ã€ŠThe Unseen Bladeã€‹


 Ch 1: A War Torn Land

    Rohan walked alone.

    A tattered cloak shielded him from the chill, but the wind still pricked at his skin. His boots, worn thin from the miles behind him. He made his way over top of a battlefield long abandoned. The corpses were stripped of their clothes and weapons. The earth, blackened by fire and blood, stretched toward the horizon, where smoke curled from a distant village. Bandits or soldiers, it made no difference.

    A sound drifted in the wind, distant but approaching. A patrol? Raiders? He didn¡¯t know, but he knew enough to move. He slipped from the road, sinking into the tall, dead grass, pressing himself into the earth as shadows began to approach. He adjusted the dagger at his hip. It was his father¡¯s dagger. A simple thing, unadorned, its hilt wrapped in old leather.

    A cart rattled down the dirt road, dragged by a weary horse. As he watched, something had shifted beneath the tarp, then a silent whimper. A child.

    His fingers tightened around his dagger. His heart pounded in his ears. He could walk away. He should walk away.

    But he didn¡¯t.

    He couldn¡¯t.

    Because he knew what it was like to be the one trapped.

    And he was done running.

    He followed them from a distance, keeping to the shadows. The men rode without caution, laughing, their voices loud against the night. It wasn¡¯t long before they reached their camp, a pitiful collection of tents around a smoldering fire.

    in the tall grass, he gripped the dagger, watching the four men around the fire. They were laughing, drinking, tearing into stolen food. They weren¡¯t expecting trouble.

    He should wait. That was the plan. Let them drink themselves into a stupor, then strike. One by one. Quick. Efficient.

    Then he heard the girl scream.

    One of the men had grabbed her by the hair, dragging her toward the fire, and began stripping her. She kicked, flailed, but she was too small and weak to do anything.

    As the others laughed he couldn''t wait any longer and stepped out into the light.

    ¡°Let her go.¡±

    The laughter stopped. The men turned.

    A moment of silence, then smirks and sneers.

    ¡°You lost, boy?¡±

    One of them cracked his knuckles, taking a slow step forward.

    ¡°Or just stupid?¡±

    Rohan moved first, lunging with the dagger but he was too eager.

    A mistake.

    The man sidestepped effortlessly, catching Rohan''s wrist. A second later, a fist slammed into his stomach. The world tilted and he hit the ground gasping.

    ¡°That''s it?¡±

    The man wiped his knuckles against his tunic.

    ¡°Thought you¡¯d at least put up a fight.¡±

    The girl was still trapped in their grip. Her wide, terrified eyes met his.

    Rohan gritted his teeth and drove his dagger into the man¡¯s leg. Causing the grip on his wrist to loosen.

    Another attacker. He barely raised his arms before a boot crashed into his ribs. A sharp, wet crack. Agony tore through him. He rolled with the impact, coughing blood into the dirt.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    A shadow loomed over him. The third man, bringing a sword down. Too fast. Too strong.

    Rohan twisted, but he could feel the blade grazing his shoulder. Before the man could react he drove his dagger upward. It pierced his neck, killing him, it was a lucky strike.

    The remaining two bandits hesitated now, circling. Not drunk enough to be careless anymore.

    Think.

    He yanked the fallen man¡¯s sword from the dirt. Too big. Too heavy. But better than a dagger against two armed men.

    They struck at once. He blocked one blow, but the impact sent him staggering. Another slash came, and he was too slow to react. The blade cut his side.

    The man who had grabbed the girl was still grinning.

    ¡°Not so brave now, are you?¡±

    Rohan forced himself forward, swinging wildly. He wasn¡¯t skilled. He wasn¡¯t fast. But he was desperate.

    And sometimes, desperation was enough.

    His blade caught the man¡¯s arm, not deep, but enough to make him react. Giving Rohan time to shove forward, slamming his forehead into the man¡¯s nose. A sickening crunch.

    The last bandit took off running into the woods.

    The boy stood there, breathing ragged, body screaming, barely able to hold the stolen sword.

    The girl was staring at him, frozen in place.

    He cut her bindings with shaking hands.

    ¡°Go.¡±

    She didn¡¯t move.

    She should have run. Instead, she stepped closer, her small hands gripping the torn edge of his cloak.

    ¡°You¡¯re hurt.¡±

    She whispered.

    He looked down. Blood soaked his side, and trailed down his arm. His vision blurred at the edges. He hadn¡¯t even realized how much he was bleeding.

    The cold night pressed in around them. The fire had died to embers, flickering weakly against the dark.

    He swayed. She grabbed his arm.

    ¡°You¡¯ll freeze if you don¡¯t rest.¡±

    He wanted to tell her to leave, to save herself, but his body was giving up on him. The adrenaline was fading, and the pain came rushing in. Every wound burned. Every breath hurt.

    The girl guided him toward one of the tents, away from the dead. Somewhere warm and safe at least for now. As they walked inside he passed out hitting the ground hard.

    The scent of something warm and earthy pulled him from the void.

    Rohan¡¯s eyes slowly opened. The dim glow of dawn peeked through the tent¡¯s thin fabric. His body protested every small movement as he tried to sit up, but a soft hand pushed against his shoulder.

    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± the girl said. ¡°You¡¯ll reopen your wounds.¡±

    He blinked, still disoriented, before noticing the small wooden bowl she held. Steam rose from it, carrying the scent of herbs and boiled meat. Soup.

    She scooped a spoonful and lifted it toward him.

    ¡°Eat.¡±

    He hesitated. Why was she still here? She should have run, should have taken whatever she could and left him behind. That¡¯s what he would¡¯ve done.

    Instead, she stayed.

    His stomach twisted not from pain, but from something deeper. Something unfamiliar.

    He opened his mouth, and she carefully placed the spoon between his lips. Warmth spread through him.

    It wasn¡¯t much. It was thin, barely more than hot water with scraps of dried meat. But it was the first thing in a long time that reminded him of home.

    The girl glanced away, fidgeting.

    ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t know if you¡¯d wake up.¡±

    Rohan swallowed, his throat dry.

    ¡°You should¡¯ve left.¡±

    She didn¡¯t respond at first. Then, almost too quiet to hear.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to be alone.¡±

    Neither did he.

    But he didn¡¯t say that.

    He just took another spoonful.

    ¡°What''s your name?¡±

    ¡°Talia, and you?¡±

    ¡°Rohan.¡±

    Later that night, as the fire burned low, Rohan laid on his side, shifting slightly as the pain in his ribs flared. He gritted his teeth and adjusted the dagger in his hand.

    Talia had hesitated when he asked for it, but in the end, she placed it in his palm without a word.

    Now, the silence grew between them, heavy but not unbearable. Until they heard it.

    A branch snapped in the distance.

    Rohan''s grip tightened on the dagger. Another crunch. Then another.

    Not the wind. Not an animal. Something, or someone, was moving through the trees.

    Talia stiffened. Her wide eyes darted toward him in the dim light. He pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence.

    Then they heard voices.

    Faint, but growing closer.

    His wounds ached, his body screamed at him to stay still, but there was no time. If they waited, they would be found.

    He forced himself up, wincing as the pain surged through his side. Talia reached out instinctively, steadying him. He ignored the pain and whispered.

    ¡°We have to go.¡±

    Her eyes darted toward the horse, still tied to a tree nearby. Rohan knew what she was thinking. If they rode, they could be gone in moments. But the night was too still, the underbrush too thick. A galloping horse would give them away in an instant.

    He shook his head.

    ¡°We leave it.¡±

    Talia hesitated, but another set of voices, closer this time, made the decision for her. She swallowed hard and gave a quick nod.

    They moved fast, staying low, slipping into the darkness between the trees. Each step was careful, measured, avoiding dry leaves and twigs that could betray them. Rohan¡¯s breaths came sharp and shallow. His side throbbed, but he kept moving.

    Behind them, the voices reached the camp.

    A man cursed. Then, silence.

    Rohan didn¡¯t stop to hear what came next.

    He grabbed Talia¡¯s wrist and pulled her deeper into the woods.

    Into the unknown.

 Ch 2: The Village

    The bandits were far behind them now.

    Rohan wasn¡¯t sure how long they had been walking, but every step sent pain through his ribs. His breath was shallow, his limbs heavy. The cold gnawed at his skin, and his body screamed for rest, but he forced himself to keep going.

    Beside him, Talia trudged forward in silence, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She had said nothing since they fled the camp, but Rohan could hear her stomach growling in the quiet. She was just as hungry as he was.

    The last thing he had eaten was the thin soup she made. That had been¡­ yesterday? No, maybe longer. His mind was slipping.

    ¡°We¡­ we have to stop.¡±

    Talia whispered.

    Rohan¡¯s legs were shaking. He wanted to tell her no. That they had to keep moving. That danger was never far.

    But when he tried to take another step, his body failed him.

    His knees buckled, and he began to fall over. But before he hit the ground Talia was at his side in an instant.

    ¡°Rohan!¡±

    His vision faded. He hated this feeling, weak, helpless. He had fought so hard, survived so much, only to be undone by something as simple as hunger and exhaustion.

    ¡°Come on.¡±

    Talia muttered, looping an arm under his shoulders, trying to lift him. She was too small and thin, but she refused to let go.

    Somehow, she managed to half-carry, half-drag him toward a group of trees. Not shelter, but enough cover to disappear.

    Rohan groaned as she lowered him onto the cold earth. He pressed a hand to his side, feeling warmth spread beneath his fingers. Blood. His wounds had reopened.

    Talia was already digging through the stolen supplies, pulling out scraps of cloth.

    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding again.¡±

    Rohan tried to sit up, but she shoved him back down.

    ¡°Stay still.¡±

    He didn¡¯t argue.

    The cold pressed in around them. His stomach twisted with hunger. His body ached from the fight, the running, the sheer weight of everything he carried.

    As Talia worked to stop the bleeding, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. As he laid against the tree he lost consciousness, Talia followed soon after.

    Afew hours had passed and Rohan awoke to the sound of laughter.

    His heart pounded. The bandits.

    They had found them.

    His body protested as he forced himself upright, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. His vision giving out as his breath came in ragged gasps. He had to strike first. He had to.

    He stumbled forward, emerging from the trees with a killer gaze.

    The laughter stopped.

    A woman and a young girl stood before him, baskets in hand, their eyes wide with terror.

    Rohan barely had time to register his mistake before his knees buckled. The dagger slipped from his grasp as he collapsed into the dirt.

    He tried to move, tried to speak, but his limbs refused to obey. Through the haze, he saw the woman grab the girl¡¯s hand, and whisper something hurriedly before turning and running.

    His lips parted, his hand reaching weakly toward them. The forest swallowed their retreating figures.

    Rohan exhaled a shaky breath. The cold pressed in, numbing his fingers and thought''s. He was too tired to move, and too weak to fight it.

    Darkness took him again.

    The next time he woke, he wasn¡¯t in the forest.

    A low wooden ceiling loomed above him, the scent of herbs and burning firewood thick in the air. Warmth. A real bed. Soft blankets. The weight of exhaustion still clung to him, but the biting cold was gone.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    He shifted slightly, only to feel a small hand pressing against his shoulder.

    "Don¡¯t move too much."

    Talia whispered.

    Rohan turned his head. She sat beside him on the bed, her eyes filled with relief. In her hands, she held a small clay cup, steam flowed from its surface.

    "Drink."

    She said, carefully bringing it to his lips.

    Rohan tried to take the cup himself, but his hands trembled too much.

    Talia tilted the cup gently, letting the warm liquid touch his lips. The taste was bitter, but the warmth spread through him, easing the ache in his limbs.

    The door creaked open.

    The woman from before stepped inside, this time with a more composed expression. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her hands carried a bundle of fresh bandages.

    "You¡¯re awake."

    She said.

    "I¡¯m the village doctor."

    She studied him with a sharp gaze.

    "You were barely alive when I found you. Had to get someone to carry you back before you bled out."

    The woman crossed her arms.

    "Are you going to tell me what a half-dead boy was doing bleeding out in the woods?¡±

    Rohan¡¯s mind raced for an answer. He had no idea who these people were or whether they could be trusted. If they knew the truth that him and Talia were being chased they might be turned away.

    So he lied.

    ¡°She¡¯s my sister.¡±

    He said, his voice hoarse.

    ¡°We were traveling¡­ got attacked.¡±

    Talia stiffened beside him, but she didn¡¯t correct him.

    The doctor¡¯s sharp gaze flickered between the two of them.

    ¡°We got separated from our family.¡±

    The woman studied him for a long moment. He could feel her weighing his words, searching for the cracks.

    Before she could press further, a deep voice called from outside the room.

    ¡°You''ve done enough questioning, let the boy breathe.¡±

    A heavy-set man stepped through the doorway, his presence filling the small space. His broad shoulders and weathered face spoke of years spent leading others. The village chief.

    The doctor huffed but stepped aside.

    ¡°He¡¯s not out of the woods yet, Joren,¡±

    She muttered.

    Joren nodded, then turned his gaze to Rohan.

    ¡°You fought off an attack and survived this injured?¡±

    His tone wasn¡¯t accusing, but there was an edge of curiosity.

    Rohan swallowed.

    ¡°Got lucky.¡±

    The chief¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, then drifted to Talia.

    "And you? Are you hurt, girl?"

    Talia shook her head.

    "I took care of him."

    She said, her voice quiet but firm.

    Joren considered this, then let out a grunt.

    ¡°Brave of you.¡±

    He turned back to Rohan.

    ¡°You¡¯re in my village now. Rest, eat, and when you¡¯re strong enough, we¡¯ll talk about what comes next.¡±

    Rohan wasn¡¯t sure if that was kindness or a warning.

    The chief turned to leave, but before stepping through the door, he added.

    ¡°If you bring trouble here, boy, I¡¯ll know.¡±

    The room fell silent after he left.

    The doctor sighed and reached for the fresh bandages.

    ¡°You¡¯ll need to stay off your feet for a few days.¡±

    The next few days passed in a haze of pain, exhaustion, and the bitter taste of herbal medicine.

    Rohan drifted in and out of sleep, his body too weak to do much else. Each time he woke, Talia was there helping him drink, changing his bandages under the doctor¡¯s watchful eye, or simply sitting nearby, keeping him from being alone with his thoughts.

    He learned the doctor¡¯s name Elara. She was strict, but her hands were steady, her treatments effective. She asked a few questions, but Rohan could tell she was still watching, still piecing together the truth he hadn¡¯t told her.

    The village was cautious but not unkind. Some people peeked into the room when they brought food, curious about the injured stranger and the girl who never left his side.

    By the third day, Rohan could sit up without his vision blurring.

    By the fifth, he could move to a chair by the fire.

    By the seventh, he was restless.

    "You¡¯re healing fast."

    Elara said as she checked his stitches, her tone unreadable.

    "But you¡¯re not ready to run off just yet.¡±

    Rohan gritted his teeth. He hated feeling weak, and hated relying on others. He had spent months surviving on his own and now he was trapped, waiting, recovering while the world outside moved on without him.

    "You¡¯ll be on your feet soon.¡±

    Talia reassured him one night as she stirred the small bowl of soup she had insisted on making herself.

    Rohan sighed, staring at the soup she held.

    "Not soon enough..."

    The night air was cold against his skin, but Rohan barely felt it. His steps were slow, unsteady, but he forced himself forward, biting down against the dull ache in his ribs.

    Talia had fallen asleep in the corner of the room. Now was his chance.

    His boots barely made a sound as he slipped out the door, his breath misting in the air. He didn¡¯t belong here. The village was quiet, lanterns flickering behind shuttered windows. If he moved quickly, he could be past the outer fields before anyone noticed.

    Before he could make out of the gate a figure stepped out of the shadows.

    ¡°You¡¯re in a hurry.¡±

    Rohan froze.

    Joren stood before him, arms crossed, eyes unreadable beneath the torchlight.

    Rohan tensed, shifting his weight onto his good leg, preparing to run.

    ¡°I don¡¯t plan on staying where I¡¯m not wanted.¡±

    The chief didn¡¯t move.

    ¡°And where exactly do you plan on going?¡±

    Rohan clenched his jaw. He didn¡¯t owe this man an explanation.

    ¡°That¡¯s my problem.¡±

    Joren let out a slow breath and shook his head.

    ¡°No, boy. Your problem is that you¡¯re trying to run off without repaying your debt.¡±

    Rohan stiffened.

    ¡°Debt?¡±

    ¡°You were half-dead when we found you.¡±

    ¡°Elara worked day and night to keep you breathing. My people carried you here, fed you, gave you a roof over your head.¡±

    His voice hardened.

    ¡°And now you think you can just walk away?¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fists clenched.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for their help.¡±

    ¡°No, you didn¡¯t.¡±

    Joren agreed.

    ¡°But you took it all the same.¡±

    Rohan had no argument for that.

    The chief took a step forward, his voice quiet but firm.

    ¡°You¡¯re strong enough to stand. That means you¡¯re strong enough to work.¡±

    Rohan narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°And if I refuse?¡±

    Joren shrugged.

    ¡°You can try running. But I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll get far before I drag you back myself.¡±

    Silence stretched between them.

    Rohan ground his teeth. He hated feeling trapped. Hated the idea of being told what to do. But he knew Joren wasn¡¯t bluffing.

    ¡°Fine.¡±

    He muttered.

    ¡°I¡¯ll work.¡±

    Joren smirked.

    ¡°Good. Get some sleep. You start in the morning.¡±

    With that, the chief turned and walked away, leaving Rohan standing alone in the cold night air.

 Ch 3: Weight Of A Debt

    Morning came too soon.

    Rohan¡¯s muscles still ached, but he forced himself out of bed, wincing as he swung his legs over the side.

    Joren was waiting outside.

    ¡°Thought you might try sneaking off again.¡±

    The chief said with his arms crossed.

    ¡°Glad to see you¡¯re smarter than you look.¡±

    Rohan scowled.

    ¡°Let¡¯s just get this over with.¡±

    Joren smirked but didn¡¯t argue. He led Rohan through the village, where early risers were already at work. A group of men stacked firewood near the forge. Women hauled buckets of water from the well. Children darted between houses, chasing each other with sticks.

    Then Joren stopped.

    ¡°You¡¯ll start here.¡±

    Rohan looked up.

    A wagon sat at the edge of the field, its wheels buried in the mud. The ox pulling it huffed, flicking its tail impatiently. A handful of villagers stood nearby, eyeing the wagon like it was a beast ready to strike.

