"Stand down, Harion," Draven commanded, his voice firm as he strode forward, boots crunching the grass. His crimson eyes locked on Javier, ignoring the seven Runian soldiers fanned out behind him.
"Who's that guy?" one Runian muttered, squinting at Draven's tall frame, his cloak rippling in the morning breeze.
"Doesn't matter. I can't stand pretty faces," another growled, glaring at Draven's sharp jawline and steady gait.
Javier's mind raced, his grip tightening on his twin daggers. 'Who is this man? He stopped Harion's attack with a single word, no hesitation. Is he Harion's superior?' He studied Draven's calm posture, but no clear answer came.
Draven halted a few steps from Javier, his presence heavy, like a storm cloud pressing down on Javier. "I let Harion take the lead," he said, his tone even, "but you Runians are an interesting bunch. You claim there are no real warriors here? That you'd hate to waste your blades? Tell me, oh naive Runian, what gives a boy like you the confidence to spit such bold and reckless words? Did Nyxelene send you with her blessing?"
Javier flinched, stepping back, his long black hair swaying. Draven's gaze bore into him, unyielding. 'Rumors of Zalem's king are vile—cruel, each one nastier than the last. Could this be him? No, this man is way too young.' Javier's heart pounded. His father, Orin, had warned him once, his voice grave: 'If you face Zalem's king, the man who took my arm, choose words, not daggers.' Javier, a prodigy fighter only outshone by Michael, felt a rare flicker of doubt as he stared at the man before him.
From behind Javier, a Runian soldier swaggered forward, sneering. "Look at this fool, strolling up all alone. Got a death wish—" His hand grazed Draven's shoulder, but his words choked off. In a blur, Draven's sword flashed, slicing an arc through the air. The soldier's head tumbled to the ground, blood pooling in the grass, his body collapsing with a dull thud.
Draven didn't glance at the corpse. "You should be quiet," he said in a low tone, sheathing his blade with a soft click, "when someone is trying to have a conversation."
The six, now five, Runian soldiers behind Javier drew their swords, blades glinting in the pale morning light, their faces twisted with rage, ready to charge. One soldier, his armor scratched and dented, stepped forward, glaring at Draven. "Lord Javier, give the order, and we'll cut them down!" he snarled, his hand twitching on his hilt, itching for a fight.
Javier stood still, his long black hair framing his tense face, his dark eyes locked on Draven. His twin daggers trembled slightly in his grip, but he didn't move. Something held him back—a gut feeling, sharp and cold, warning him that raising his blades against this man would be his last mistake. 'If I strike, I'm dead,' he thought, his pulse quickening. Instinct or fear, it didn't matter; the certainty was unshakable.
"Stand down," Javier ordered, his voice steady but edged with steel.
"What?" the soldier blurted, his head snapping toward Javier, unsure if he'd heard correctly.
"I said stand down!" Javier snapped, his dark eyes flashing with fury. His men hesitated, then lowered their swords, stepping back, their boots scuffing the grass. The air grew heavy, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Javier faced Draven, his jaw tight. "I don't know why, but I feel it—I'll die if I fight you. I could test that feeling, but I've got no reason to take such a gamble. We'll leave and tell Runevale the princess is under Zalem's protection."
Draven's eyes narrowed, his voice low and chilling, like a blade scraping bone. "I think you've misunderstood something, Runian. Whether you walk back to Runevale or lie dead in this field isn't your choice—it's mine."
Javier's shoulders stiffened, but he held his ground. "You'd fight us then? You've already killed one of my men. Returning to Runevale with that loss is defeat enough. Why push for more blood? Let's call it even and part ways. But if you press this, you'll drag Zalem into a brutal war with Runevale."
Harion, standing beside Rya, let out a sharp laugh, his sword still drawn. "Clever bastard," he muttered, glancing at Rya's pale face. "He knows he's outmatched, so he's tossing Nyxelene's name to scare us."
Draven smirked, his grip loosening on his sword, though his stance remained coiled, ready to strike. "Fight you? I've killed my whole life, but I've only truly fought once. Orin was the only man worth my blade. The rest?" He shrugged, his cloak shifting. "Not even worth naming. You won't be any different."
Javier's heart sank, his fingers tightening on his daggers. 'So it's true after all. He's the King of Zalem, the one who took Father's arm.' The thought sent a chill through him. If Draven was that man, he could slaughter them all without effort. Javier's men shifted nervously, their eyes darting between their leader and the blood-soaked grass where dead soldiers lay motionless.
Draven's voice cut through again, cold and certain. "And don't think Nyxelene will come for you. She and I are already at war, a quiet one. Believe me, she won't face me directly—she isn't the type to fight a losing battle after all." He flicked his sword, blood dripping from the blade onto the ground, his mind already set on ending them all. His boots crunched as he took a step forward, intent clear in his eyes.
