, rattling Tanlor’s bones. He barely managed to dodge to the side, feeling the wind of the axe slice through the air where he had just stood. The sheer size of the weapons made every swing a deadly promise, and Tanlor could see the hunger for blood in the chief’s wild eyes.

As soon as Puck had been taken down, the two remaining rak chieftains had charged at Daegan and Tanlor’s position. Cru and the rest of the captives had intercepted many of the rakmen and were engaged in the fray.

There was something very unsettling about the bone white masks the rak chieftains wore. It made them look like their heads were exposed skulls. Tanlor wasn’t sure what kind of runestones the chieftains were practised in. One of them must be skilled in topaz as they’d managed to incapacitate Puck. Tanlor was skilled enough with his topaz, and was a deft hand at countering an opposing runewielder in a one-on-one melee.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tanlor noticed one of the rescued prisoners dropping his sword. The blade glowing red hot. In the rush of battle Tanlor didn’t have a chance of focusing his edir well enough to detect which of the chieftains had done that. This axe-wielding one was less about subtlety and more about separating Tanlor’s head from his body, which, frankly, was starting to feel like a personal vendetta.

“I don’t why you’re so pissed at me,” Tanlor grunted, ducking under another wild swing of the axe. “I’m not the one invading your lands!” He could practically feel the breeze from it on his neck. The rak's determination was commendable, if only it weren’t aimed at him.

With a quick glance back at the glowing sword on the ground nearby—now emitting enough heat to roast a chicken—Tanlor wondered if he could reach out his edir for the heat. His hands were already covered in burn scars from his recent over-exertion runewielding the battle at Twin Garde. He hadn’t drawn that much heat since. But this was a life or death situation.

He evaded another swing of an axe, stepping out of reach of the red blade. Tanlor had a trick to stay calm during battle, he would expel all the heat of his adrenaline out of his body steadily throughout the fight. An idea was forming in his mind now at the sight of the red blade.

With every careful movement, he began to funnel that excess heat into his own greatsword. The blade started to glow faintly, the steel turning an angry orange, almost as if it were alive and eager to join the fray.

Tanlor grinned as his sword hissed when it met the rak’s axe, the sound reminiscent of a kettle boiling over. The hot metal slid off the axe, sending droplets of molten fury flicking up into the rak’s face, eliciting a yelp that was more comical than fearsome.

The Red Blade. Tanlor thought. That’s a good name.

Inferno’s Edge. Too pretentious.

Searing Justice. Too grandiose.

Tanlor was pressing the attack now with his burning blade, the sword hissing with each swing. He felt the exhilaration of the fight course through him, but in his eagerness, he took an opportunistic swing, and the momentary lapse in judgement cost him dearly.

Before he could regain his balance, the rak chief’s boot slammed into his thigh, sending him crashing forward into the dirt. The world spun for a brief second, but he held a firm grip on his sword, the glowing blade still alive with heat. Steam rose up in plumes where it met the frozen dirt.

The rak chieftain sneered and swung down his axe. Tanlor rolled out of the way just in time, feeling the impact as the weapon smashed the earth next to him. The second axe came down a fraction of a second later, striking Tanlor’s sword with a resounding clang. The hot metal splintered apart with ease, sparks and shards flying like hell’s confetti.

For the briefest moment, Tanlor was stunned, staring at the hilt of his sword in his hand, the now useless blade broken off barely more than a hand’s length.

“Dundarrish maak,” the chieftain growled, raising his axes high above Tanlor, ready to bring them down in a final, crushing blow. But then, suddenly, his eyes widened in shock, his breath catching as if the very air had been ripped from his lungs. The chieftain dropped to one knee, the strength draining from his limbs as though an invisible hand was squeezing the life out of him. Tanlor, still sprawled in the dirt, glanced up and saw Daegan standing a few feet away, his bloodstone dagger raised and glowing with a malevolent red light.

It wasn’t just any red; it was a pulsing hue, too vivid, too wrong, like the colour of fresh blood under a full red moon. The chieftain gasped again, the sound pitiful coming from such a massive creature.

Tanlor sprang to his feet, his movements quick and fluid. Without hesitation, he drove the jagged remains of his broken blade into the chieftain’s neck, twisting it deep. The rak let out a gurgling choke, eyes rolling back as the steel bit through flesh and bone, ending him swiftly before Daegan’s dagger could drain him completely dry. Not even a rak deserves that fate. He pulled the blade free as the chieftain slumped lifeless to the ground.

Daegan was at his side in seconds, breathless but with the wild-eyed look of someone who had survived far too much in far too little time. “Rowan?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.

“Freed him,” Tanlor grunted, wiping rak blood from his brow. “But the stubborn arse wouldn’t listen. Went straight for—” His words faltered as he glanced toward the chained ferrax, just in time to see the creature leap into the air.

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It soared skyward, its massive form unfurling in a breathtaking display of gold and red. The beast’s full length towered above the surrounding trees, a flash of colour and motion, twisting and fluttering like a piece of paper caught in a gust of wind.

The ferrax moved like a storm given flesh, weaving through the camp to where clusters of rakmen were regrouping. Its long, sinuous body twisted and coiled in the air, antlers gleaming as they sliced through the ranks of rakmen with deadly precision. Each strike was swift, the beast’s antlers spearing through hide armour and bone alike.

Within moments it had killed nearly a full dozen rakmen and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was gone, disappearing into the forest as if it had never been there at all.

“Went straight for that,” Tanlor finished, nodding toward the spot where the ferrax had vanished. He looked around the battlefield and saw that they weren't just winning, they’d already won. The freed prisoners were making short work of the remaining rakmen.