    ¡°You want me to move that?¡±

    Rohan asked.

    Joren raised a brow.

    ¡°You said you wanted to get this over with.¡±

    Stepping forward, he pressed his hands against the wooden frame and pushed. His legs trembled, his ribs burned but the wagon didn¡¯t budge. The mud held it in place like a clenched fist.

    One of the villagers scoffed.

    ¡°Thought you were supposed to be a fighter.¡±

    Rohan shot him a glare but said nothing.

    Joren sighed.

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to do it alone. Use your head, boy.¡±

    Gritting his teeth, Rohan glanced at the villagers. He hated asking for help, but he hated wasting time even more.

    ¡°¡­Well?¡±

    He muttered.

    ¡°Are you going to stand there or help?¡±

    A few men exchanged looks before stepping forward. Together, they heaved against the wagon, muscles straining, feet sinking into the mud.

    For a moment, nothing happened.

    Then, with a loud squelch, the wheels tore free. The ox let out a grunt as the wagon finally rolled forward onto solid ground.

    The tension broke with a few claps and muttered approvals.

    Joren clapped a hand on Rohan¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°Not bad.¡±

    Rohan shrugged him off. His arms ached, his ribs screamed but he didn¡¯t let it show.

    ¡°One job down.¡±

    Joren said.

    ¡°Plenty more to go.¡±

    Rohan exhaled sharply. This was going to be a long day.

    The first few days were miserable.

    Rohan¡¯s body ached, his stomach twisted with hunger, and the weight of his injuries slowed him down. But he forced himself to push through. He had no choice.

    *The Hunter¡¯s Lessons*Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Darin, the village¡¯s best hunter, took him into the woods. At first, Rohan failed at everything.

    He stepped too loudly, scared away prey, and fumbled his bow. The first time he actually shot at something, a deer, his hands shook so badly he missed entirely.

    But he learned.

    Within a week, he moved quieter. Within two, he could track small animals. By the end of the month, his arrows found their mark more often than not.

    Darin gave a rare nod of approval.

    ¡°You¡¯re not useless anymore.¡±

    It was the closest thing to a compliment Rohan would get.

    *The Healer¡¯s Teachings*

    Elara made him memorize every plant in the surrounding forest. Some healed. Others poisoned.

    She tested him constantly.

    "What¡¯s this one?"

    She would ask, shoving a bundle of leaves in his face.

    ¡°The root can stop bleeding but the berries will kill you.¡±

    A small smile played on her lips.

    ¡°Good.¡±

    His hands grew steady as he crushed herbs, and stitched wounds. He still felt more comfortable with a blade than a bandage but at least now he knew how to stop himself from dying.

    *The Forge and The Blade*

    The blacksmith, Hale, had no patience for weakness.

    Rohan¡¯s arms burned as he lifted the hammer again and again, shaping iron into usable tools. He learned to sharpen a blade, mend armor, and respect the power of a well crafted weapon.

    And then there was the sword.

    The village guards were no elite warriors, but they knew how to fight. They taught Rohan how to hold his stance, when to strike, and when to wait.

    The first time he sparred, he got knocked flat on his back.

    The second time, he managed to stay standing.

    By the end of the month, he still wasn¡¯t a match for them but he could hold his own.

    One night, after another exhausting day, Rohan sat outside, staring into the flames.

    Joren sat beside him.

    ¡°You¡¯ve changed.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t answer right away. He hadn¡¯t thought about it much, but it was true.

    The boy who had stumbled into this village, half-dead, barely able to lift a blade, wasn''t that boy anymore.

    Joren¡¯s voice was quieter when he spoke again.

    ¡°What happened to you before we found you?¡±

    Rohan hesitated.

    ¡°Bandits attacked my village. I don¡¯t know why. They killed everyone, my parents too.¡±

    He glanced at the dagger resting on his lap.

    ¡°I ran. I survived. I don¡¯t even know how.¡±

    Joren watched him carefully.

    ¡°You weren¡¯t just running when we found you.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s grip tightened.

    ¡°¡­No.¡±

    Joren waited.

    Rohan closed his eyes for a moment, the memories still raw.

    ¡°A month later I ran into another group of them. They had a girl with them. Talia. I killed them.¡±

    Joren¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change.

    ¡°Four men.¡±

    Rohan muttered.

    ¡°You must¡¯ve fought like a madman.¡±

    ¡°I fought like a fool, I barely survived.¡±

    Joren smirked.

    ¡°And yet, you did.¡±

    A few more weeks had passed and Rohan¡¯s progress didn¡¯t go unnoticed.

    At first, the villagers saw him as just another outsider, a boy who would either leave or die within weeks. But as time passed, their eyes changed.

    The hunters respected his persistence.

    The blacksmith trusted him with his tools.

    The guards let him train without holding back.

    Even the village chief, who had been the most skeptical, began to acknowledge him.

    But the one who never doubted him was Talia.

    She watched him work, listened to his stories, and reminded him to eat when he pushed himself too hard. She never said much about her past, but she never left his side.

    As the weeks passed, Rohan no longer saw the village as just a resting place it had become something more.

    The people, once distant, now greeted him by name. The hunters trusted him with a bow, the blacksmith let him help at the forge, and the guards trained him like one of their own.

    But more than anything, the chief had become someone he looked up to.

    The old man was harsh but fair, wise yet blunt. He pushed Rohan to work harder, to think before acting, to understand the weight of every decision. For the first time in a long time, Rohan wasn¡¯t just surviving, he was living.

    One evening, as the sun dipped below the treetops, Rohan sat beside the chief outside his home.

    Rohan hesitated, then spoke.

    ¡°I used to think all I wanted was revenge. But¡­ Now I see there¡¯s more to learn. More to be.¡±

    The chief rested a hand on Rohan¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°Then stay. Learn all you can. And when the time comes, you¡¯ll know what to do.¡±

    Rohan met his gaze and nodded.

    He wasn¡¯t just passing through anymore. This village had become part of him.

    The warmth of the fire crackled between them, its glow casting long shadows against the chief¡¯s home. Rohan sat in silence, the old man¡¯s words settling deep within him.

    But before he could respond, hurried footsteps approached.

    One of the village guards, a stocky man named Edrin, stepped into the light, his expression tense.

    "Chief, we have trouble."

    The chief¡¯s relaxed posture stiffened.

    "Speak."

    Edrin exhaled sharply.

    "Tracks near the western road. Fresh ones. Moving carefully, watching the village."

    Rohan¡¯s hand instinctively found his dagger. His heartbeat quickened. Bandits.

    The chief rose to his feet, his expression unreadable, but his voice carried quiet authority.

    "How many?¡±

    "Hard to say."

    Edrin admitted.

    "Eight, maybe more. They''re not attacking yet. Just watching."

    Rohan clenched his jaw.

    "They could be scouts, waiting for the right moment."

    The chief nodded.

    "Or testing our defenses."

    He turned to Edrin.

    "Double the night watch. No one leaves or enters without my say."

    Edrin gave a sharp nod and hurried off into the night.

    Rohan stood as well, his body tense.

    "Let me help. I know how they think."

    The chief studied him, eyes sharp.

    "I know you do. But this is my village. My people. I won''t risk a reckless fight.¡±

    "I''m not reckless."

    Rohan countered.

    "Not anymore."

    The chief held his gaze for a moment before nodding.

    "Then listen, and learn."

    The old man turned toward the darkness beyond the firelight, his expression grim.

    "If these men are truly watching us, we¡¯ll make sure they see exactly what we want them to."

    Rohan followed, gripping his dagger. He couldn''t let what happened in the past happen again, he had to protect the village.

 Ch 4: The Attack

    The village stirred with quiet urgency. Lanterns flickered as guards armed themselves, their breath visible in the cold night air. Rohan stood near the chief, watching as the defenses were prepared.

    ¡°Stay sharp.¡±

    The chief muttered.

    ¡°If they attack, we hold them at the gates. If they retreat, we don¡¯t follow, we don¡¯t know how many could be waiting beyond the trees.¡±

    Rohan nodded, gripping his dagger tightly. He had faced bandits before, but this was different. This time, he wasn¡¯t alone. This time, he had something to protect.

    The tension in the air was thick, the village caught between silence and the promise of violence. Somewhere in the darkness, eyes were watching.

    The village held its breath. Guards patrolled the perimeter, torches in hand, their eyes scanning the darkened treeline. The usual nighttime sounds, crickets, rustling leaves, the distant howl of a wolf felt eerily absent.

    Rohan stood near the chief at the village center, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. His heartbeat was steady, but his mind raced. How many were out there? What did they want?

    Talia stood beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She wasn¡¯t crying, but he could feel her unease.

    ¡°They won¡¯t take this place easily.¡±

    He muttered, more to reassure himself than her.

    The chief let out a slow breath, his gaze locked on the darkness.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know their intent yet. A reckless attack could be their downfall, but if they¡¯re smart, they¡¯ll wait. Test us.¡±

    A sharp whistle cut through the night, a signal.

    The guards snapped to attention. Rohan¡¯s grip tightened as a figure stepped into view from the treeline. A lone man, his posture casual yet deliberate. He carried a sword at his hip, his clothes worn but not ragged like the usual bandits.

    The chief took a step forward.

    ¡°State your business.¡±

    The man smirked.

    ¡°No need for hostility, old man. We¡¯ve been watching this village for a while now. Seems¡­ prosperous.¡±

    The chief¡¯s jaw tightened.

    ¡°We have nothing for you.¡±

    The man chuckled, shaking his head.

    ¡°See, that¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong. You¡¯ve got food, shelter, weapons¡­ and people who will pay a high price for their lives.¡±

    Rohan felt his anger flare, his fists clenching. They weren¡¯t here to negotiate. They were here to take.

    The chief¡¯s voice was cold.

    ¡°Turn back while you still can.¡±

    The bandit¡¯s smirk widened.

    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t think so. You see, my friends aren¡¯t as patient as I am.¡±

    A second whistle cut through the night. Then another. The treeline had burst to life as torches ignited in the darkness. The guards barely had time to react before arrows hissed through the air, striking the wooden gate.

    The chief raised his voice.

    ¡°Shields up! Hold the line!¡±

    Rohan grabbed Talia¡¯s hand, pulling her behind him as the first wave of attackers surged toward the gates. The guards braced for impact, spears leveled. The bandits crashed against the defenses like a tide of darkness.

    Rohan turned to the chief.

    ¡°What do we do?!¡±

    The chief¡¯s gaze was set, unreadable.

    ¡°We fight.¡±

    And then the gates shattered, engulfed in flame.

    The battle erupted in chaos. Flames from the burning gates cast eerie shadows across the village as bandits swarmed through the broken defenses. The clash of steel rang through the night, accompanied by the shouts of warriors and the screams of the wounded.

    The chief, standing firm with his axe in hand, turned to Talia. His expression was grim but resolute.

    ¡°Talia, go with the women and children.¡±

    He ordered.

    ¡°Head for the forest. The guards will protect you.¡±

    Talia hesitated, looking at Rohan.

    ¡°But¡ª¡±

    ¡°Now!¡± The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    The chief¡¯s voice left no room for argument.

    Rohan clenched his fists as he watched her run, accompanied by a small group of villagers. Three guards followed, their attention divided between shielding the escapees and watching for enemies. It weakened their defense, but the chief had made his choice, protecting the weak came first.

    The bandits pressed the attack, sensing the gap in their formation. Rohan fought alongside the remaining guards, his dagger flashing in the firelight. He was no master swordsman, but weeks of training had honed his reflexes. He dodged, parried, and struck, wounding those who underestimated him. Yet, he was still young, still learning. He made mistakes, missteps that cost him bruises, cuts, and exhaustion.

    A bandit lunged at him with a broadsword. Rohan barely dodged, feeling the wind of the blade graze past him. He plunged his dagger into the man¡¯s side, twisting before pulling it free. The bandit crumpled, but there was no time to breathe. Another came, and then another.

    The village¡¯s defenses crumbled. The guards fell back, some clutching wounds, others barely standing. The chief was surrounded, his axe heavy with blood, but even he was slowing. A bandit¡¯s blade slashed across his side, and he staggered, dropping to one knee.

    ¡°Chief!¡±

    Rohan shouted, moving toward him.

    Before he could reach him, a scream echoed in the distance. A woman¡¯s wail, followed by more cries.

    Rohan turned, his breath catching. Beyond the flames, past the village¡¯s edge where Talia and the others had run.

    The chief, bloodied and barely holding himself up, grabbed Rohan¡¯s arm. His grip was weak but firm.

    ¡°Go.¡±

    He rasped.

    ¡°Save them.¡±

    Rohan froze. His heart pounded. He wanted to stay, to fight, to protect the chief. But the screams in the distance¡­ Talia.

    The chief shoved him weakly.

    ¡°Now!¡±

    Rohan clenched his jaw, gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white. He nodded once before turning and sprinting toward the sounds of terror.

    Rohan ran through the burning village, his lungs aching as smoke and ash filled the air. His boots pounded against the dirt, dodging fallen bodies and scattered weapons. The screams grew louder as he neared the outskirts of the village, where the women and children had fled.

    He spotted one of the guards who had escorted them, a man slumped against a tree, a deep wound in his chest. His sword laid beside him, its blade stained with blood. The guard¡¯s breath was ragged, his eyes barely open.

    Rohan dropped to his knees.

    ¡°Where are they?¡±

    The man coughed, blood bubbling at his lips. He raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the deeper woods.

    ¡°They¡­ took them¡­¡±

    Rohan¡¯s stomach twisted. He forced himself to his feet, his grip tightening around his dagger. The night stretched before him, dark and uncertain, but there was no hesitation in his steps.

    He sprinted into the trees, the flickering firelight of the village fading behind him. The sounds of the battle grew distant, replaced by rustling leaves and hurried footsteps ahead. His pulse pounded in his ears as he pushed forward, desperate to close the gap.

    Then, he saw them.

    A group of bandits moving through the forest, dragging struggling villagers with them. Talia was among them, her wrists bound, her face streaked with dirt and fear. A bandit gripped her arm tightly, yanking her forward as she resisted.

    Rohan didn¡¯t stop to think. He launched himself forward, dagger in hand, his only thought was getting her back.

    Rohan didn''t hesitate. He burst from the trees like a predator, his dagger flashing in the moonlight. The first bandit barely had time to turn before Rohan drove the blade into his throat, his momentum slamming the man to the ground. Blood sprayed across Rohan¡¯s face, warm and sticky, but he didn''t stop. He yanked the blade free, already moving to his next target.

    The other bandits reacted with curses and drawn weapons. Talia screamed as one yanked her back, using her as a shield.

    Rohan didn¡¯t fight with finesse, nor with honor. He fought like a cornered animal, with every ounce of rage and desperation inside him.

    A second bandit lunged, swinging a rusted sword. Rohan ducked low, throwing dirt into the man¡¯s eyes. As the bandit stumbled back, Rohan rushed forward, tackling him to the ground and slamming the end of his dagger into the man¡¯s skull again and again until he stopped moving.

    A blade whistled toward him, he barely dodged in time, pain erupting along his arm as it sliced through his sleeve. Snarling, he grabbed a handful of dirt and embers from the ground and flung them into the attacker¡¯s face. The bandit howled, clawing at his burning eyes, and Rohan wasted no time, he drove his dagger into the man¡¯s gut, twisting it before kicking him off.

    One of them threw Talia aside and charged. Rohan barely raised his blade in time, their weapons clashing with a sharp clang. The force sent him stumbling, but instead of retreating, he threw himself forward, biting into the man¡¯s arm like a rabid beast. The bandit screamed, trying to shake him off, but Rohan tore into the flesh, his dagger stabbing wildly at the exposed ribs. The bandit had collapsed, gurgling on his own blood.

    The remaining two hesitated now, exchanging uneasy glances.

    Rohan stood among the corpses, panting, his face and hands dripping red. He didn¡¯t speak. He didn¡¯t threaten. He simply took a step forward.

    One of them turned and ran. The other raised his sword, fear flashing in his eyes.

    Rohan didn¡¯t give him a chance to strike. He feigned a lunge, making the man swing preemptively, then dove low, ramming his dagger deep into the bandit¡¯s thigh. As the man fell, Rohan straddled him and pressed his blade against his throat.

    The bandit¡¯s chest rose and fell rapidly.

    ¡°W-wait-¡±

    Rohan slit his throat without hesitation.

    The last bandit had vanished into the woods, but Rohan didn¡¯t care. He turned, breathless, toward Talia. She was staring at him, eyes wide with shock.

    His hands trembled as he reached for her bindings, cutting them loose.

    ¡°Are you hurt?¡±

    Rohan knelt beside Talia, his bloodied hands working quickly to slice through the ropes binding her wrists. His breath was ragged, his body trembling, not with fear, but with the remnants of the rage that had consumed him moments before.

    As the last rope fell away, he reached for her shoulder.

    ¡°Talia-¡±

    She flinched and Rohan froze.

    A hush fell over the clearing. The other captives, women and children huddled together, stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. No one dared to move or speak.

    Rohan realized then how he must look to them. His face and hands were streaked with blood, his clothes soaked with it. The bodies of the five bandits were scattered around him, broken and lifeless, their wounds brutal and messy.

    He had fought like an animal, using everything at his disposal, kicking, biting, gouging, driving his dagger into flesh with reckless abandon. There had been no technique, no calculated strikes, just sheer, unrelenting rage. He had wanted them dead, and he had made sure they died screaming.

    Now, standing among the aftermath, the weight of his actions pressed down on him. Talia wasn¡¯t moving, she wasn¡¯t even looking at him, her eyes were fixed on the dagger still clutched in his shaking fingers.

    Rohan slowly set it down on the ground between them.

    ¡°I-¡±

    He hesitated, searching for words that wouldn¡¯t come.

    A child whimpered, clinging to their mother¡¯s skirts. One of the women pulled her child closer, her face pale. They were afraid of him.

    Rohan swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had done this for them. He had saved them. So why did they look at him like he was no different from the bandits who had taken them?

    ¡°The others¡­¡±

    His voice was quieter now, almost uncertain.

    ¡°They might still need help.¡±

    Talia didn¡¯t respond.

    The fear in her eyes lingered, but after a moment, she nodded stiffly. The other captives hesitated before following suit.

