They woke before dawn.
Mist clung to the riverbank in silver coils. The coals of their campfire glowed faintly in the dimness as Kellan kicked dirt over them, grinding them into blackened ash.
"Up," he barked at Ruvan. "We move before the sun's up. The roads are getting too dangerous."
Ruvan's limbs felt heavy with sleep. His dreams had been fractured – memories of the assassins, his master's forge burning, the little girl's screams echoing through shadowed streets. As he rose and strapped Solrend across his back, he felt the same cold hollowness that had haunted him since the village's fall.
Elion offered him a piece of flatbread and goat cheese. Ruvan ate silently, chewing without tasting. Every bite felt like chewing cloth. The promise he made last night burned hot in his chest:
I will not run. Even if it kills me.
They set off west along the riverbank, avoiding the main road. Kellan rode point, his gaze scanning the fog-shrouded trees. Elion rode behind him, staff across his lap, lips moving in silent prayers. Ruvan rode in the middle, fingers tight around his reins.
By midday the fog burned away, revealing a forest of gnarled oaks and whispering poplars. The air smelled of moss, rain, and decaying leaves. A hawk wheeled overhead, crying its lonely song.
Ruvan's thoughts circled endlessly:
You can't protect them. You'll only get them killed. Run while you can.
He clenched his teeth, pressing his knees into the horse's flanks. No. He refused to be that man again. Not after what he'd promised under moonlight.
The Ambush
They were riding along a narrow deer trail when Kellan's hand shot up.
"Stop."
They froze. Kellan slid from his saddle, crouching low. He touched the dirt, running his fingers through loose soil and fallen leaves. His eyes narrowed.
"Tracks," he murmured. "Five men. Heavy boots. They're close."
Ruvan swallowed, his pulse quickening. Elion gripped his staff tighter, golden motes drifting from his fingertips as he whispered a prayer.
A faint snap of a branch echoed from ahead. Then another to their right. And left.
They were surrounded.
Blades in the Fog
The first assassin stepped from behind a tree, blades glinting in both hands. He wore a black leather half-mask and ragged forest-green cloak. His eyes were pale grey and dead.
Three more appeared silently, forming a half circle around them. Each held short curved swords, moving with eerie synchronicity. The fifth assassin emerged behind them, blocking their retreat.
"Well," Kellan said lightly, unsheathing his sword with a soft whisper of steel. "We're popular today."
Ruvan's throat was tight. He reached for Solrend's hilt. His fingers trembled as he drew the blade. The broken edge flashed dully in the pale light, runes pulsing faintly down its fuller.
The lead assassin stepped forward, pointing one blade at Ruvan.
"Leave the healer and the mercenary. We only want the boy."
Kellan snorted. "Funny. I was about to say the same to you, except reversed."
Without warning, the assassin lunged.
The Clash
Kellan met him with a roar, their blades ringing as steel kissed steel. Another assassin darted at Elion, slashing for his throat, but the healer raised his staff. A burst of golden light exploded from its runes, hurling the attacker back into a tree with a dull crack.
Two assassins charged Ruvan.
He raised Solrend in a clumsy guard, feet sliding on damp leaves. The first assassin slashed low, aiming to hamstring him. Ruvan stumbled back, parrying weakly. The blade jarred in his hands, nearly wrenching from his grip.
The second assassin stabbed for his ribs. Ruvan twisted sideways, awkward and untrained, his left foot catching on a root. As he fell, his grip on Solrend tightened in panic.
The Pulse of Solrend
Time seemed to slow.
A fierce heat surged up his arms. Runes along Solrend's blade ignited with blinding white fire. The sword felt weightless, molten, alive.
Ruvan swung wildly as he fell.
A white arc of searing energy tore from Solrend's edge. It ripped through the assassin's chest in a burst of light and blood. The man's scream was cut short as he crumpled, a smoking hole burned clean through his heart.
The other assassin froze mid-swing, eyes wide with horror.
Ruvan hit the ground hard, pain flaring through his elbow. But he forced himself to his knees, raising Solrend again with trembling hands. The glowing runes dimmed, fading to their usual cold glow.
The remaining assassin backed away, shaking his head. Ruvan could see fear in his eyes now. Fear of me, he realised with a sick jolt.
The End of the Fight
Kellan finished the lead assassin with a brutal thrust through the throat. Elion slammed his staff into the final attacker's chest, golden light erupting from the impact. The man convulsed and fell, smoke curling from his mouth.
Silence fell across the forest.
Ruvan stayed kneeling, panting hard, staring at the corpse before him. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nose, sharp and nauseating. His stomach roiled, bile rising in his throat.
Kellan walked over, wiping his sword clean on a fallen cloak.
"That… was impressive," he said, glancing at the charred body. "Didn't know the broken blade could do that."
Ruvan shook his head numbly. "Neither did I."
Elion approached, kneeling beside him. His golden eyes were soft with concern.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No," Ruvan whispered. "But he's dead. I killed him."
Elion placed a hand on his shoulder. "He would have killed you without hesitation."
"That doesn't make it easier," Ruvan murmured.
Elion nodded. "No. It never does."
The Weight of Power
They searched the assassins, taking what little coin and dried rations they carried. Kellan muttered dark curses under his breath as he checked their weapons.
"Blacksteel," he said, tossing one curved blade aside. "Assassins' choice. Cuts through mail like linen."
Ruvan sat apart from them, staring at Solrend resting across his knees. He ran a finger along its chipped edge. The runes were dim now, faintly pulsing in rhythm with his racing heart.
"What are you?" he whispered. "Why do you choose me?"
Images flickered through his mind: the decaying throne room, the chained devourer, the crowned figure whispering Rise, heir of ash.
A shiver ran down his spine.
The Campfire Vow
They moved on until dusk, finding a small hollow between three leaning boulders. Kellan set snares nearby while Elion gathered deadfall for a fire. Ruvan sat staring at Solrend, unable to look away from its faint glow.
When darkness fell, and Kellan roasted two scrawny rabbits over the flames, Ruvan finally spoke.
"I was going to run again."
Kellan looked at him sharply. Elion paused mid-prayer.
"When they appeared," Ruvan said hoarsely. "I thought – maybe if I ran, they'd follow me and spare you both. But… I couldn't move. I was frozen. And then… then the blade…"
His voice broke. Shame burned through him, bitter and hot.
Kellan reached out and punched him lightly in the arm.
"Good."
Ruvan blinked at him. "What?"
"Good," Kellan repeated. "Because running isn't your way anymore. Freezing worked. You stayed. You fought. You lived. Next time, fight without freezing."
Ruvan let out a shaky breath. "I killed him. I didn't even swing properly. It just… happened."
Kellan shrugged. "Doesn't matter how. What matters is you stood your ground."
Elion leaned forward, his staff resting across his knees. "You said last night you wouldn't run," he murmured. "Today you proved it. That is worth more than any sword skill."
The Worth of a Choice
They ate in silence after that, the only sounds the crackle of flames and the distant hoot of a hunting owl. Ruvan chewed his rabbit meat slowly, the taste like ashes in his mouth.
When they lay down to sleep under the pale glow of the waxing moon, Ruvan rested Solrend beside him, one hand on its grip.
As he drifted toward uneasy dreams, he whispered into the night:
"I will not run. I will fight. And one day… I will be worthy."
Above him, high in the blackness between scattered stars, something vast and watching stirred in the darkness.
And deep within Solrend, a pulse of faint white light echoed in quiet answer.