The scarred man moved with swift, snake-like agility. Hillel stumbled backward, eyes wide, but the stranger closed the distance in two strides. The man''s gloved fist cracked against Hillel''s temple loudly—a brutal blow. The boy crumpled mid-scream, his voice cut short as he hit the dirt.


    Eujal lunged, spear thrust wild. "Get away from him—!"


    The driver intercepted him with a roar, swinging a meaty fist. His movements were sluggish and telegraphed—clearly a brawler and not a soldier. Eujal ducked, the breeze of the missed punch ruffling his hair. Though fatigue dragged at his limbs, desperation honed his reflexes to a razor''s edge. He rammed the jagged rock of his makeshift spear into the man''s forearm, digging into the flesh with surprising effectiveness.


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    The impact jolted Eujal''s shoulders. The driver''s blood welled, shimmering ominously before it suddenly ignited.


    What!?


    Crimson flames engulfed the wound in a flash of red light, searing Eujal''s hands. He jumped back, dropping the spear as fire burned up the shaft. The driver grinned, flexing his freshly healed arm. "Surprise!"


    Eujal''s jaw gaped. In Khardouth, a land where warriors prided themselves on raw skill, tricks were scorned—fire came from flint, strength from steel. This was no trick. The man''s flesh had healed. But how?


    A boot hooked his ankle. He fell hard, the driver''s knee pinning his chest. Behind them, the scarred man hauled Hillel''s limp form toward the wagon. Eujal thrashed, clawing at the dirt. "Let him go—!"


    The driver''s fist descended.