    Rohan turned away, gripping his dagger again, but this time, he wiped the blood from the blade with slower, more deliberate movements. He forced his hands to stop shaking as he sheathed it.

    The fight was over, but something between him and the people he fought for had changed.

 Ch 5: Reclaim The Village

    Rohan paced at the edge of the creek, his body tense, his breath ragged. Smoke rose in the distance, the faint glow of flames licking at the sky. He clenched his fists. He had to go back. The chief was still there. The village was still standing. He couldn''t just leave.

    The others huddled nearby, still shaken. The children whimpered softly, and the women whispered among themselves, casting wary glances.

    His grip tightened around his dagger. He took a step forward, ready to run, but a voice cut through the silence.

    ¡°Rohan!¡±

    Two figures emerged from the treeline, village guards, bloodied and breathless.

    He turned sharply toward them.

    ¡°The village?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s lost.¡±

    the older guard said, shaking his head.

    ¡°The fires have spread. They broke through the gates. Anyone left is either dead or fleeing.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s chest tightened. The chief. The others. He took another step, but the younger guard grabbed his arm.

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing left to fight for.¡±

    The man said firmly.

    ¡°If you go back, you¡¯ll die.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s grip tightened around his dagger as he stared at the guards, his knuckles white with fury. Their words echoed in his mind.

    He shook his head, his breath coming fast.

    ¡°You left them?¡±

    His voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness.

    The older guard grimaced, looking away.

    ¡°There was no saving it.¡±

    ¡°No, you ran.¡±

    Rohan growled.

    His chest heaved, his mind flashing back to his old village, the flames, the screams, his parents helpless and dying while he ran. He clenched his teeth, his anger boiling over. He wouldn¡¯t make the same mistake again.

    Before the guards could stop him, he turned and sprinted toward the burning village.

    ¡°Rohan, wait!¡±

    The trees blurred as he pushed forward, his legs burning, his lungs straining. The night air smelled of smoke and blood. The village walls came into view, partially collapsed, flames from the rooftops. Shadows moved through the wreckage, the sounds of steel clashing and dying screams filling the night.

    Talia was behind him, trying to keep up.

    ¡°Rohan, stop!¡±

    She called, but he ignored her.

    As he reached the outskirts, he saw the bodies. The chief¡¯s men had fought hard, but the bandits had overwhelmed them.

    Rohan¡¯s stomach twisted. He forced himself forward.

    A figure stumbled from a burning hut, a bandit, blade dripping with blood. He barely had time to react before Rohan was on him.

    He slammed into the man, knocking him back before driving his dagger into his throat. The bandit gurgled, blood spilling down his chest as Rohan tore the blade free.

    Another bandit turned at the sound, raising a rusted axe. Rohan ducked low and slashed at his knee. The man screamed, collapsing, and Rohan plunged his dagger into his stomach without hesitation.

    Talia caught up to him, panting. She flinched at the sight of him, his face twisted in fury, his hands dripping with blood.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    More bandits spotted them now, stalking closer, their weapons ready.

    Rohan raised his dagger, his breath ragged.

    ¡°I¡¯m not running this time.¡±

    Beyond the bodies and flames, Rohan¡¯s eyes locked onto a figure slumped in the dirt. His breath caught in his throat.

    The chief.

    A sword jutted from his chest, his broad frame hunched forward as if he had been shielding something or someone, before he fell. Blood soaked his shirt, pooling beneath him, his fingers twitching weakly.

    Rohan¡¯s stomach twisted, his fury surging into something worse. Something deeper.

    The bandits saw where his gaze had landed. One of them chuckled, kicking the chief¡¯s lifeless form with his boot.

    ¡°Old bastard put up a fight.¡±

    The man sneered.

    ¡°Shame it didn¡¯t matter.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s grip on his dagger tightened until his fingers ached. His breath came slow, controlled, but his body screamed for violence.

    Rohan didn¡¯t hesitate. He moved with the fury of a storm, dagger flashing as he closed the distance between him and the closest bandit.

    His blade found the man¡¯s throat before he could react, a spray of red painting the dirt as he collapsed. But there were more, too many.

    The others rushed him, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. Rohan barely moved away from a downward slash, the blade grazing his arm, tearing through his sleeve and slicing into flesh. Pain flared, but he ignored it, ducking low and driving his dagger into another bandit¡¯s gut. He wrenched it free, letting the man crumple as he turned to face the rest.

    A boot struck his ribs. He staggered, the air forced from his lungs. A sword came down at him, and he barely got his dagger up in time, deflecting the blow just enough to avoid being split open. The force sent him stumbling, his footing unsteady.

    They were bigger, stronger, but he was faster.

    Rohan dove into the chaos, weaving between attacks, using the fire and smoke to his advantage. He kicked embers into one man¡¯s face, making him scream and claw at his burning eyes. Another came at him from the side, but Rohan grabbed a fallen spear, thrusting it up into his attacker¡¯s chest before rolling away.

    Something slammed into the back of his shoulder, a blade, deep enough to send lightning through his nerves. He gasped, nearly dropping his weapon. The bandit twisted the knife before ripping it free, and Rohan bit back a scream.

    Too slow, he was being worn down.

    He forced himself to move, slipping between two attackers and kicking out the knee of one, stealing his sword before driving it into the other¡¯s stomach. He couldn¡¯t stop, if he stopped, he¡¯d die.

    Another enemy rushed him. Rohan let him come, pretending to falter, letting the bandit think he was weak. At the last second, he sidestepped, slamming his dagger into the side of the man¡¯s neck, twisting it.

    The last bandit standing looked at the bodies around him, then back at Rohan, bloodied and panting but still standing. The man turned to run.

    Rohan didn¡¯t let him.

    He tackled him to the ground, slamming his knee into the man¡¯s chest. He didn¡¯t speak, didn¡¯t hesitate. His dagger plunged downward, once, twice, until the struggling stopped.

    Rohan staggered to his feet, breath ragged, pain searing through his wounds. His legs barely held him as he looked around.

    Rohan¡¯s grip tightened around his father¡¯s dagger as the ten remaining bandits circled him. His body ached, his blood dripping onto the scorched earth, but he refused to fall. Not yet, not until they were all dead.

    One lunged, and Rohan didn¡¯t dodge, he stepped into the attack, letting the sword graze his side as he buried his dagger in the man¡¯s throat. Blood sprayed onto his face, but he didn''t react. He yanked the blade free, shoving the dying man aside.

    A club slammed into his side. He grunted, staggering, but instead of retreating, he laughed, a ragged, breathless sound. The bandit hesitated, unnerved. Rohan used that moment to lunge, tackling him to the ground and driving his dagger into his chest again, and again, and again.

    Another bandit tried to pull him off, but Rohan twisted, slashing wildly. His dagger tore across the man''s cheek, ripping through skin and muscle. The bandit screamed, clutching his face, and Rohan drove his knee into his gut, forcing him down before stabbing him in the eye.

    More blades found him. One cut deep into his shoulder. Another slashed across his leg. He barely felt them anymore. His vision blurred, his breaths ragged, but he didn''t stop.

    He grabbed a fallen sword, wielding it alongside his dagger. A man swung at him, he ducked, coming up fast and driving the sword under his ribs. Another tried to flank him, Rohan whirled, slamming his dagger into his thigh before hacking at his neck.

    His hands were slick with blood, his own, theirs, It didn¡¯t matter.

    "Not so fun when you''re the ones bleeding, huh?"

    Rohan spat, voice hoarse. His face was twisted in a savage grin, eyes wild.

    The remaining bandits hesitated, exchanging wary glances. He was outnumbered, outmatched, and bleeding out.

    One of them turned to run.

    Rohan roared, a primal, broken sound, and threw his dagger with all his strength. It buried itself in the coward¡¯s spine, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

    His vision was going dark. His body screamed for rest, but he refused to stop.

    Another bandit charged. Rohan barely lifted his sword in time, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. His arms trembled, his strength waning, but his rage carried him forward. He headbutted the man, and felt a bone crack. The bandit reeled, and Rohan hacked his sword across his chest, tearing through leather and flesh.

    Two left.

    But before he could move, pain exploded in his back. A blade, deep. His breath left his lungs, and his knees buckled.

    The last two bandits loomed over him. He tried to lift his sword, but his arms wouldn''t listen to him.

    Then, the whistle of an arrow cut through the night.

    One bandit jerked, an arrow buried in his throat. A second followed, piercing the last bandit¡¯s chest.

    Figures moved in the distance, archers. His vision blurred too much to make them out.

    The sword slipped from his fingers. He swayed, the firelight dimming, the roar in his mind finally fading. As darkness took him, he only knew one thing.

    They were all dead, and that was enough.

 Ch 6: Sliver Of Hope

    Rohan¡¯s world was a blur of pain and exhaustion. The scent of herbs and burning wood filled his senses as he slowly came to. His body ached, each wound a reminder of the battle he barely survived. As his vision cleared, he saw Talia kneeling beside him, carefully pressing a damp cloth against his forehead.

    ¡°You¡¯re awake.¡±

    She whispered, relief evident in her voice.

    The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of a nearby fireplace casting shadows across the wooden walls. He wasn¡¯t outside anymore. This was a hut, deep in the forest. The faint murmur of voices reached him from another room. He turned his head slightly, spotting the two archers who had saved him. The man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while the woman tended to her arrows, sharpening the tips with ease.

    ¡°Where are we?¡±

    Rohan croaked, his throat dry.

    ¡°Their home.¡±

    Talia said, dipping the cloth into a bowl of water before wringing it out.

    ¡°They brought us here after the fight.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s mind was sluggish, but memories came back in pieces, charging back to the village, the chief¡¯s lifeless body, the overwhelming rage that had taken over him. He tried to sit up, but pain flared through his body, forcing him back down.

    ¡°Take it easy.¡±

    The female archer said, finally looking over at him.

    ¡°You lost a lot of blood.¡±

    Her companion walked over, crouching beside him. Rohan¡¯s grip tightened on the blanket covering him.

    ¡°The village¡­?¡±

    His face darkened.

    ¡°Gone. What wasn¡¯t burned is in ruins. If we hadn¡¯t gone back, you¡¯d be dead with the rest of them.¡±

    Silence filled the room. Rohan exhaled sharply, forcing down the mix of anger and grief rising in his chest.

    ¡°What about the others? The women and children?¡±

    "They¡¯re safe. We brought them deeper into the forest, but they can¡¯t stay there forever. The bandits that hit your village might come looking."

    Silence settled over them. Rohan clenched his fists. Everything he had tried to protect was gone. The chief, the village, nothing remained but ashes and corpses.

    "We need to move."

    He said finally, forcing himself upright. Talia steadied him before he collapsed again.

    "You need to heal first."

    she insisted.

    "We don¡¯t have time, we need to find somewhere safe for the survivors. Somewhere the bandits won¡¯t follow."

    The archers exchanged a glance.

    "There¡¯s a town a few hours from here."

    The larger one said.

    "Heavily guarded, with a noble family that doesn¡¯t take kindly to raiders. If we get them there, they might be safe."

    Rohan nodded, determination cutting through his pain.

    "Then that¡¯s where we go."

    Talia looked uncertain, but she didn¡¯t argue. She simply pressed the cloth against his arm, her touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

    Dawn broke over the forest, casting a dim light through the dense trees. The survivors huddled together near the hut, exhausted and wary. Some of the women clutched their children tightly, whispering reassurances that sounded as much for themselves as for their little ones.

    Rohan sat on a fallen log, testing his arm as he flexed his fingers. The wounds still stung, but he was strong enough to move. Talia stood beside him, her expression unreadable as she handed him a piece of dried meat.

    "Eat."

    She said simply.

    He took it without argument, chewing slowly as he watched the archers prepare their supplies. They had agreed to guide the group to the nearby town, but it wouldn¡¯t be an easy journey. The road was long, and if the bandits were still hunting them, they would have to stay hidden.

    The archer checked his bowstring, glancing over at Rohan.

    "You sure you¡¯re ready to move?"

    Rohan swallowed his food and stood, rolling his stiff shoulders. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "We don¡¯t have a choice.¡±

    The archer slung a quiver over his shoulder.

    "Then let¡¯s not waste time."

    The group moved cautiously through the forest, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth. The tension was thick, every snapping twig sending uneasy glances between them. Rohan kept his dagger at his side, his body still aching but his mind sharp.

    Talia stayed close to him, her eyes darting to the trees as if expecting something to lunge out at them.

    "Do you think they¡¯re still looking for us?"

    "They lost a lot of men.¡±

    Rohan murmured.

    "If they¡¯re smart, they¡¯ll cut their losses.¡±

    "But if they¡¯re not smart?"

    She pressed.

    "Then we¡¯ll kill them."

    She didn¡¯t respond, but he caught the way her fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel.

    Hours passed in tense silence. The archers led the way, navigating the woods with practiced ease. The survivors trudged behind, weary but determined. They had no home to return to, only the hope that the next town would take them in.

    As the sun climbed higher, the trees began to thin, and the dirt path beneath their feet became more defined. The archers paused at the crest of a small hill, peering out beyond the forest.

    "There it is."

    The female archer muttered.

    Rohan stepped forward. In the distance, past rolling fields and scattered farmhouses, stood the town, a fortified settlement with high wooden walls and watchtowers. Smoke emanated from chimneys, and figures moved along the perimeter.

    "Let¡¯s go.¡±

    He said, as they made their way towards the town.

    As they descended the hill toward the town, the weight of exhaustion pressed down on the group. The children lagged behind, their small feet stumbling over roots and stones, but the women urged them forward. Every so often, one of the archers would glance over their shoulder, scanning the tree line for any signs of pursuit.

    Rohan walked at the front, his body aching with every step. Talia stayed close beside him, her hands gripping the straps of her satchel tightly.

    The walls of the town loomed closer, the wooden planks weathered but sturdy. A pair of guards stood watch at the entrance, spears in hand. Their expressions hardened as they spotted the approaching group.

    "Halt!"

    One of them called out, stepping forward.

    "State your business."

    The archer raised a hand in a sign of peace.

    "We¡¯re refugees. Our village was attacked by bandits. We need shelter."

    The guards exchanged glances. Rohan could already see their hesitation. A group of ragged survivors showing up unannounced, it was a risk, and they knew it.

    "Who leads your group?"

    The other guard asked.

    The archers hesitated, but Rohan stepped forward.

    "I do."

    One of the guards narrowed his eyes.

    "And who are you?"

    Rohan straightened, ignoring the pain that flared through his ribs.

    "Someone who fought to keep these people alive."

    His voice was steady, his gaze unwavering.

    "We¡¯re not here to cause trouble."

    The first guard studied him for a moment before turning to his companion.

    "Go get the captain.¡±

    Minutes passed in tense silence before an older man in chainmail emerged from the gate. He took one look at the battered group before settling his gaze on Rohan.

    "You fought off bandits?"

    Rohan nodded.

    "Killed a good number of them too."

    The captain¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change.

    "And if we let you in, what then?"

    "We¡¯ll work for our keep."

    Rohan said without hesitation.

    "Help with whatever the town needs.¡±

    The captain considered this, then looked at the women and children, their faces streaked with dirt and exhaustion. He exhaled through his nose.

    "Open the gate."

    The heavy wooden doors creaked as they swung inward. Relief washed over the group, but Rohan didn¡¯t let himself relax just yet.

    The captain gestured for them to follow.

    "Come. Let¡¯s figure out where to put you."

    As they stepped inside, Talia let out a quiet breath beside him. But something in Rohan¡¯s gut told him their fight wasn¡¯t over.

    The captain led Rohan away from the others, his steps slow but deliberate. The weight of the past days pressed down on him, but he kept pace, his mind clouded with exhaustion and lingering rage. The town around them was bustling despite the early morning, and refugees shuffled between makeshift tents, while weary soldiers stood watch.

    ¡°You¡¯re the one who brought the survivors in.¡±

    The captain finally said, glancing at Rohan.

    ¡°That makes you their leader, whether you meant to be or not.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond. He wasn¡¯t anyone¡¯s leader. He had just done what needed to be done.

    The captain sighed.

    ¡°Word travels fast. The noble who oversees this town wants to speak with you.¡±

    Rohan narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    The captain kept his gaze ahead.

    ¡°You were at one of the villages that got attacked. That means you might know something useful. This wasn¡¯t just some random raid, these bastards have been moving through the region, taking over settlements, killing anyone who resists. We need information, and you¡¯re the only survivor who¡¯s in any condition to give it.¡±

    Rohan swallowed down the bitterness rising in his throat. He thought of the chief, of the burning village, of the screams that still echoed in his head.

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell them what I know.¡±

    He said quietly.

    The captain nodded.

    ¡°Good. And keep your guard up. Nobles don¡¯t take an interest in people like us unless they see a reason to.¡±

    Rohan barely heard him. His mind was already turning toward the meeting ahead.

    The guards led Rohan through the noble¡¯s estate, a stark contrast to the suffering he had witnessed over the past few days. Polished stone floors gleamed under candlelight, and richly woven banners hung from the walls. Rohan felt out of place, his tattered clothing and bandaged wounds a reminder of the world outside these walls.

    At the far end of the room, a man in fine robes sat behind an ornate table, studying a map. He barely looked up as Rohan approached.

    ¡°You were in one of the raided villages.¡±

    The noble finally said, tapping the map.

    ¡°Tell me, have you ever heard of the Black Crows?¡±

    Rohan¡¯s body tensed, his fingers twitching toward his belt as if his dagger was still there. The name sent a shock through his mind, dredging up memories he had long tried to bury.

    ¡°They don¡¯t go by that name anymore.¡±

    The noble continued, oblivious to Rohan¡¯s growing rage.

    ¡°Now they call themselves the Iron Talons. More organized, more well-armed. No longer just raiders, they take over entire villages and force survivors into servitude.¡±

    He looked up, finally meeting Rohan¡¯s burning gaze.

    ¡°I assume this means something to you.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fists clenched at his sides. His voice came out low and strained.

    ¡°They were the ones.¡±

    The noble raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°They were the ones who burned my village.¡±

    Rohan growled.

    ¡°They slaughtered my family. I thought they were just a pack of mindless killers, but now you¡¯re telling me they¡¯re still out there, stronger than before?¡±

    The noble sighed, folding his hands on the table.

    ¡°I won¡¯t lie to you. Wiping them out won¡¯t be easy. We have reason to believe they¡¯re being funded by someone with considerable wealth and influence.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s breath came heavy. The walls felt too small, the air too thick. Every instinct in him screamed for action.