Then, something stopped him. His gaze dropped to Javier's daggers, their etched handles catching the light. He paused, his head tilting slightly. "Those daggers—where did you get them?" he asked, his tone shifting, curiosity edging out the menace.
Javier blinked, glancing at the blades in his hands, their familiar weight grounding him. "These? My father gave them to me on my fifteenth birthday."
Draven's eyes softened, just for a moment, a flicker of something human breaking through his cold mask. "So, you're Orin's son." He studied Javier, noting the boy's steady grip, so unlike his father's reckless fire. "You don't act like him. Strange." He turned, his cloak swirling, and began to walk away, his sword still in hand.
Javier's brow furrowed, confusion overtaking his fear. "You're not attacking?" he called, his voice uncertain, his men exchanging wary glances.
Draven didn't look back. "Out of respect for Orin, the only man I honor, I'll let you live. Tell him I send my regards." His boots thudded against the earth as he rejoined his soldiers, leaving Javier standing, daggers lowered, in the silent, blood-streaked field.
Javier sheathed his twin daggers. "We're done here," he said, his voice low but firm, carrying the weight of their narrow escape. "What happens next isn't my call." His long black hair swayed as he strode toward the forest's edge, his five remaining soldiers falling in step, their boots crunching the dusted grass. Their armor clinked softly, the wolf crests on their shoulders gleaming faintly under the rising sun. At the tree line, where gnarled pines stood like silent guards, Javier paused, his dark eyes flicking back to Rya. She stood beside Draven, her forest-green eyes distant, her frame hunched as if the weight of his words still pressed on her.
"Don't forget, Rya," Javier called, his tone sharp, cutting through the morning chill. "Lady Nyxelene gets what she wants. If she's set on your life, she'll most certainly claim it, no matter where you hide." He held her gaze for a moment, his face unreadable, then turned and vanished into the shadowy forest, his men trailing like ghosts, their footsteps fading into the rustle of leaves.
Rya stared after him, her hands twisting the hem of her torn dress, her thoughts a tangled mess. Javier's words echoed in her mind, mingling with memories of Nyxelene's cold, moonlit-ash eyes and Michael's desperate shout to run. Her chest tightened, her bruised arms trembling as she stood rooted in the blood-streaked field. The corpses from yesterday's fight lay scattered around, their lifeless forms a grim reminder of Zalem's ruthlessness. She wondered if Michael was still alive, if Mira's kind hands still tended Runevale's halls, or if Nyxelene's wrath had consumed them all. Her heart ached, heavy with guilt and fear, her breath shallow in the crisp air.
Draven watched her, his broad shoulders squared, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He wanted to ask why Nyxelene hunted her so fiercely, what secret or sin had marked her for death, but Rya's distant gaze stopped him. Her eyes were clouded, lost in a storm of thought. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the dirt, unsure how to reach her. "We need to move," he said, his voice gruff but gentle, breaking the silence. "Can you ride a horse?"
Rya blinked, slowly returning to the present, her dark hair falling over her face as she shook her head. "No," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Growing up locked in Runevale's towers, she'd never learned to ride, never run through fields or climbed trees like other children. Her world had been stone walls, velvet curtains, and Mira's quiet care. Riding was just one of many skills she lacked, a gap that now felt like a chasm.
Draven nodded, unperturbed. "Then you'll ride with me." His tone was matter-of-fact, but Rya barely registered it, her mind still caught in Javier's warning. Harion barked orders nearby, his voice sharp as soldiers scrambled to pack the camp. Tents were folded with quick tugs, horses snorted as saddles were tightened, and swords were sheathed with metallic clinks. The Zalem camp buzzed with purpose, the air thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and damp earth.
Draven swung onto his brown horse with ease, his cloak settling around him as he gripped the reins. Harion approached Rya, his weathered hands gentle as he lifted her onto the saddle behind Draven. Her small hands fumbled, unsure, as she settled onto the horse's broad back, the leather creaking under her weight. "Hold tight," Draven said over his shoulder, his voice calm but firm, his eyes scanning the horizon for threats.
Rya hesitated, then gripped Draven's shoulders, her fingers digging into his cloak. The horse lurched forward, its hooves thudding against the ground, and Rya's balance wavered. Panic flared in her chest, and she quickly wrapped her arms around Draven's waist, clinging tightly, her cheek pressed against his back. The motion steadied her, though her heart raced, convinced she'd tumble off without her desperate hold. The horse's steady gait rocked her gently, the rhythm unfamiliar but grounding.
Draven led the column, the reins loose in his hands. Harion rode to his right, his sword sheathed but his eyes alert, scanning the forest's edge. The other Zalians followed in a tight formation, their horses' hooves churning the grass, kicking up clumps of dirt. The field stretched behind them, littered with the fallen, their blood soaking into the earth. Rya's hands tightened on Draven. The wind carried the faint scent of pine and iron, and as the camp faded into the distance, she wondered where this path would lead—and whether Nyxelene's shadow would ever let her go.