“Where’s the other chieftain?” Tanlor asked, his scanning the remaining rakmen still holding out.

“Over there,” Daegan replied, pointing to a shrivelled, grey husk that barely resembled a rak. It lay crumpled in the dirt, lifeless and twisted, all the vitality had been sucked right out of it.

“The dagger?” Tanlor asked.

“It was me or him,” Daegan said, not a little defensively, “he’d also taken down Puck. He was too dangerous to allow loose on the field.”

Tanlor gave a reluctant. “Good work,” he admitted, though no small part of him was concerned with what that dagger was doing and—more worryingly—Daegan’s increasing willingness to use it. They’d agreed that Daegan’s dagger should only be used against the enemy runewielders, and even then, only in dire circumstances. He supposed the battle was fairly dire.

Tanlor watched as the man called Cru finished off the last of the rakmen. A few of the prisoners had fallen in the final rush, their newfound freedom snatched away almost as soon as it had been given. Their bodies lay scattered among the dead rakmen.

Yaref was already moving through the aftermath, his voice clear and steady as he called out for the wounded. Tanlor couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s stamina. Most field healers would have been flat on their backs by now, drained and spent from the sheer effort of holding men together during the battle. But not Yaref. The healer moved with a tireless energy.

Both Tanlor and Daegan wasted no time rushing to where the ferrax had been freed in search of Rowan. The beast’s chains lay shattered, a mess of broken links and splintered wood. Tanlor’s heart pounded as he scanned the area, dread gnawing at him.

Then he saw it—a figure slumped against the base of a nearby tree, half-hidden in the shadow of the canopy. Rowan.

Tanlor dashed over, dropping to his knees beside his brother. Rowan’s face was pale, his eyes closed, his chest barely rising and falling with each shallow breath. He looked like a ghost of the man Tanlor had known, all the fight drained out of him.

“Rowan!” Tanlor called out, his voice thick with emotion as he gently shook his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, wake up. Don’t you dare die on me now, you stubborn bastard.”

Daegan spit out a curse. “Yaref! Yaref, get over here!” Daegan’s voice cut through camp, carrying all of the authority he’d grown up with.

A moment later, Yaref’s voice called back, strained and breathless. “I’ve found Tar! The boy’s bleeding out—I can’t leave him!” Tanlor heard Puck then too, calling out in pain from the other side of the camp.

Tanlor clenched his jaw, glancing between Rowan’s pale face and the direction of Yaref’s voice. “Rowan’s not waking up! We don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

There was a pause, then Yaref’s voice came back, tinged with urgency. “Does he have any wounds? Anything obvious?”

Tanlor quickly looked Rowan over, running his hands across his brother’s arms and chest. “No… no, nothing.”

“Then it’s just the healing crash, yes?” Yaref called back. “He’s suffering from it like the others. He just needs rest, Tanlor. He’s spent everything he had.”

Tanlor exhaled, relief flooding through him. He knew Yaref was right—Rowan had pushed himself beyond his limits, and now his body was paying the price.

He gently shifted Rowan, easing his brother’s head into his lap. “You hear that, Rowan? You’re gonna be fine. Just need to rest now, yeah? You’ve earned it.”

Rowan didn’t respond, his eyes still closed, but Tanlor could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, steady if weak. He looked up at Daegan, who was watching with a tense expression.

“He’ll be alright,” Daegan said, though it seemed it was more for himself than anyone else. “He just needs time.”

“We’ve got to move them though, we’ve no idea how many more rak might be coming here. We’ve got to get them back to the icerafts,” Tanlor said with frustration.

Puck’s cries of agony were growing in the background.

“I’ll go check on Puck,” Tanlor said, “stay with Rowan.”

“Of course,” Daegan replied, kneeling down.

Tanlor saw Cru barking out orders to the remaining prisoners, constructing makeshift stretchers to carry the wounded. The man had taken a deep cut across his face. He’d lost an eye, the socket now an ugly, raw pit that oozed blood down his cheek. But that didn’t seem to be slowing him down.

Tanlor found Puck sprawled on his back, the hair on one side of his head scorched clean off. Fresh burns, raw and angry, marred one side of his face and shoulder, the skin blistered and pink. Tanlor felt a twist in his gut at the sight.

The lad was gritting his teeth. “We got ‘em?” Puck asked, his voice strained.

“We got ‘em,” Tanlor nodded, kneeling beside him. He could almost feel the burn on his own hands again, the memory still too fresh. “Can you walk?”

Puck’s eyes were glassy, his breath coming in ragged gulps. “Don’t know what happened,” he mumbled. “One second I was throwing my pouches, next second…” His voice trailed off, the shock setting in deeper. The boy was in no state to understand, let alone move.

Tanlor’s eyes flicked over to where Yaref and Cru were struggling to lift Tar onto a stretcher. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandages, and where his arms should have been, there was nothing but torn fabric and mangled flesh. Tanlor’s throat tightened.

The thrill of victory was fading fast, replaced by a cold, hollow feeling. They’d won the battle, sure, but at what cost? Suddenly, it didn’t feel much like a win at all.

Tanlor glanced down at his hand, still clutching the hilt of his broken sword. The blade he’d been so intent on naming, as if that would make any of this less ugly. There was no glory in it, nothing heroic.

The thought of how he’d craved fame for this made Tanlor’s stomach turn. Disgusted with himself, he flung the sword-with-no-name away, the shattered relic of a misguided dream. Then he turned to Puck, offering a hand to help the lad stand. There were more important things to focus on now.