    ¡°I¡¯ll do anything.¡±

    He said, his voice a mixture of rage and desperation.

    ¡°Anything to kill them all.¡±

    The noble studied him for a long moment before leaning back in his chair.

    ¡°Good, then we may have use for each other.¡±

 Ch 7: Duskwatch

    Rohan prepared for his mission under the noble¡¯s guidance. He was given a new set of clothes, simple and rugged, the kind a wandering mercenary might wear. Along with it, a small pouch of coins, just enough to buy information or supplies without drawing attention.

    As he fastened his father¡¯s dagger to his belt, the noble watched him carefully.

    ¡°You¡¯re stepping into a world where trust is a weakness.¡±

    He warned.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have no allies. No second chances.¡±

    Rohan nodded, his grip tightening on the blade¡¯s hilt. He wasn¡¯t a spy. He wasn¡¯t a liar. But none of that mattered. The only thing that did was getting close to the ones responsible for everything, the Iron Talons.

    With nothing but his wits and a growing fire in his chest, Rohan set off for Duskwatch, a haven for killers, thieves, and those who thrived in the shadows.

    Rohan sat in silence as he finished securing his pack. Talia stood a few steps away, arms crossed, her expression tense. She had seen it coming, he could tell by the way she bit her lip, holding back words she knew wouldn¡¯t change his mind.

    ¡°I¡¯m not taking you with me.¡±

    His voice was firm, but not unkind.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be too dangerous. I can¡¯t protect you out there.¡±

    Talia¡¯s fists clenched at her sides.

    ¡°I never asked you to protect me!¡±

    Rohan sighed.

    ¡°I need to do this alone.¡±

    She looked away, her face unreadable.

    ¡°So that¡¯s it, then?¡±

    He hesitated, but only for a moment.

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    There was no point in making promises he wasn¡¯t sure he could keep. Without another word, he turned and walked away, forcing himself not to look back.

    The journey to Duskwatch would take days, but Rohan had one stop to make first.

    The village was silent when he arrived. What remained of the wooden gates stood like broken ribs, charred from fire.

    Rohan got to work, he buried the chief first, setting a heavy stone at the head of the grave. Then Elara who had died with a sword in hand, then the guards who had fought to their last breath. He dug until his fingers bled.

    When he reached the final body, the baby the chief had died protecting, his hands trembled. He wrapped the tiny form carefully in cloth before placing them in the earth.

    By the time he was done, night had fallen. Rohan stood among the graves, dirt under his nails, sweat and blood mixed on his skin. Then he turned towards the road.

    The journey to Duskwatch takes four grueling days. Rohan moves cautiously, avoiding the main roads and keeping to the wilderness. He hunts when he can, sleeps in short bursts, and keeps his dagger close at all times. Every rustling leaf and distant howl sets his nerves on edge, he¡¯s alone, and there¡¯s no one to watch his back.

    On the second day, he stumbles upon an abandoned roadside camp. The fire is cold, but footprints in the dirt tell him it was occupied recently. Bandits? Travelers? He doesn¡¯t linger to find out. He moves on, pushing through hunger and exhaustion.

    By the third day, the land changes. The thick forests give way to rocky terrain, and the road becomes more traveled. He spots merchants, mercenaries, and wandering vagrants, all heading toward the same destination, Duskwatch.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    As night falls on the fourth day, he reaches the outskirts of the city. Towering stone walls stretch before him, worn but imposing. Fires flicker beyond them, casting a dim glow over the landscape. The main gate is bustling with merchants and travelers, their goods being inspected by rough-looking men in mismatched armor. Not city guards, hired swords. Duskwatch doesn¡¯t follow the rules of a kingdom, it makes it own.

    Rohan pulls his hood lower and veers toward a smaller entrance, a side gate used by those who prefer not to be noticed. A man leans lazily against the wooden door, a scar running down the side of his cheek. The man¡¯s eyes flick over him, sizing him up.

    "What brings you to Duskwatch?"

    Rohan keeps his voice steady.

    "Work. I hear the city always has room for a good blade."

    The man chuckles, tapping a finger against the hilt of his own dagger.

    "That depends. You got coin?¡±

    Rohan pulls a few coins from his pouch, enough to satisfy the man¡¯s greed without making himself a target. The man bites one, then pockets it.

    "Welcome to Duskwatch."

    He says, pushing the gate open.

    "Try not to get yourself killed too quickly."

    Duskwatch is alive with the hum of the lawless. The streets are narrow and winding, packed with merchants selling stolen goods, beggars eyeing pockets, and mercenaries boasting their latest kills over drinks. Shadows linger in every alley, watching, waiting.

    Rohan keeps his hood low and his stride confident. Hesitation marks a man as prey, and Duskwatch devours the weak.

    He needs a plan. The Iron Talons are here somewhere, but he can¡¯t just walk into their ranks. He needs an in, someone who knows them, someone who can get him close.

    His first stop is a tavern. The "Broken Dagger" sits on the edge of the market square, its sign barely hanging from rusted chains. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the sour stench of unwashed bodies.

    Rohan moves to the bar, ordering a cheap drink. He doesn¡¯t touch it. Instead, he listens. Conversations flow around him, complaints about mercenary pay, rumors of nobles funding bandit groups, whispers of men disappearing in the night. Then, he hears what he¡¯s looking for.

    A grizzled man in tattered leather leans in close to his drinking partner.

    "Iron Talons have been quiet lately."

    He mutters.

    "Too quiet. They¡¯re up to something."

    His companion, a younger man with nervous eyes, scoffs.

    "They don¡¯t answer to anyone. Not the nobles, not the city. If they¡¯re planning something, no one¡¯s stopping them!"

    Rohan watches them carefully. These men aren¡¯t Iron Talons, but they know enough to be useful. He waits for an opening, then makes his move.

    "You sound like you know them well."

    He says, setting a few coins on the table.

    "I need work, and I hear they pay well."

    The older man eyes the money, then Rohan. There¡¯s a long pause before he speaks.

    "You don¡¯t find the Iron Talons, they find you."

    Rohan leans in slightly.

    "Then how do I make myself worth finding?"

    The man smirks, taking the coins.

    "There¡¯s a fight pit down by the docks. No rules, no mercy. Survive a few rounds, and the right people might take notice."

    Rohan nods, pushing back from the table. If this is what it takes to get close to them, then so be it. The Iron Talons won¡¯t find a recruit. They¡¯ll find a hunter.

    Rohan steps out of the tavern and into the cold night air. Duskwatch is even uglier in the dark. The streets reek of piss and rot, and distant shouts echo through the alleys. He doesn¡¯t have enough coin for a proper room.

    He moves through the winding streets, slipping into a narrow alleyway where the shadows swallow him whole. It¡¯s not comfortable, but it¡¯s quiet. He finds a dry spot near a stack of crates and leans against the wall, adjusting his cloak. His body aches from days of travel, but exhaustion is a luxury he can¡¯t afford.

    As he closes his eyes, a voice cuts through the stillness.

    "Not the best place to sleep, love."

    Rohan¡¯s hand snaps to his dagger as he turns toward the voice. A woman stands at the entrance of the alley, her arms crossed. She¡¯s older than him, maybe twenty, with tired eyes and a smirk that doesn¡¯t quite reach them. Her dress is worn but still clings to her figure, the fabric telling its own story.

    "I¡¯ve got a place."

    she continues, nodding toward the street.

    "A proper bed. Cheap for the night.¡±

    Rohan hesitates. He doesn¡¯t trust kindness in a place like this, but he¡¯s cold, hungry, and sore. A bed would be better than freezing on the streets.

    "Why?"

    He asks, narrowing his eyes.

    "You don¡¯t even know me."

    She shrugs.

    "You look like you need it. Besides, you¡¯re not the type to slit my throat in my sleep."

    He frowns but follows. She leads him through winding backstreets to a small, candle-lit room above a tavern. It¡¯s barely more than a cot and a chair, but it¡¯s warm.

    As he sits on the edge of the bed, the woman leans against the door, watching him.

    "So¡­ when do you want to get started?"

    Rohan blinks.

    "Started with what?"

    She tilts her head, amused.

    "With me, love. That is why you¡¯re here, isn¡¯t it?"

    Realization hits him like a punch to the gut. His face flushes, and he shakes his head quickly.

    "I-I just thought-"

    She laughs, the sound dry but not unkind.

    "You thought I was being nice?"

    Rohan doesn¡¯t answer.

    She watches him for a moment, then sighs.

    "You can keep the bed. Just don¡¯t expect charity again."

    She moves to the chair, stretching her legs out with a tired groan.

    "You running from something, kid?"

    Rohan stays silent, staring at the ceiling. Sleep drags at him, but the weight in his chest is heavier. Duskwatch was going to change him. He just didn¡¯t know how much yet.

 Ch 8: First Brawl

    Rohan awoke to the sound of water sloshing. The dim morning light filtered through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting faint shadows across the small, worn-down room. He blinked, adjusting to the sight before him, the woman from last night kneeling beside a wooden bucket, pouring water over herself with a small tin cup.

    ¡°You¡¯re awake."

    She said without turning around. She dipped her fingers into the water and ran them through her dark, damp hair.

    ¡°Figured you''d sleep a little longer.¡±

    Rohan sat up slowly, feeling the dull ache of his wounds, some of which had reopened during his restless sleep. She glanced back at him, her lips pulling into a small smirk.

    ¡°You should wash up too. I doubt you want to walk around Duskwatch smelling like blood and sweat.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    He muttered, shifting to put his boots on.

    She rolled her eyes and stood, reaching for a rag.

    ¡°You¡¯re really not.¡±

    She walked over, kneeling beside him, eyes flicking to the faint red seeping through the bandages wrapped around his shoulders.

    ¡°At least let me clean those up before you start bleeding all over my floor.¡±

    Rohan hesitated, but the sting in shoulders made the choice for him. He sighed and nodded. She handed him a damp cloth.

    ¡°Here, wipe down while I get my needle.¡±

    As she rummaged through a small wooden box, he peeled off his shirt, revealing old scars and fresh wounds still healing. She paused, her fingers brushing over a spool of thread.

    ¡°You¡¯re young to have so many scars.¡±

    Her voice was softer now, lacking the teasing edge from before.

    Rohan didn¡¯t answer at first. He ran the cloth over his arms and chest, the cold water sending a brief shiver down his spine.

    ¡°Life hasn¡¯t been kind.¡±

    She hummed in response, threading the needle with practiced ease.

    ¡°My husband had scars like yours. He was a mercenary. Knew how to take a blade but never learned how to dodge one.¡±

    She knelt beside him and pressed a clean cloth to one of his wounds before starting to stitch it closed.

    Rohan clenched his jaw at the sharp sting but didn¡¯t move.

    ¡°He¡¯s dead?¡±

    ¡°A long time now.¡±

    She didn¡¯t elaborate, and he didn¡¯t ask. The room was quiet except for the soft pull of thread through skin and the occasional drip of water from the bucket.

    Once she finished stitching him up, she tied off the last thread and sat back on her heels, examining her work.

    ¡°That should hold, as long as you don¡¯t go getting yourself cut up again.¡±

    Rohan pulled his shirt back on, rolling his sore shoulder before meeting her gaze.

    ¡°Do you know where I can find the fight ring?¡±

    She arched a brow, wiping her hands on a cloth.

    ¡°You planning to get yourself some new scars already?¡±

    ¡°I need work.¡±

    He said simply.

    She studied him for a moment, then sighed.

    ¡°There are a few places, but if you¡¯re looking for real coin, there¡¯s only one that matters, The Pit.¡±

    ¡°The Pit?¡±

    She nodded, standing to grab a cup of water.

    ¡°It¡¯s the biggest underground ring in Duskwatch. You win, you get paid. You lose, you¡¯re lucky if you walk out.¡±

    She took a sip before adding.

    ¡°It¡¯s run by a man named Varlek. He doesn¡¯t take kindly to strangers, but if you prove yourself, you might get in.¡±

    Rohan adjusted his belt, securing his father¡¯s dagger at his hip.

    ¡°Where is it?¡±

    She smirked.

    ¡°Eager, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    She stepped closer, resting a hand on her hip.

    ¡°Follow the main street until you hit the market square. There¡¯s an old tavern called The Broken Chain. Ask for the ¡®special ale.¡¯ They¡¯ll take you where you need to go.¡±

    Rohan nodded, storing the information away.

    ¡°Thanks.¡±

    She scoffed.

    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me yet. You might regret asking.¡±

    He was already heading for the door when she called out again.

    ¡°Try not to die, will you? Be a shame to stitch you up for nothing.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t look back, only raising a hand in silent acknowledgment before stepping out into the streets of Duskwatch.

    He followed the woman¡¯s directions, weaving through the crowded streets. The market square was alive with merchants shouting their wares, beggars huddling in corners, and cutthroats eyeing easy prey. He ignored it all, keeping his focus on his destination, The Broken Chain.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    The tavern sat at the edge of the square, its wooden sign hanging crookedly from rusted chains. The stench of cheap ale and unwashed bodies hit him as soon as he stepped inside. The place was dimly lit, filled with rough-looking men drinking and muttering in hushed tones.

    Rohan approached the bar, his gaze steady. The barkeep, a thick-armed man with a jagged scar across his nose, glanced at him with mild interest.

    ¡°I¡¯m looking for the special ale.¡±

    Rohan said evenly.

    The barkeep¡¯s brow twitched, but he said nothing. Instead, he jerked his head toward a door at the back. Two burly men stood in front of it, arms crossed. Rohan didn¡¯t hesitate, moving toward them.

    One of them, a bald brute with a broken nose, grunted.

    ¡°First time?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    The man looked him up and down, unimpressed.

    ¡°Matches ain¡¯t for kids.¡±

    Rohan frowned.

    ¡°I can fight.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll have to prove it.¡±

    The other guard chimed in.

    ¡°Brawls first.¡±

    ¡°Brawls?¡±

    The broken-nosed man smirked.

    ¡°Matches are one-on-one, real fighters only. Brawls are for those looking to earn their place. You go in, they throw numbers at you, could be ten, could be fifty. You win, you move up. You lose, you get carried out.¡±

    Rohan rolled his shoulders.

    ¡°Fine. When do I start?¡±

    The two men chuckled. The bald one opened the door.

    ¡°Right now.¡±

    Rohan stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

    The pit reeked of sweat and blood. A crude circle of torches cast flickering light over the dirt floor, illuminating nine men standing in tense silence. Some were grizzled fighters, others looked like desperate men looking for money or a way up. Then there was Rohan, young, lean, and underestimated.

    A bell rang and Rohan ducked as a fist came flying toward his face, pivoting just in time to see a man get tackled to the ground. Someone screamed as they were sent sprawling, already bleeding from a broken nose.

    A burly man lunged at Rohan, aiming to grab him. He moved out of reach, driving his elbow into the man¡¯s ribs before slamming his fist into his throat. The man gagged, stumbling back. With no time to finish him, another fighter charged in.

    A punch connected with Rohan¡¯s jaw, sending him falling. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, rolling with the impact instead of resisting. He tasted blood, but he¡¯d felt worse.

    Stepping forward, he fainted a punch before driving his knee into the attacker¡¯s stomach. As the man doubled over, Rohan grabbed his head and smashed it against his knee. The sickening crack of a nose breaking sent a wave of cheers through the crowd. The man collapsed, unconscious.

    The fight was a blur of sweat and violence. Rohan moved fast, avoiding groups, letting them take each other out. He took hits, his ribs ached from a well-placed kick, his lip split open from a wild swing, but he kept going. He was smaller, but he was faster. He wasn¡¯t fighting to win honorably. He was fighting to survive.

    One grabbed him from behind, thick arms locking around his throat. Rohan clawed at them, his vision darkening. With a desperate move, he slammed his head backward into the man¡¯s face. The grip loosened. He stomped down on the mans foot, then twisted free, turning and jamming his elbow into his temple. The man hit the ground, unmoving.

    The last few minutes were a haze of fists, blood, and sheer endurance. Rohan fought like a cornered wolf, biting, gouging, and breaking bones when he had to. When the dust settled, only he remained standing, breath heaving and knuckles raw.

    Rohan staggered, barely staying on his feet. He wiped blood from his brow and looked up. The men watching from the edges of the pit were no longer dismissing him. They were watching him. Evaluating him.

    The moment the bell rang, the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter. Some yelled at the fallen fighters, while others roared in approval at Rohan¡¯s unexpected victory.

    Then, from the stands, coins began raining down. Silver and copper clattered onto the dirt floor, some rolling away, others landing near the unconscious bodies of the defeated.

    Rohan, still catching his breath, bent down to pick up a few of the scattered coins. Before his fingers could close around them, a heavy boot stomped down in front of him.

    "Stop.¡±

    He looked up to see a tall, scarred man watching him with a smirk. His arms were crossed, and the way he carried himself screamed authority. Around him, a few other me, probably handlers or organizers, watched with mild amusement.

    ¡°You¡¯ll get your share, don¡¯t touch what¡¯s not yours.¡±

    Rohan straightened, wiping the blood from his lip. He didn¡¯t argue. He had pushed himself to the limit in that fight, but now wasn¡¯t the time to show weakness.

    The scarred man gestured toward an open gate leading out of the pit.

    ¡°Come on. You survived your first brawl. Let¡¯s see if you survive getting paid.¡±

    Rohan followed the man through the open gate, stepping out of the pit and into a dimly lit corridor. His body ached from the fight, but he kept his body straight.

    The corridor led to a small back room, where a few other fighters were either being patched up or counting their earnings. Behind a wooden desk sat a burly man with a thick beard, counting stacks of coins with slow, deliberate movements. The scarred man stopped beside him and gestured toward Rohan.

    "This one made it through his first brawl."

    He said.

    The bearded man looked up, his dark eyes scanning Rohan with mild interest.

    "Huh. Didn''t think you''d last, kid."

    He grabbed a handful of coins from the table, counted them, and tossed them into a small cloth pouch before sliding it across the desk.

    "Your cut, not bad for your first night."

    Rohan caught the pouch and felt the weight of it. It wasn''t much, but it was more than he''d had in a long time. He gave a small nod.

    "You can come back tomorrow for another brawl, If you keep winning, we might consider letting you into the matches."

    He leaned forward slightly.

    "But if you get yourself killed, we ain''t responsible."

    Rohan smirked faintly.

    "I¡¯ll be back."

    The bearded man chuckled.

    "Yeah, they all say that."

    With his winnings in hand, Rohan turned and walked out, stepping into the cool night air. His body ached, his knuckles were bruised, and his ribs throbbed with each breath, but for the first time in a while, he felt like he had a real path forward.

    Rohan made his way back through the winding alleys of, his pouch of coins tucked securely inside his coat. The streets were quieter now, the chaos of the city settling into its usual late-night rhythm, drunken laughter, the occasional scuffle, and whispers of unseen deals being made in the shadows.

    As he reached the small, rundown building where the woman had taken him the night before, he immediately felt something was wrong. The door was slightly open, and inside, low voices murmured. He stepped inside cautiously.

    The dim candle light flickered against the cracked walls, revealing the woman from last night slumped against the mattress, her face bruised and swollen. Dried blood crusted the corner of her lip, and her arm had been hastily wrapped in bandages. Another woman knelt beside her, carefully dabbing at her wounds with a damp cloth.

    The moment she noticed Rohan standing in the doorway, her expression hardened.

    "Get out."

    She said coldly.

    "She doesn¡¯t need more trouble tonight.¡±

    Rohan clenched his fists, feeling a simmering anger rise in his chest. He had seen injuries like this before, beatings, punishments.

    Before he could speak, the injured woman lifted her head weakly.

    "Let him stay."

    She murmured. Her voice was hoarse, but firm.

    "He''s fine."

    Her friend hesitated, eyeing Rohan with suspicion before finally exhaling sharply and standing up.

    "Whatever. Just don¡¯t bring more problems here."

    She muttered before stepping back to give them space.

    Rohan stepped forward, crouching beside her.

    "Who did this?"

    His voice was low, controlled, but the anger underneath it was unmistakable. She gave him a tired smile, the kind that had long given up on justice.

    "Someone who had a bad night gambling."

    She said simply.

    Rohan knew better than to push for answers tonight. The exhaustion in her eyes and the slow, pained way she breathed told him enough, she needed rest more than anything else.

    He helped her lie back down on the mattress, careful not to disturb her injuries. Her friend still watched him with wary eyes but said nothing as she handed Rohan a damp cloth. He hesitated before taking it, then gently wiped away some of the dried blood on the woman¡¯s face.

    "You didn¡¯t have to come back."

    She murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

    "Needed a place to stay.¡±

    She gave a weak chuckle but winced at the pain it caused. After a while, her breathing steadied, and she drifted into sleep. Her friend, still skeptical of Rohan, sat near the door, arms crossed.

    "You can sleep there."

    She finally said, nodding toward a corner of the room where an old blanket was folded.

    Rohan didn¡¯t argue. He sat down, leaning his back against the wall, and let out a slow breath. His body ached from the fight earlier, his bruises beginning to throb now that the adrenaline had worn off.

    As the candle burned lower, the night stretched on in heavy silence. Outside, Duskwatch continued its restless existence, but inside this small, dimly lit space, Rohan allowed himself a moment of stillness.

    Tomorrow, he will return to the pit. Tomorrow, he will fight again. But for now, he closed his eyes and let exhaustion take over.

 Ch 9: Second Brawl

    Rohan woke to his body aching from the previous night¡¯s fight, bruises blooming across his ribs and arms. As he shifted, a dull sting reminded him of the wounds that had barely begun to heal.

    The woman, Sera, sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as she dabbed at her bruised cheek with a damp cloth. Her friend, the one who had glared at Rohan the night before, was nowhere to be seen.

    ¡°You¡¯re up early.¡±

    Sera said without looking at him.

    Rohan sat up, stretching his sore limbs.

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t sleep.¡±

    She scoffed.

    ¡°You¡¯ll get used to that in this city.¡±

    Rohan watched her for a moment. The swelling on her face had worsened overnight, and he could see faint fingerprints on her throat. He clenched his fists.

    ¡°Who did that to you?¡±

    Sera shot him a sharp look, then sighed.

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter.¡±

    ¡°It does to me.¡±

    She smirked, though there was no humor in it.

    ¡°What are you gonna do? Fight every bastard in this town?¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t need to.

    Sera shook her head.

    ¡°You don¡¯t get it, kid. Some fights aren¡¯t worth picking.¡±

    Rohan stood, wincing as pain shot up his side.

    ¡°Then why are you still here?¡±

    Sera hesitated before answering.

    ¡°Because this is all I have.¡±

    Rohan knew that feeling all too well.

    After a moment, she waved him off.

    ¡°Go on, then. You¡¯ve got fights to win, don¡¯t you?¡±

    Grabbing his belongings, he stepped out into the morning streets, determined to make his next move.

    Rohan made his way back to the fighting pits, moving through the narrow streets with purpose. When he reached the pit entrance, the same organizer from the night before was there, leaning against the stone archway, chewing on a strip of dried meat. He smirked when he saw Rohan.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be back so soon.¡±

    Rohan met his gaze, unfazed.

    ¡°I need another fight.¡±

    The organizer chuckled.

    ¡°That eager for a beating? Or are you just that desperate for coin?¡±

    ¡°Does it matter?¡±

    The man shrugged.

    ¡°Not to me. But you¡¯re in luck. We¡¯ve got another brawl starting soon. Bigger stakes this time. Twelve men, last one standing wins.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Rohan cracked his knuckles, ignoring the soreness in his hands.

    ¡°I¡¯m in.¡±

    The organizer grinned and gestured for him to follow.

    ¡°Good. Try not to die.¡±

    Rohan stepped into the pit, rolling his shoulders as he sized up the twelve other fighters. He had done this once before, and while the pain lingered from last night¡¯s bruises, he felt ready. The crowd roared above, their excitement electric in the air. He took a breath, steadying himself. Another fistfight. Another victory to earn. Then the announcer raised his hand.

    "BEGIN!"

    The moment the words left his mouth, the fighters around Rohan unsheathed knives, clubs, and jagged bits of metal.

    Before he could react, a blade slashed across his side. He staggered back, barely dodging another strike aimed at his face.

    A bald man with a rusted short sword lunged at him, swinging wildly. Rohan ducked to avoid it, but a boot crashed into his face, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

    He forced himself to roll just as another blade slammed into the sand where his chest had been.

    Something dark stirred inside him, anger, desperation, survival. He had to move. He had to win.

    Rohan kicked out at the nearest man''s knee, sending him to the ground with a scream. Without thinking, he snatched the fallen man¡¯s knife and drove it into his shoulder, twisting it hard.

    Another fighter lunged at him. Rohan barely brought the blade up in time, deflecting the strike and stabbing him.

    Two more came at him, one with a club, the other with twin daggers. Rohan ducked under the club, but the dagger wielder was faster. A sharp pain burned across his arm as the blade found its mark.

    Ignoring the pain, he lashed out. His stolen knife buried itself in the club wielder¡¯s thigh, forcing him to the ground. Rohan grabbed the club as the man fell, spinning just in time to catch the dagger-wielding fighter across the jaw with a brutal swing.

    ¡°Come on!¡±

    He yelled, his grip tightening around his weapon.

    One of them, a lanky man with a serrated knife, charged first. Rohan stepped into the attack, took the blow to his already bleeding arm, and slammed the club into his ribs with enough force to break something.

    The last three came together. Rohan ducked under a wild swing, smashing the club into a knee before rolling away from another blade. He kicked out, catching one in the gut and sending him tumbling into the last man standing.

    That was all he needed.

    With savage efficiency, he ended it. A strike to the throat. A stomp on a fallen man¡¯s wrist, disarming him. A brutal kick to the temple.

    When it was over, he stood alone, swaying slightly, his body screaming in pain. The crowd had erupted in cheers, and coins began raining down into the pit.

    As Rohan stumbled toward the exit of the pit, the announcer''s voice boomed over the roaring crowd.

    "Now that was a fight!"

    The organizer stepped forward, arms crossed. His eyes scanned Rohan, bruised, bloodied, barely able to stand, yet victorious.

    "You fight like a cornered beast, sloppy at first, but you learn fast. That''s good.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond, still catching his breath, blood dripping from his fresh wounds. The other fighters who had been dragged off the pit floor groaned in pain, some unconscious, some clutching broken bones.

    "You''re done with the brawls, you want real money? Real recognition? You start fighting matches. One-on-one. Weapons. No rules. Kill or be killed."

    Rohan wiped sweat from his brow, smearing blood across his forehead.

    "When do I start?"

    "Tomorrow night. Get yourself patched up, boy. The real fights begin now.¡±

    By the time he reached Sera¡¯s place, his wounds burned, each step sending sharp pain through his body. He hesitated before knocking, but the door creaked open before he could. Sera¡¯s friend, the same woman who had tended to her before, stood there, her expression darkening the moment she saw him.

    ¡°You again?¡±

    She muttered, eyeing the blood staining his clothes.

    ¡°You¡¯re either stupid or cursed.¡±

    Before Rohan could reply, Sera¡¯s voice called out from inside.

    ¡°Let him in.¡±

    The woman scoffed but stepped aside. Rohan moved past her and found Sera sitting on the edge of her bed, her face still bearing bruises from the night before. Despite that, she managed a smirk.

    ¡°I was expecting you to crawl in, not walk.¡±

    She teased, but her eyes softened when she saw the gashes on his arms.

    ¡°Sit down. Let me see.¡±

    Rohan dropped onto a stool, exhaling sharply as he peeled his shirt off. Sera grabbed a cloth and a bowl of water, dipping it in before dabbing at his wounds. The cold sting made him tense, but he didn¡¯t flinch.

    She worked in silence for a while, stitching a particularly deep cut on his shoulder.

    ¡°You don¡¯t talk much, do you?¡±

    She asked, threading the needle again.

    ¡°Not much to say.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re covered in fresh wounds every night, fighting in those pits, and there¡¯s nothing to say?¡±

    Rohan glanced at her.

    ¡°What do you want to hear?¡±

    Sera tied off the stitch and sat back.

    ¡°Why you¡¯re doing this. Most men fight for money. Some for sport. But you?¡±

    Her gaze locked onto his, sharp and knowing.

    ¡°You fight like you have to.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s my business.¡±

    Sera sighed, standing.

    ¡°Fine. Keep your secrets.¡±

    She turned to grab a fresh bandage but paused.

    ¡°Just don¡¯t let them chew you up and spit you out, Rohan.  No one cares about the dead.¡±

    Rohan clenched his jaw, flexing his sore fingers.

    He wouldn¡¯t be another body left in the dirt.

    Tomorrow, the real fights began.

 Ch 10: Deeper Into The Pits

    The morning light crept through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting thin golden streaks across the room. Rohan sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his sore shoulder as he pulled on his shirt. Every movement sent a dull ache through his body, a reminder of last night¡¯s fight.

    Sera stood near the small table, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression.

    ¡°I found you a job.¡±

    She said finally, causing Rohan to pause, glancing up at her.

    ¡°A small inn, just down the street. They need a waiter.¡±

    She tilted her head, eyes sharp.

    ¡°You could make some decent coin without getting stabbed for it.¡±

    Rohan finished tying the straps of his boots and stood.

    ¡°Not interested.¡±

    Sera¡¯s expression hardened.

    ¡°You¡¯re barely standing, Rohan. You¡¯re walking around with wounds that haven¡¯t even closed yet.¡±

    She gestured toward his side, where a fresh bandage wrapped around his ribs.

    ¡°You go back to those pits like this, you won¡¯t just lose. You¡¯ll die.¡±

    Rohan adjusted his father¡¯s dagger at his belt and turned toward the door.

    Sera took a step forward, voice laced with frustration.

    ¡°Is that what you want?¡±

    He didn¡¯t answer.

    With a shake of her head, she let out a bitter laugh.

    ¡°You¡¯re just like him.¡±

    That made Rohan pause, just for a second. But he didn¡¯t turn back.

    Without another word, he pulled open the door and stepped out into the streets of Duskwatch.

    The pits awaited.

    Rohan walked through the familiar entrance of the pits. The guard at the entrance barely spared him a glance before jerking his head toward a side door.

    ¡°You¡¯re moving up, come with me.¡±

    Rohan followed, his boots echoing against the stone floor as they descended further underground. The deeper they went, the thicker the air felt, humid, laced with the scent of sweat, blood, and expensive perfumes.

    The tunnel opened into a lavish chamber, a stark contrast to the filth and brutality of the lower pits. Rich merchants and noblemen lounged on cushioned seats, draped in fine silks, drinking from gold-rimmed goblets. Platters of roasted meats and exotic fruits covered the tables, untouched by the savagery of the fights they so eagerly bet on.

    A heavyset man in a velvet robe leaned forward, slurring his words as he spoke.

    ¡°The new boy.¡±

    He mused, eyes settling on Rohan.

    ¡°The one from last night. He¡¯s quick, but I say he won¡¯t last another week.¡±

    A thin man beside him smirked.

    ¡°You always bet against the desperate ones. But desperation makes men unpredictable.¡±

    Rohan clenched his fists, feeling their eyes crawl over him like vultures sizing up a dying animal. Another merchant, draped in jewelry, called out lazily.

    ¡°Who¡¯s fighting next?¡±

    The guard beside Rohan gave him a shove forward.

    ¡°Him.¡±

    The room stirred with interest. A few men grinned, already whispering wagers among themselves.

    Rohan kept his face cold, his heartbeat steady. It didn¡¯t matter who was watching. It didn¡¯t matter what they thought. All that mattered was winning.

    The guards led Rohan through a side corridor, away from the lavish chamber, deeper into the underground complex. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    They shoved him into a dimly lit room where other fighters were waiting. Some sat on benches, wrapping their hands and sharpening weapons, while others leaned against the walls, their faces hardened from many battles.

    A man with a broken nose and a jagged scar across his cheek eyed Rohan as he stepped in. He smirked, shaking his head.

    ¡°Fresh meat.¡±

    Rohan ignored him and sat on a bench, tightening the straps on his boots. The same scarred fighter sat down beside him, stretching his arms lazily.

    ¡°You don¡¯t talk much, huh?¡±

    The man mused, glancing at Rohan¡¯s bruised knuckles.

    ¡°Smart. But you should know how things work down here.¡±

    The man leaned in, his voice low.

    ¡°The fights? They¡¯re just a show. The real business is what happens after. The nobles come here for three things, violence, drugs, and flesh. And if one of them decides they want you, you don¡¯t get a say.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s jaw tightened.

    ¡°And if you refuse?¡±

    The man chuckled darkly.

    ¡°There is no refusing. The pits belong to the nobles. They fund it, they control it. You¡¯re either making them money in the ring or¡­ elsewhere. That¡¯s how it works.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s hands curled into fists. He had known Duskwatch was corrupt, but this was deeper, more twisted than he had imagined.

    The scarred man patted his shoulder.

    ¡°Fight well, kid. Make yourself valuable in the ring. It¡¯s the only way to keep them from deciding you¡¯re worth more outside of it.¡±

    Before Rohan could respond, a guard appeared at the door.

    ¡°You¡¯re up next.¡±

    Rohan stood, rolling his shoulders. His body ached, his wounds still fresh, but none of that mattered.

    Rohan stepped into the pit, his boots sinking slightly into the sand. The arena was smaller than the ones he had fought in before, more intimate, more suffocating. The air was thick with the scent of wine, perfume, and blood.

    Unlike the rowdy crowds above, the spectators here were different. Merchants in fine silk, nobles draped in gold, and high-ranking officials sat in private booths above the pit, sipping from jeweled goblets. They spoke in hushed tones, only raising their voices when a fighter they had bet on secured a win.

    Rohan¡¯s grip tightened around his dagger as his opponent stepped forward. A broad man with a shaved head and a jagged scar running down his cheek. He wore a confident smirk, twirling a short sword in his hand.

    The announcer¡¯s voice was calm, almost bored.

    ¡°A fresh face against a seasoned fighter. Place your bets, gentlemen.¡±

    A few nobles leaned forward, intrigued. Others barely looked up from their drinks. To them, this was nothing more than entertainment.

    The man lunged without hesitation, his sword slashing through the air. Rohan dodged, the blade missing his chest by inches. He countered with a quick strike of his dagger, but his opponent dodged away effortlessly. The man was fast and experienced.

    Rohan barely had time to block the next attack, steel scraping against steel. The force sent him stumbling back, his feet skidding on the sand. The nobles continued murmuring amongst themselves, indifferent to his struggle.

    The man struck again, this time aiming for Rohan¡¯s stomach. He barely parried in time, the impact sending a jolt through his arm. The strength difference was obvious, he couldn¡¯t meet this man head-on. Instead, he had to be smart.

    Rohan feigned another retreat, his breathing ragged. His opponent took the bait, pressing forward with a confident smirk. The moment he raised his sword for a downward strike, Rohan shifted to the side, ducking low.

    With a sharp movement of his wrist, he slashed across the man¡¯s thigh.

    A thin line of blood bloomed across his opponent¡¯s skin. It wasn¡¯t deep, but it was enough.

    The fighter snarled, rage flashing in his eyes.

    ¡°You little-¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t let him finish. He lunged, feinting a stab before shifting his weight and kicking out at the man¡¯s wounded leg.

    The fighter staggered, losing balance for just a moment. A moment was all Rohan needed.

    He drove his dagger into the man¡¯s side, twisting it deep. His opponent gasped, his sword slipping from his grasp as he crumpled to his knees.

    Then, the sound of slow clapping from one of the booths. A noble in a deep blue coat smirked as he leaned back in his chair. A few others murmured their approval, some shaking their heads at lost bets.

    A servant stepped into the pit, checking the downed fighter before giving a nod to the announcer.

    ¡°The winner¡­ Rohan!¡±

    No roaring cheers. No wild celebrations.

    Just quiet satisfaction from the ones who had won their bets. Rohan exhaled, his fingers loosening around his dagger. He wasn¡¯t sure how long he would last in a place like this

    Rohan stepped through the curtain leading to the fighters'' quarters, his body still humming with adrenaline. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, the dimly lit space filled with men nursing fresh wounds and drinking cheap liquor. He barely took a step before a familiar voice called out to him.

    "Not bad, kid."

    The fighter from before leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed. His tone was neutral, but there was something unreadable in his gaze.

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond, merely wiping the blood from his dagger before sheathing it.

    The man took a swig from his flask, eyeing him.

    ¡°You know, the guy you just put in the ground had a kid. A boy, no older than ten.¡±

    He paused, watching for a reaction.

    ¡°He fought in these pits to keep him fed.¡±

    Rohan met his gaze without flinching.

    "And?¡±

    The man scoffed, shaking his head.

    "And you don¡¯t care. Figures."

    He pushed off the post, stepping closer.

    ¡°That¡¯s how it starts, y¡¯know? First, it¡¯s just survival. Then you stop asking questions. Then one day, you wake up, and you¡¯re no different from the bastards who made you fight in the first place.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t react.

    ¡°He stepped into the pit. He knew the rules.¡±

    The fighter studied him for a long moment before smirking.

    ¡°You¡¯ll fit right in here.¡±

    Rohan sat on the rough wooden bench, his muscles aching from the fight. He let his head rest against the cold stone wall, exhaling sharply.

    A man dropped onto the bench beside him, older, with deep scars across his arms. Without a word, he shoved a long-stemmed pipe between Rohan¡¯s lips.

    ¡°Go on. You¡¯ll thank me.¡±

    Rohan scowled, pushing it away.

    ¡°Not interested.¡±

    The man only chuckled, taking a long drag before exhaling a cloud of thick, pungent smoke into Rohan¡¯s face. The scent was sharp, earthy, laced with something unfamiliar. The moment it hit his lungs, the dull throbbing in his ribs eased. His body, tight with exhaustion and pain, began to relax.

    He inhaled instinctively. The ache in his limbs faded, his mind slowed.

    ¡°See? Not so bad.¡±

    The man said, grinning.

    ¡°Takes the edge off.¡±

    Rohan hesitated before taking the pipe from him, staring at the smoldering embers. The pain was gone. His mind felt clear, lighter.

    The man clapped him on the shoulder.

    ¡°Welcome to the pits, boy.¡±

 Ch 11: A Proposition

    Rohan sat in the dimly lit backroom of the pits, the haze of smoke hanging thick in the air. His body ached from the fight, but the lingering effects of the drug dulled the pain. The other fighters lounged around, some nursing wounds, others indulging in drinks and substances offered freely by the handlers.

    The man from before, the one who told him about the nobles and their twisted pleasures, leaned against the wall, watching Rohan closely.

    "You''re getting pulled in deeper, kid, one fight at a time, one cut at a time. Before you know it, this place owns you.¡±

    Rohan exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the hilt of his dagger.

    "I just need to win."

    The man chuckled, shaking his head.

    "That¡¯s what they all say. But you keep winning, and they''ll keep raising the stakes. Until you¡¯re fighting something you can¡¯t walk away from."

    Rohan¡¯s gaze was steady.

    "Then I¡¯ll make sure I don¡¯t lose."

    The doors creaked open, and a handler stepped inside, scanning the room. His eyes landed on Rohan.

    "You. The bosses want to see you.¡±

    Murmurs rippled through the fighters. Being summoned wasn¡¯t always a good thing. Rohan stood, rolling his shoulders before following the man out. The deeper he walked into the underground chambers, the colder the air became. Something told him this meeting wasn¡¯t just about another fight.

    Rohan stepped into the lavishly decorated room, his boots sinking slightly into the thick carpets. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and incense, a stark contrast to the blood and sweat of the pits. The walls were draped in fine silks, and in the center of the room, lounging on an oversized bed adorned with golden embroidery, was a woman dressed in sheer fabric and jewelry that clinked softly as she moved.

    She studied him with sharp, predatory eyes, her lips curving into a smirk.

    ¡°So, you¡¯re the fighter everyone¡¯s been whispering about, I must say, you¡¯re younger than I expected.¡±

    Rohan remained silent, his fists clenched at his sides. He had fought men twice his size, had stared death in the eye, but standing here, unarmed and exposed, made his skin crawl.

    The woman laughed softly, reaching for a bottle of wine on a nearby table. She took a sip before setting it down, her gaze never leaving him.

    ¡°I bought you for an hour.¡±

    She said, her voice smooth, almost amused.

    Rohan¡¯s stomach twisted. He had heard the rumors, had seen the way the nobles looked at the fighters like they were nothing more than entertainment, things to be used and discarded. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to stand still.

    "I''m not here for that.¡±

    He said, his voice low and controlled.

    ¡°No?¡±

    She leaned forward, the golden chains draped across her body shifting with the movement.

    ¡°Then tell me, what are you here for? Do you think you have a choice?¡±

    She sighed, standing from the bed and stepping toward him, her bare feet soundless against the rug.

    "You''re tense."

    She observed, reaching out to touch his arm. Rohan jerked back, his body reacting before he could think. That only seemed to amuse her further.

    "You''re like a wild dog, fighting so hard even when you''re already in a cage."

    "I''m not in a cage."

    He snapped.

    Her smirk widened.

    "Oh, but you are. You just don¡¯t see the bars yet.¡±

    She circled him slowly, her perfume invading his senses.

    ¡°The nobles love fighters like you. Young. Angry. Willing to bleed for their amusement. But sooner or later, you¡¯ll break. They all do."

    He forced himself to take a breath, to keep his anger in check.

    "I''m leaving."

    He said finally, turning for the door.

    "If you leave now¡­¡±

    She continued smoothly.

    "I can have you kicked out of the pits. No more fights, no more coin. And I doubt you''d last long on the streets with the way you''ve been throwing yourself into the arena."

    His grip tightened, but he didn¡¯t move. He knew the pits were dangerous, but they were also the fastest way to get stronger, to get closer to the Iron Talons. If she followed through on her threat, he¡¯d lose that advantage.

    She stepped closer, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm.

    "But."

    She purred.

    "I''m feeling generous tonight. There''s another way. Come to one of my gatherings. You¡¯ll be a waiter, nothing more.¡±

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Her lips curled into a sly smile.

    ¡°The others would love you. You¡¯re cute¡­ and like a wild animal. They enjoy that sort of thing.¡±

    Rohan hesitated, his mind racing. It sounded like a trap. But at the same time, this could be an opportunity, an easy way to get close to the nobles and merchants who might have connections to the Iron Talons. If they were backing the bandits, someone in those circles would know.

    Slowly, he turned to face her fully.

    "And if I agree?"

    She tilted her head.

    "Then you show up, wear something nice, serve drinks, and try not to bite anyone."

    She traced a finger across his chest before stepping back.

    "Do that, and you can keep your place in the pits. Maybe even earn a few favors from the right people."

    Rohan exhaled sharply. He hated the idea of playing along with these people, but he couldn¡¯t let his pride get in the way. He needed to see where this led.

    "Fine.¡±

    Her smirk widened.

    "Tomorrow night."

    She walked back to the bed and picked up a small vial from a nearby table, rolling it between her fingers.

    "Be ready. And Rohan?"

    He looked at her warily.

    "Try to behave.¡±

    The next evening, Rohan stood outside the lavish estate where the gathering was being held. The building was far removed from the filth of the pits, its marble walls and gilded accents a stark contrast to the blood and dirt he was used to. He adjusted the simple yet finely made black tunic he had been given for the occasion, uncomfortable with how clean he looked.

    A pair of guards flanked the entrance, their expressions bored as they scanned him. The one on the left gave him a once-over before stepping aside.

    "Go in. Keep your hands to yourself.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond. He stepped through the grand doorway, immediately hit by the scent of wine, perfume, and roasted meat. Inside, nobles and merchants lounged on silk cushions, draped in expensive fabrics, their fingers heavy with rings. Laughter and hushed conversation filled the space as servants moved effortlessly between them, pouring drinks and offering trays of exotic foods.

    He spotted her immediately, the woman from the night before, reclining on a couch near the center of the room. She met his gaze and smiled, lifting her glass slightly before turning back to her conversation.

    A man with graying hair and sharp eyes stepped in front of Rohan.

    "You must be the new one."

    He shoved a tray of wine glasses into Rohan''s hands without waiting for confirmation.

    "Go. Serve."

    Rohan swallowed his irritation and took the tray, weaving through the crowd as carefully as he could. He felt eyes on him, hungry, curious stares sizing him up, some amused, others speculative. He focused on his task, listening in on conversations as he moved.

    "Another village was taken last week. The Iron Talons move quickly.¡±

    "Lord Davos is furious, he thought they were under control."

    "They aren¡¯t working alone. Someone is feeding them gold."

    Rohan¡¯s grip on the tray tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. This was what he came for, information. He just had to be patient.

    As he approached a table near the back of the room, a noblewoman draped in furs ran a finger along the rim of her glass, watching him with interest.

    "You''re the fighter, aren¡¯t you?"

    She mused, Rohan met her gaze but didn¡¯t respond.

    She chuckled.

    "Shy. That¡¯s adorable."

    She reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging him closer.

    "I saw your match. You fight like a beast. Tell me, do you bite?"

    Rohan yanked his arm free, his patience wearing thin.

    "Only when I have to."

    The woman laughed, amused rather than offended, and waved him away. He turned to leave, only to be stopped by a conversation nearby that made his blood run cold.

    "The Iron Talons have been gathering forces. If what I hear is true, they''ll have control over half the region within a few months.¡±

    Another voice scoffed.

    "And the noble houses still deny they¡¯re a real threat. Fools."

    Rohan clenched his jaw. He needed to hear more. Carefully, he edged closer, pretending to adjust the tray in his hands.

    One of the men lowered his voice, forcing Rohan to step even closer, feigning interest in refilling a noble¡¯s glass.

    ¡°They aren¡¯t just growing in numbers. They¡¯re being supplied, gold, weapons, even trained men. Someone wants them strong.¡±

    The other man scoffed.

    ¡°Who stands to gain from a bandit army? They attack everyone, rich or poor.¡±

    ¡°Unless they aren¡¯t just bandits anymore.¡±

    The first man leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass.

    ¡°They¡¯ve taken over villages, wiped out entire garrisons. At some point, they stop being raiders and start being an army.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fingers twitched at his side. The thought of the Iron Talons being more than just a roaming group of killers sent a sharp unease through him. The destruction of his village had been just the beginning.

    The men continued talking, their voices dropping lower. Rohan was about to move closer when a hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him backward.

    He turned, heart pounding, to find the woman from before, the one who had invited him here. She was smiling, but there was something sharp in her eyes.

    ¡°Eavesdropping?¡±

    She asked, her voice light, but with an edge beneath it.

    ¡°I was serving.¡±

    Rohan replied smoothly.

    She raised an eyebrow, then glanced toward the table where the men were still speaking.

    ¡°Come with me.¡±

    Rohan hesitated. He had just started getting useful information. But refusing her now could draw suspicion. Reluctantly, he followed as she led him through a side door and into a dimly lit corridor.

    Once they were alone, she turned to face him, arms crossed.

    ¡°You¡¯re not as subtle as you think.¡±

    Rohan tensed, prepared to make an excuse, but she didn¡¯t seem angry, more¡­ curious.

    ¡°You¡¯re not just some pit fighter looking for money, are you? You¡¯re after something.¡±

    Rohan said nothing, his mind racing for a way out of this. She tilted her head, then smiled.

    ¡°I can help you, y¡¯know?¡±

    He narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°Why would you do that?¡±

    She took a step closer, lowering her voice.

    ¡°Because I enjoy knowing things. And I enjoy watching men like you try to tear down things bigger than themselves.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s breath was steady, but his pulse wasn¡¯t.

    She reached out and smoothed a hand over the front of his tunic, her fingers lingering for a moment before she stepped back.

    ¡°Think about it. There¡¯s more to this world than fighting in the dirt.¡±

    Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving Rohan alone in the corridor.

    Rohan didn¡¯t linger. The longer he stayed, the more dangerous this place became. He weaved through the halls, slipping past drunken nobles and distracted servants, until he found the exit.

    The night air hit him like a wave of clarity. The scent of sweat, wine, and perfume still clung to his skin, but at least out here, he could breathe

    He walked quickly, keeping to the shadows, his mind replaying the conversation over and over. The Iron Talons weren¡¯t just growing, they were being backed. Supplied. Turned into something bigger than a band of raiders. And now, he had a potential ally, though he wasn¡¯t sure if it was a trap or a real opportunity.

    By the time he reached Sera¡¯s place, exhaustion pressed down on him. He knocked lightly, and after a moment, the door cracked open.

    Sera¡¯s friend, the same woman who had tended to her before, peered out. Her expression hardened when she saw him, but she didn¡¯t say anything, simply stepping aside to let him in.

    Sera was lying on her cot, bruises still faintly visible on her skin, but she sat up when she saw him.

    ¡°Back again?¡±

    She murmured, her voice laced with tired amusement. Rohan didn¡¯t answer right away. He just stepped inside, shut the door, and let himself breathe.

    Sera raised an eyebrow as she took in his slightly disheveled appearance.

    "You look cleaner than usual. What, did you finally take up that job as a waiter?"

    Rohan hesitated for only a second before nodding.

    "Yeah."

    He said, forcing a smirk.

    "Figured I should make some easy cash instead of getting my ribs broken every night."

    Sera scoffed.

    "That would be the smartest thing you''ve done since I met you."

    She leaned back against the wall, studying him.

    "Guess that means you won¡¯t be throwing yourself into the pits anymore?¡±

    Rohan shrugged, keeping his face neutral.

    "We¡¯ll see. The pay¡¯s decent, but I¡¯m still figuring things out."

    She didn¡¯t look entirely convinced, but she didn¡¯t press him either.

    "Well, at least you won¡¯t be coming back half-dead every night."

    Rohan just nodded, sitting down in the corner, staring at the ceiling.

    He had lied to her. It was easier this way. Because the truth was, he wasn¡¯t getting out of this world anytime soon.

 Ch 12: Information

    The events of the previous night weighed on him, but he pushed them aside as he sat up. Sera was already awake, tending to a small pot over the fire. Then she glanced at him.

    "You''re up early. You must be excited about your new job.¡±

    Rohan forced a small smirk.

    "Something like that."

    "At least you''re not throwing yourself into the pits again. You don¡¯t have to kill yourself to survive, you know.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond. Instead, he got up and dressed, adjusting his clothes to hide the bruises that still lingered from his last fight. He had bigger things to focus on now. The party was tonight, and if he played his cards right, he might finally get closer to the Iron Talons.

    ¡°You know, one of my friend¡¯s daughters is looking for a boyfriend.¡±

    Rohan paused, shooting her an unimpressed glance.

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°And,  think you¡¯d be a good match. She¡¯s sweet, hard-working, and, most importantly, not getting punched in the face for a living.¡±

    Rohan sighed, shaking his head.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have time for that.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have time for anything but fighting, you should at least meet her.¡±

    He grabbed his belt, fastening it tightly.

    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it.¡±

    He said, though they both knew he wouldn¡¯t.

    Sera rolled her eyes but didn¡¯t push further.

    ¡°Suit yourself. Just don¡¯t end up dead before you get a chance.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond. He had a long night ahead of him, and romance was the last thing on his mind.

    That evening, Rohan made his way through the streets, following the woman¡¯s directions to a grand estate nestled on the outskirts of the city. Unlike the cramped, filthy alleys he had grown accustomed to, this part of Duskwatch was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that came with wealth and power.

    The mansion loomed ahead, surrounded by tall iron fences, its windows glowing warmly against the night. Carriages lined the entrance, noblemen and merchants stepping out in fine silks and embroidered cloaks, their laughter spilling into the night air.

    Rohan adjusted the stiff collar of the formal servant¡¯s uniform he had been given, a crisp black vest over a white shirt, far too clean for someone like him. The woman, dressed in deep crimson with gold jewelry glittering at her wrists, walked beside him.

    ¡°Try to look presentable, you¡¯re not here to fight, at least not yet.¡±

    He ignored the comment, his gaze flicking to the guards posted near the entrance. Well-armed, disciplined. Not common sword for hire. Whoever owned this place had money, real money.

    As they reached the doors, she turned to him, her smirk returning.

    ¡°Your job is simple. Serve drinks, keep quiet, and listen. The nobles love to talk, especially when they think no one of importance is listening. If you¡¯re lucky, you might hear something useful about your little... Iron Talon problem.¡±

    Rohan gave a small nod. This was why he had agreed to come. If the Iron Talons had powerful backers, this was the kind of place they would be.

    She reached up, straightening his vest like a mother fussing over her son.

    ¡°And do try not to look so murderous. You¡¯re supposed to be charming. This arrangement of ours can be mutually beneficial, you know.¡±

    Rohan glanced at her, eyes narrowing.

    ¡°Meaning?¡±

    She smirked, adjusting the golden bracelets on her wrists.

    ¡°You want information on the Iron Talons, yes? The people who fund them, protect them from the law? I can help you with that.¡±

    His jaw tightened.

    ¡°And what do you want in return?¡±

    She chuckled.

    ¡°Nothing much. Just information. This party isn¡¯t just for entertainment. It¡¯s where powerful people gather to share secrets they wouldn¡¯t dare speak of elsewhere. If you help me learn the right ones, who¡¯s scheming against whom, who¡¯s in debt, who¡¯s desperate enough to make a deal, then I¡¯ll make sure you hear what you need about the Talons.¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    Rohan remained silent for a moment. He hated being used. Hated the thought of being someone¡¯s tool. But if she had access to the kind of information he needed, he didn¡¯t have much of a choice.

    ¡°Fine, but I won¡¯t play your errand boy.¡±

    Her smirk widened.

    ¡°Of course not. You¡¯re far too wild for that.¡±

    A golden chandelier bathed the hall in a warm glow, reflecting off the polished marble floors. The chatter of nobles and merchants filled the space, their voices layered with laughter and hushed conspiracies.

    He kept his head slightly bowed, blending in with the other servants weaving through the crowd with silver trays of drinks and delicacies.

    The woman, his so-called benefactor, moved through the crowd with ease, greeting guests with a practiced smile. Every so often, she¡¯d glance at him, making sure he was playing his part.

    Rohan kept his movements controlled, his ears sharp for anything useful. He caught snippets of conversations as he passed:

    ¡°¡­raising tariffs again. If he keeps this up, the common folk will riot.¡±

    ¡°¡­a new shipment of weapons heading south. Iron Talons might be involved.¡±

    ¡°¡­heard about the mercenary captain? Gone missing last week.¡±

    He filed the details away, pouring wine with a blank expression. Then, as he approached a small group of men in embroidered tunics, he caught something that made his blood run cold.

    ¡°¡­the Iron Talons are on the move. Another village burned. Same as before.¡±

    Rohan tightened his grip on the tray. He forced himself to remain still, to keep listening. A heavyset noble, adorned with rings on each finger, swirled his wine lazily.

    ¡°It¡¯s no surprise. Someone¡¯s backing them. No bandit gang operates with such precision otherwise.¡±

    The man beside him, lean and sharp-eyed, scoffed.

    ¡°And who would be foolish enough to fund a pack of bandits?¡±

    The heavyset noble smirked.

    ¡°That, my friend, is the real question.¡±

    Rohan kept his posture relaxed, moving around the noblemen as he poured another round of wine. His pulse hammered in his ears, but he forced himself to focus. The lean noble, still swirling his drink, spoke again.

    ¡°I hear they''ve been targeting specific villages. Not just random raids.¡±

    The heavyset noble nodded, smirking.

    ¡°Of course not. There''s a plan, always is. If I had to guess, I¡¯d say someone¡¯s clearing land, forcing people out. Or maybe they''re just softening things up for something bigger.¡±

    Rohan pretended to adjust the glasses on his tray, carefully masking his interest.

    The lean noble tapped his fingers on the table.

    ¡°Some say it¡¯s a merchant. Someone with deep pockets. Maybe even someone in this room.¡±

    The group chuckled, as if the idea were a joke. But Rohan could see the careful glances they exchanged, the unspoken calculations in their eyes.

    Someone here was feeding the Iron Talons. Someone powerful enough to move supplies without drawing too much attention.

    As the last of the guests drifted out, Rohan lingered near the doorway, watching servants sweep away the remnants of excess, half-empty glasses, and crumpled napkins.

    She was waiting for him, reclined in a velvet chair, swirling a glass of wine between her fingers.

    ¡°Sit.¡±

    She said, her voice smooth and inviting. Rohan did as she asked, leaning forward slightly.

    ¡°Well?¡±

    she prompted, tilting her head.

    ¡°What did you learn?¡±

    He took a breath.

    ¡°A lot of these nobles are drowning in debt. Gambling, bad investments, spending more than they have just to keep up appearances.¡±

    He met her gaze.

    ¡°Some of them owe money to dangerous people. One of them, Lord Avaric, owes enough to be desperate, talking about selling off family heirlooms just to keep the collectors off his back.¡±

    She smirked, intrigued.

    ¡°Interesting, and?¡±

    Rohan continued, choosing his words carefully.

    ¡°A few of them have been paying for protection, mercenaries, informants, even bribing city guards. But it¡¯s not clear who they¡¯re afraid of. Could be local gangs, but it could also be someone higher up.¡±

    Her eyes glimmered with satisfaction.

    ¡°Good.¡±

    He hesitated for a second before adding,

    ¡°One noble, Sir Orwin, was drunk enough to say he¡¯s been ¡®playing both sides.¡¯ Whatever that means.¡±

    She let out a low laugh.

    ¡°Oh, it means he¡¯s exactly the kind of man who will get himself killed if he isn¡¯t careful.¡±

    Rohan kept his expression neutral. He had learned far more than this, whispers about certain nobles meeting with shadowy figures, rumors of bribes being funneled into criminal enterprises. He had even heard a passing mention of the Iron Talons, but that information was his, not hers.

    She studied him for a moment before reaching down beside her chair and tossing a heavy bag onto the table. The sound of clinking coins filled the space between them.

    ¡°Consider this an investment, fighting in the pits is a poor man¡¯s game. But this? Information is what topples kings and starts wars.¡±

    Rohan hesitated before picking up the bag. The weight of it was almost unsettling.

    She smiled knowingly.

    ¡°You¡¯re useful. And you could be even more so.¡±

    He met her gaze.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you at the next party.¡±

    Her smirk widened.

    ¡°Oh, I have no doubt.¡±

    Rohan stood and stepped out into the cold night. The coins felt heavy in his hands, but the knowledge in his head felt heavier. This was different. This wasn¡¯t just survival. This was power.

    The weight of the coin pouch sat heavy in his pocket, but Rohan''s mind was elsewhere. The nobles weren¡¯t just corrupt, they were afraid. Afraid of something bigger lurking beneath the surface.

    He slipped through the quiet streets of Duskwatch, moving with purpose. He had overheard Lord Avaric, deep in his cups, muttering about a meeting. Something about "making things right" and "one last chance." Rohan wasn¡¯t sure who Avaric was meeting, but the fear in his voice had been real.

    It wasn¡¯t hard to follow him. Nobles like Avaric weren¡¯t careful, they were arrogant. Rohan tailed him through winding alleys and side streets, watching as the lord¡¯s fine robes grew dirtier with each step. Avaric wasn¡¯t used to the slums.

    The meeting spot was an abandoned warehouse near the docks. Rohan slipped into the shadows, pressing himself against the damp stone as Avaric stepped inside.

    A moment later, a figure emerged from the darkness within. Cloaked, hood pulled low. The way they moved was careful and controlled. Not a common thug. Someone trained.

    Rohan crept closer, careful with each step.

    ¡°You¡¯re late.¡±

    The figure said, voice low and firm.

    Avaric¡¯s hands trembled as he pulled a pouch from his robes.

    ¡°This is all I could get.¡±

    The figure didn¡¯t reach for it.

    ¡°It¡¯s not enough.¡±

    ¡°I-I need more time!¡±

    A long silence stretched between them before the cloaked figure spoke again.

    ¡°Then make yourself useful.¡±

    Avaric swallowed hard.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a new face in the pits. ¡°Young. Skilled. Fights like a wild dog.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s blood turned cold.

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°We need to know where he came from. Who he answers to.¡±

    The figure stepped closer, their voice dropping to a whisper.

    ¡°Find out, or you¡¯ll wish debt was your only problem.¡±

    Avaric¡¯s face paled, and he nodded quickly.

    Rohan felt his grip tighten on his dagger. They were already watching him.

 Ch 13: Noticed

    Rohan stepped into Sera¡¯s small room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. His body ached from exhaustion, but his mind was sharper than ever. He had learned things, things that could finally lead him to the Iron Talons. Yet, for all his progress, unease coiled in his gut like a serpent.

    Sera sat on the edge of the bed, her sharp eyes already scanning him. But they didn¡¯t linger on his wounds or his tired posture. They locked onto the heavy pouch of gold hanging from his belt.

    She crossed her arms.

    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of coin for a waiter.¡±

    Rohan hesitated. He could lie, say the nobles tipped well, that they were wasteful with their wealth. But something in Sera¡¯s gaze told him she wouldn¡¯t buy it. She stood, closing the distance between them.

    ¡°You¡¯re playing with dangerous people, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Her voice was quieter now, laced with concern.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen men come into money like that before. It never ends well.¡±

    He exhaled, pulling the pouch from his belt and setting it on the table.

    ¡°It¡¯s not like that.¡±

    ¡°Then what¡¯s it like?¡±

    Before he could answer, the feeling struck him again, that creeping, nagging sensation that someone was watching. His pulse quickened. Was it just paranoia? Or had he been followed?

    His eyes flicked to the window. Nothing but shadows beyond the glass.

    Sera touched his arm gently.

    ¡°Rohan¡­?¡±

    He snapped back to the moment. He couldn¡¯t risk Sera getting caught up in this. If someone had taken notice of him, they could come for her, too. He needed to move.

    ¡°I have to go.¡±

    He said, pulling away. Her brow furrowed.

    ¡°Go where?¡±

    ¡°The pits.¡±

    He grabbed his cloak.

    ¡°I need to disappear for a while.¡±

    Sera scoffed.

    ¡°And you think the pits are safer?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a choice.¡±

    She looked like she wanted to argue, but she sighed and stepped back, watching as he headed for the door.

    ¡°Just don¡¯t end up dead, Rohan.¡±

    Without another word, he slipped into the night, his destination clear. If someone was tracking him, he needed to be harder to follow. And that meant aligning himself with people who knew how to stay hidden.

    Rohan moved through the dimly lit tunnels of the pits, his mind set on one thing, proving himself. If he wanted to get into a mercenary guild, he needed to show he was more than just another street brawler. He needed to be dangerous.

    The guard at the entrance barely spared him a glance before letting him through. Word had spread about his fights. He was no longer just some kid trying to survive, he was someone the crowd enjoyed watching bleed.

    A pit boss leaned against the wall near the fighter¡¯s entrance, chewing on a stick of dried meat. He glanced up as Rohan approached.

    ¡°Back already?¡±

    Rohan nodded.

    ¡°Put me in a match.¡±

    The pit boss chuckled.

    ¡°Eager to die, huh?¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t react.

    ¡°Put me in.¡±

    The pit boss studied him for a moment, then shrugged.

    ¡°Fine. There¡¯s a match starting soon, no rules, just blood. You win, you get paid double. You die, well¡­¡±

    Rohan rolled his shoulders, shaking out the stiffness. ¡°Who am I fighting?¡±

    The pit boss jerked his head toward the arena.

    ¡°Does it matter?¡±

    Rohan stepped forward, pushing through the heavy iron gate. The air was thick with sweat, blood, and the metallic scent of rust. The crowd was smaller than the noble fights, but they were louder, more vicious.

    The moment he entered, his opponent was waiting. A mountain of a man, shirtless, his chest covered in old scars. He held a massive club, already stained from past fights.

    The pit boss¡¯s voice rang out over the crowd.

    ¡°Fight!¡±

    The brute swung first, a predictable overhead strike. Slow and sloppy. Rohan sidestepped with ease, the club smashing into the dirt where he had just been. Before his opponent could recover, Rohan moved in. A quick jab to the ribs. Another to the throat. The man choked, stumbling back.

    He was wide open.

    Rohan swept his leg under the brute¡¯s knee, knocking him off balance. As the man stumbled, Rohan drove his elbow into his jaw, sending him crashing to the ground.

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    The crowd barely had time to react before Rohan had already stepped back, calm and composed.

    The brute groaned, trying to rise. Rohan sighed, stepping forward again. A quick kick to the temple, and his opponent went limp.

    Silence. Then cheers erupted, but Rohan barely paid attention. He didn¡¯t feel relief, nor excitement. It wasn¡¯t luck. It wasn¡¯t desperation.

    It was control.

    As he looked up, he caught the pit boss watching him with narrowed eyes. Others in the crowd, men who didn¡¯t cheer, had taken notice too. Rohan had proven himself. Now, they were starting to see him as something else entirely.

    As Rohan stepped out of the pit, wiping the sweat and dust from his face, a man leaned against the stone wall, watching him with a smirk.

    "Where''d the old boy go?"

    The man asked, tilting his head.

    "The wild beast? That thing that tore through the pit like it had nothing to lose?"

    Rohan met his gaze, eyes steady.

    "I learned to control my mind.¡±

    The man stepped in front of Rohan before he could walk past.

    "You¡¯re wasted down here, a fighter like you? You should be making real money, not scraps thrown by nobles."

    Rohan crossed his arms.

    "And I suppose you have a better offer?"

    The man smirked.

    "Depends. You looking for work?"

    Rohan hesitated. This could be exactly what he needed, protection, connections, and a way to disappear from the eyes that were watching him.

    "Maybe. What kind of work?¡±

    "Mercenary work. My crew takes contracts all over Duskwatch. Protection, smuggling, the occasional¡­ clean-up job. You get paid well, and no one asks questions."

    The man extended a hand.

    "Name¡¯s Darius. What do you say?"

    Rohan looked at the hand for a moment before shaking it.

    "I¡¯m in."

    Darius grinned.

    "Good. Meet me at the Cracked Flagon tomorrow night. We¡¯ll see what you¡¯re really made of."

    As Darius walked off, Rohan exhaled, clenching his fists, this was the next step.

    Rohan pushed open the door to Sera¡¯s small room, she sat by the candlelight, stitching up a torn dress. She barely looked up as he entered.

    "You¡¯re back late."

    He tossed the small pouch of coins onto the table.

    "Got recruited into a mercenary crew. Should keep the wrong people off my back for a while."

    Sera stilled, her fingers gripping the fabric a little tighter.

    "A mercenary crew."

    She repeated, her voice hollow.

    "It¡¯s safer than running alone, you should come with me. They¡¯d protect you."

    She let out a dry, bitter laugh.

    "Like my husband¡¯s crew protected him?"

    Rohan¡¯s jaw tightened.

    "It¡¯s different."

    "Is it?"

    She finally looked up at him, her eyes tired but sharp.

    "I know how this ends, Rohan. You kill and kill until there''s nothing left of you but a blade for someone else to use. And one day, you die for a cause that isn''t even your own."

    Sera sighed and rubbed her temples.

    "I won¡¯t stop you. Just don¡¯t expect me to follow you down that road."

    Rohan stared at her for a long moment, then turned for the door.

    "Fine."

    He didn¡¯t slam it shut. Didn¡¯t say anything else. He just walked out into the cold night, the weight of her words pressing against his chest.

    Rohan moved swiftly through the darkened streets, his mind replaying Sera¡¯s words, but he shoved them aside. He had no time for doubt. The city was shifting around him, and if he wanted to stay ahead, he had to keep moving.

    He arrived at the secluded alleyway where he had previously seen the noble meeting with the shadowy figure. The scent of damp stone and rotting wood filled the air, the alleyway eerily silent save for the distant hum of the nightlife.

    Pressing himself against a crumbling wall, he waited. Minutes passed, the cold settling into his bones, but then, movement.

    Two figures emerged from the shadows, cloaked in thick, heavy garments. Another soon followed. a noble, his rich attire barely concealed beneath a dark hood.

    ¡°We¡¯ve waited long enough.¡±

    One of the cloaked figures muttered, his voice low and sharp.

    ¡°If we keep playing defense, we¡¯ll be the ones buried.¡±

    The noble scoffed.

    ¡°I thought we had a plan.¡±

    ¡°The situation is slipping. Too many eyes, too many questions. If we wait any longer, we¡¯ll lose control entirely.¡±

    The noble exhaled sharply.

    ¡°We were supposed to be discreet.¡±

    ¡°Discretion doesn¡¯t matter anymore, your benefactor, she¡¯s been prying where she shouldn¡¯t. Asking questions, watching movements. She thinks we haven¡¯t noticed, but we have. If we let her live, she could unravel everything.¡±

    Rohan stiffened. They were talking about her.

    ¡°And what of the pits?¡±

    The noble asked.

    ¡°They¡¯ve become a liability. Too many fighters, too many mouths. The boy, Rohan, he¡¯s not as ignorant as we thought. He¡¯s been watching, tracking movements. And he¡¯s not the only one.¡±

    The second figure nodded.

    ¡°There are others. Some of the pit fighters. Even a few of the mercenaries are starting to whisper. We don¡¯t need to know how much they know. It¡¯s safer to cut them all down before this gets out of hand.¡±

    The noble hesitated.

    ¡°That many bodies at once? It¡¯ll raise suspicion.¡±

    A cold chuckle escaped one of the cloaked figures.

    ¡°Not if we do it right. Accidents happen all the time.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fingers curled into fists. He had heard enough.

    Slipping back into the darkness, he turned and sprinted away. They weren¡¯t just after him anymore, they were planning to wipe out anyone who might stand in their way. Sera, the fighters, even the woman who had dragged him into this world of spies and whispers. If he didn¡¯t act fast, they¡¯d all be dead before the sun rose.

    Rohan ran.

    The cold night air burned his lungs, his legs carried him through the twisting alleys of Duskwatch faster than he had ever moved before. The city blurred around him, the only thing in his mind was Sera.

    He turned down the final street, his heart hammering against his ribs. The door to her small home was swaying slightly in the wind.

    He forced himself forward, pushing through the entrance. The moment he stepped inside, he knew.

    Sera lay crumpled on the floor, her dark hair fanned out like ink against the wood. A deep gash ran across her throat, staining her clothes crimson. Her eyes, once sharp, tired, alive, were empty, staring past him into nothing.

    His vision blurred, the world went silent.

    Rohan took a step forward, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. He swallowed the scream clawing up his throat. His hands trembled, then clenched into fists so tight his nails cut into his palms, warm blood pooling between his fingers.

    Tears streamed down his face, his body shaking from something far worse than exhaustion.

    She was gone.

    She had nothing to do with this. She had only ever warned him, worried for him, tried to stop him from going down this path, and for that, she had died.

    Rage boiled inside him, black and endless. His vision turned red, his breathing heavy and uneven. His heart felt like it would rip itself from his chest.

    He forced himself to take a breath. His hands still shook, blood dripping from his palms, but his mind sharpened like a blade. He wasn¡¯t going to die here. He wasn¡¯t going to be their prey.

    They had taken everything from him. Now, it was his turn.

    Rohan moved through the streets like a ghost, his body fueled by pure rage and purpose. His hands still bled from where his nails had dug into them, but he felt none of it. Every step was heavy with the weight of what had been taken from him.

    As he neared the pits, a flickering glow illuminated the night sky, fire.

    The flames roared, consuming the wooden structures, sending black smoke billowing into the air. The fighting pits, his battleground, his foothold, were being wiped away.

    Bodies littered the ground, some fighters, some guards. He heard screaming, the clash of steel, the final gasps of the dying. The attack was still fresh.

    They weren¡¯t just tying up loose ends. They were erasing them. Rohan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move. He had no time to waste. If the pits were burning, that meant his benefactor was next.

    He sprinted through the streets, his pulse hammering in his ears. Every alley, every rooftop, every shadow felt like it was crawling with enemies. They were trying to snuff out every trace of resistance before it could grow.

    By the time he reached her estate, the front gates were shattered, guards lying dead in pools of blood. The once-lavish mansion was alive with chaos, mercenaries swarmed the halls, steel flashing under torchlight, shouts of panic and combat echoing through the grand entrance.

    Rohan didn¡¯t hesitate, he unsheathed his dagger, his breath slow, his movements precise.

    As he stepped inside he was ready to kill every last one of them.

 Ch 14: A Beast Unleashed

    Rohan stepped into the mansion, his dagger steady in his grip. The grand halls, once filled with laughter and whispered deals, were now a battlefield. The scent of blood mixed with the heavy perfume of the noblewoman¡¯s extravagant lifestyle, creating a sickening contrast.

    A mercenary was the first to spot him, sword raised. Rohan didn¡¯t hesitate. He lunged forward, dodging the clumsy swing and driving his dagger into the man¡¯s throat. A wet gurgle escaped his lips as Rohan yanked the blade free, letting the body fall to the marble floor.

    The second attacker came fast, a larger man wielding an axe. Rohan moved with precision, dodging downward strike and slashing across the mercenary¡¯s exposed wrist. The man howled, dropping his weapon, and before he could react, Rohan buried his dagger into his chest.

    Two down, more to go.

    The sound of steel clashing deeper in the mansion told him the battle wasn¡¯t over yet. His benefactor was still alive, for now.

    Rohan pressed forward, slipping through the shadows, cutting down any mercenary who stood in his way. His movements were controlled, each kill precise. There was no wasted effort, no reckless swings. He wasn¡¯t the wild beast they remembered. He was something worse.

    He reached the upper levels, where the fighting was at its peak. The noblewoman, was backed into a corner, a rapier in her grip, her silk gown stained with blood. Three mercenaries surrounded her, one already wounded.

    She spotted Rohan over their shoulders, her lips curling into something between relief and amusement.

    ¡°Took you long enough!¡±

    She murmured.

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond, he moved.

    The nearest mercenary turned, but Rohan was faster. He tackled him, forcing his dagger into the man¡¯s ribs before twisting the blade. The mercenary choked, dropping instantly.

    The other two turned to him, momentarily distracted, giving the noblewoman the opening she needed. With a swift thrust, she ran her rapier through one of them.

    The last man hesitated, eyes darting between them. He made the mistake of trying to run.

    Rohan didn¡¯t let him.

    He caught the man from behind, dragging him down, and with one brutal strike, slit his throat. The body slumped against the floor, lifeless.

    Silence settled over the room, save for her ragged breaths.

    His benefactor lowered her rapier, inspecting the scene with a slow nod.

    "Well... that was unpleasant.¡±

    Rohan wiped his dagger against a fallen mercenary¡¯s cloak.

    ¡°Who sent them?¡±

    Her smirk faltered. She met his gaze, and for the first time since he had met her, there was something in her eyes that looked like uncertainty.

    ¡°I was hoping you could tell me.¡±

    Rohan stepped toward her, his dagger still dripping with blood. His breathing was steady, but his mind was racing.

    ¡°There was a noble meeting with cloaked figures, I followed them after the last party. They were planning this.¡±

    His benefactor wiped a drop of blood from her cheek, her expression unreadable.

    ¡°Which noble?¡±

    ¡°Lord Avaric, he-¡±

    The sound of rushing footsteps thundered through the hall.

    Rohan snapped his head toward the doorway just in time to see a wave of mercenaries flooding toward them. Twenty men. Swords, axes, daggers gleamed under the dim candlelight, their eyes filled with intent.

    "Shit."

    His benefactor exhaled, gripping her rapier tighter.

    He planted himself in the doorway, dagger in one hand, a stolen short sword in the other. If they wanted her, they had to go through him first.

    The first attacker lunged. Rohan sidestepped, slashing across his throat before kicking the body into the next. A blade came at his ribs, he twisted just enough to take a shallow cut before driving his dagger into the attacker¡¯s armpit.

    Two down.

    Another came from the right. He blocked the strike with his short sword, pivoted, and slammed his knee into the man¡¯s gut. As the mercenary staggered, Rohan drove his dagger into his eye.

    Three.

    A fourth attacker swung wide but too slow. Rohan ducked, slicing deep into the man¡¯s thigh before finishing him with a brutal stab to the throat.

    Blood sprayed across the floor, but they kept coming.

    A blade slashed across his shoulder. He hissed in pain but didn''t stop moving. Another opponent rushed in, Rohan turned the attack against him, using his momentum to impale him on his own blade.

    Five. Six. Seven.

    They began hesitating. He saw it in their stance, the way their hands shook around their weapons. He wasn¡¯t supposed to still be standing.

    Another charged, and this time, he wasn¡¯t fast enough. A dagger buried itself into his side.

    Rohan gritted his teeth, ripping the weapon out and slamming the hilt against the mercenary¡¯s face. He didn¡¯t let himself feel the pain, he couldn¡¯t. One by one, he cut them down.

    His movements became brutal, his strikes precise. He was bleeding, wounded, exhausted, but he didn¡¯t stop.

    By the time the last man collapsed at his feet, the entire hallway was painted red.

    Rohan stood in the center of it all, chest rising and falling, his body screaming in pain, but his grip on his weapons still firm.

    Behind him, his benefactor let out a slow, almost disbelieving laugh.

    ¡°You really are something else.¡±

    Rohan staggered, blood dripping from his wounds.

    ¡°We need to move.¡±

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    He muttered, forcing himself forward. They weren¡¯t safe yet.

    Before they could move, eight more mercenaries stormed into the hall, weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the carnage Rohan had left behind.

    His benefactor stepped forward, about to say something, but then she froze. Her breath stopped as she looked at him. Rohan wasn¡¯t the same.

    His face, once controlled, once sharp with precision, had twisted into something entirely different. A grin. Wide, unhinged, predatory. Blood dripped down his face, mixing with the sweat and dirt, his eyes wild and unfocused. He looked¡­ like a beast let off its leash.

    Then he moved, not with careful steps, not with the precision he had honed over time. He ran straight at them.

    The first mercenary barely had time to raise his sword before Rohan was on him, tearing into him like a rabid animal. He tackled the man to the ground, driving his dagger into his throat again and again until blood sprayed across his face.

    The second tried to strike from the side, Rohan didn¡¯t dodge. He took the cut across his ribs, ignoring the pain, grabbing the man¡¯s wrist and snapping it with one savage twist. The mercenary screamed, until Rohan plunged his blade into his mouth, silencing him forever.

    The others hesitated. They weren¡¯t fighting a man anymore. They were fighting something else.

    The third mercenary lunged. Bad choice. Rohan caught the blade with his bare hand, blood pouring between his fingers, and ripped it from the man¡¯s grasp. He turned the weapon back on its owner, driving it into his gut before shoving him aside like a discarded rag.

    His benefactor still stood behind him, stunned. She had seen killers, assassins, men with blood on their hands. But she had never seen this.

    Rohan wasn¡¯t fighting to survive anymore. He was killing because he wanted to.

    The fourth mercenary tried to run. Rohan snarled, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him into the wall so hard his skull cracked. The body crumpled instantly.

    The remaining four mercenaries were terrified. One of them dropped his weapon and tried to beg. Yet Rohan didn¡¯t care. He cut him down in one fluid motion.

    The others fought, but they had already lost. He toyed with them, taking wounds he didn¡¯t need to take, letting their blades cut into his skin just to see the horror in their eyes when they realized he wasn¡¯t stopping.

    By the time the last one fell, Rohan was covered in blood, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his grin still stretched across his face.

    Silence.

    Then, his benefactor finally found her voice.

    ¡°¡­What the hell are you?¡±

    Rohan blinked.

    The bloodlust still pulsed in his veins. The animal in his chest still clawed at him.

    But her words cut through the haze.

    His grin faded.

    His breathing slowed. His grip on his dagger loosened. Rohan stood there, his body slick with sweat and blood.

    His benefactor still hadn¡¯t moved. She was staring at him, not with fear, but with something worse. Recognition.

    ¡°¡­What the hell are you?¡±

    She repeated, her voice quieter this time.

    Rohan blinked, the haze of rage slowly peeling away. He looked down at himself, at the fresh wounds criss crossing his arms, at the corpses around him, their eyes still frozen in terror.

    He had lost control, again.

    His breathing slowed. His fingers twitched, aching from how tightly he had gripped his weapons. His knuckles were white. His nails were broken, and caked in blood.

    Rohan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stand straight, to shake off whatever had gripped him in the fight. He wiped his dagger against his tattered sleeve and finally met her eyes.

    ¡°We need to go.¡±

    He said simply.

    She didn¡¯t move, just studied him, as if she were trying to understand what she had just witnessed.

    ¡°Do you even hear yourself? Look at yourself.¡±

    He turned toward the hallway instead, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

    ¡°If we stay, more will come. We¡¯re running out of time.¡±

    She hesitated, then let out a slow breath.

    ¡°Right.¡±

    He didn¡¯t look at her as they moved through the corridors, stepping over bodies, avoiding the places where the blood was the thickest. For all her confidence, she didn¡¯t speak again.

    As they walked through the dimly lit hallway, Rohan¡¯s boots splashed in the blood pooling beneath the bodies he had left behind. His grip on his dagger tightened, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

    Why does this always happen?

    Every time he saved someone, every time he won, they looked at him like this. Afraid.

    When he saved Talia, she had recoiled at his touch. And now, her, the woman who had dragged him into this world, was watching him like he was the monster, not the men he had just killed.

    The thought gnawed at him. He had done what was necessary. He always did. So why did they always look at him like that? Before he could spiral deeper, she spoke.

    ¡°We can¡¯t stay here, I have a place. A guild.¡±

    Rohan turned to her, his mind snapping back to the present.

    ¡°A guild?¡±

    She nodded.

    ¡°Not like your mercenary bands or the pit fighters. This is different. They deal in information, protection, and alliances. They can keep us hidden.¡±

    Rohan considered her words.

    ¡°And you¡¯re part of this?¡±

    She smirked, though there was an edge to it now, something guarded.

    ¡°I have many affiliations. This one happens to be useful.¡±

    He studied her for a long moment, then exhaled. If she had somewhere safe, it was better than wandering the streets with a target on their backs.

    ¡°Fine, lead the way.¡±

    She turned on her heel, and they moved quickly through the mansion¡¯s side exit, slipping into the darkened streets.

    Rohan''s breathing was steady, but his body was beginning to fail him. The pain was catching up. The stab wound in his side burned like fire, every step sending a sharp jolt of agony through his ribs. He could feel the wet warmth of fresh blood seeping through his clothes.

    His benefactor led the way, her movements precise and calculated, her eyes flicking to every shadow, every alley. She knew this city, but so did the people hunting them. The moment they turned a corner, Rohan felt it.

    The shift in the air, the silence. They weren¡¯t alone. A dozen figures emerged from the alleys, stepping into the dim glow of the street lanterns. Cloaks draped over their shoulders, hands resting on weapons. Waiting.

    Rohan gritted his teeth, they weren¡¯t here to negotiate. His benefactor muttered a curse under her breath, her fingers twitching toward her rapier.

    ¡°They¡¯re faster than I thought.¡±

    Rohan exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on his dagger. They had no choice.

    ¡°We can¡¯t run, not with me like this.¡±

    She hesitated. He could see the calculations running through her mind, weighing the risks. But she must have known it too. There was no escape.

    The leader of the group, a tall man with a scar running down his jaw, stepped forward.

    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding, boy, you should lie down and let this be easy.¡±

    Rohan let out a low, dry chuckle.

    ¡°You first.¡±

    The man¡¯s smirk dropped. Then they attacked.

    The first man lunged, too predictable. Rohan moved to his side and slammed his dagger into the man¡¯s throat, twisting as he yanked it free. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones, but he was already turning, already striking again.

    A second opponent swung a short sword at his ribs. He wasn¡¯t fast enough. The blade sliced across his already wounded side, sending a fresh wave of pain up his spine. Rohan bit down the scream and countered with a brutal slash across the man¡¯s face, sending him stumbling back.

    Another came at him from behind. Too slow. Rohan ducked under the attack and drove his elbow into the attacker¡¯s stomach before slamming his dagger up into his ribs.

    The fourth man got close enough to tackle him. Rohan let it happen. He hit the ground hard, pain flaring through every wound, but he had been in worse positions. He used the momentum. He drove his dagger into the man¡¯s side again, again, again, until the body went still.

    He shoved the corpse off him, staggering to his feet.

    His benefactor was fighting too, cutting through opponents with precision, her rapier flashing under the lantern light. But there were too many.

    Rohan swayed, his vision darkening at the edges. His body was breaking. But he wouldn¡¯t let his body fall yet. He raised his dagger again, ready to kill until there was no one left standing.

    Rohan steadied himself, his grip on his dagger tightening. His legs felt heavier than before, his wounds screaming at him to stop. But he wouldn¡¯t stop. Not until the last one fell.

    Another mercenary lunged, but before Rohan could react, a blade flashed through the air.

    The mercenary froze mid-step, a long dagger buried in his throat. He gurgled, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing to the ground. Three figures emerged from the darkness.

    The remaining attackers barely had time to react before the new arrivals struck. One of them, a tall woman wielding twin daggers, moved like a ghost, slipping between mercenaries and cutting them down with cold efficiency.

    The second, a man with dark hair and a scarred face, pulled a crossbow from his back and loosed two quick bolts. Both found their marks.

    The third, an older, hooded figure, didn¡¯t move. He simply watched as the last mercenary tried to flee, only for the dagger-wielding woman to slit his throat from behind.

    Rohan stood there, swaying slightly, his breathing ragged. His benefactor was already wiping blood off her rapier, watching the newcomers with wary eyes.

    The older man finally spoke. His voice was calm and measured.

    ¡°You¡¯re lucky we got here when we did.¡±

    Rohan clenched his jaw, still gripping his dagger.

    ¡°And who the hell are you?¡±

    The woman with the twin daggers smirked.

    ¡°The ones who¡¯ve been watching you.¡±

    The older man nodded.

    ¡°We¡¯re part of The Veil. And right now, you need us more than we need you.¡±

    Rohan exhaled sharply, his body threatening to give out. He had no strength left to argue.

    The scarred man with the crossbow gestured to a nearby grate in the street.

    ¡°Come. We¡¯ll talk somewhere safer.¡±

    Rohan looked at his benefactor, who simply sighed and rolled her eyes.

    ¡°Well, at least tonight isn¡¯t boring.¡±

    Without another word, they followed the strangers into the underground tunnels, leaving the bloodstained streets of Duskwatch behind.

 Ch 15: Three Suspects

    The tunnels were cold, damp, and endless. Rohan followed the three members of The Veil, his breath steady but his body on the verge of collapse. Every step sent sharp pain through his wounds, but he forced himself forward. Stopping wasn¡¯t an option.

    The leader, the older man who had barely spoken, moved with quiet confidence. His cloak barely rustled as he walked, and even in the dim torchlight, his eyes were sharp, taking in everything.

    The woman with the twin daggers walked just ahead, her movements silent, almost unnatural. Every few steps, she would glance back at Rohan, studying him like a curiosity.

    The scarred man with the crossbow remained at the back, watching their trail for any sign of pursuit.

    Finally, after what felt like an eternity of winding paths and hidden passageways, they stopped before a large iron door embedded into the stone. The older man placed his palm against it, and after a few seconds, the mechanisms within clicked and turned.

    The door swung open, revealing a hidden sanctuary of knowledge.

    Rows of shelves stacked with scrolls and documents lined the walls. Maps, contracts, and coded messages were pinned to large boards. A few individuals moved between them, scribbling notes, exchanging information, or decoding messages by candlelight. The older man turned to face them fully.

    ¡°Welcome to The Veil.¡±

    As they stepped inside, the heavy door shutting behind them, a voice called out from across the room.

    "Veyna."

    Rohan¡¯s benefactor, veyna, turned toward the sound. A man in dark, well-fitted robes approached, his sharp features betraying both curiosity and irritation. He stopped just short of her, arms crossed.

    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding, again.¡±

    Veyna smirked.

    ¡°And yet, I¡¯m still standing.¡±

    Before Rohan could react, a firm hand gripped his arm, guiding him away. He turned to see the woman with twin daggers leading him toward a side room.

    ¡°You¡¯re no good to us if you bleed out on the floor, come on.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t resist. He let her pull him into a dimly lit chamber with a worn wooden table and a chair. The walls were lined with shelves holding medical supplies, clean cloths, and bottles of something he guessed was for the pain.

    A younger man sat waiting, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

    ¡°Sit.¡±

    He ordered.

    Rohan lowered himself onto the chair, exhaustion finally catching up to him. The moment he relaxed, the pain hit him in full force. He clenched his jaw as the healer cut away the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt, exposing the deep gash along his side.

    The woman with the daggers leaned against the wall, watching with keen eyes.

    ¡°You fought like a man with nothing to lose.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond. He only winced as the doctor poured something burning over his wound.

    She took a step closer.

    ¡°That wasn¡¯t just survival, was it?¡±

    Rohan exhaled sharply.

    ¡°You here to patch me up or interrogate me?¡±

    The doctor smirked but didn¡¯t comment. The woman, however, wasn¡¯t so easily brushed aside.

    ¡°You were targeted tonight, not just you, not just veyna. The pits, her estate, every loose end. Someone wants the board wiped clean.¡±

    As Rohan tensed she leaned forward slightly.

    ¡°So I¡¯m asking, what do you know?¡±

    His grip on the chair tightened. He could still hear the voices from the alleyway, the noble speaking with the cloaked figures.

    ¡°I know they¡¯re not done yet.¡±

    Her expression darkened.

    ¡°Explain.¡±

    He exhaled, feeling the burn of the stitches being pulled through his skin.

    ¡°They weren¡¯t just cleaning up the pits, they were tying off every loose end, the fighters, Veyna¡­ and now me.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s voice was quiet but firm.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    ¡°They¡¯re trying to erase something.¡±

    The room fell silent.

    The doctor finished the last stitch and tied it off. The woman finally pushed off the wall, cracking her knuckles.

    ¡°Well then, looks like you just became very valuable to The Veil.¡±

    Rohan stepped back into the main chamber of The Veil, his body still aching from the fight, but his mind sharp. His stitches were fresh, and every breath made his ribs scream, but he ignored it.

    At the center of the room, the older man who had led them here sat behind a heavy wooden table, maps and reports spread out before him. He glanced up as Rohan approached, motioning for him to sit.

    The older man folded his hands. His voice was calm but weighted with meaning.

    ¡°We¡¯ve pieced together what happened tonight.¡±

    Rohan leaned forward slightly.

    ¡°This wasn¡¯t just a cleanup operation. The attack on the pits, the assassination attempts, the way they moved, it was all planned well in advance.¡±

    The man tapped a document in front of him.

    ¡°This order didn¡¯t come from some minor noble or power-hungry merchant.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. He already knew what was coming.

    ¡°This came from the Iron Talons.¡±

    Rohan swallowed his rage, forcing himself to focus.

    ¡°Who gave the order?¡±

    The older man exhaled, tapping three different parchments.

    ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re working on. We¡¯ve narrowed it down to three possible backers, all with the wealth, influence, and motive to fund the Iron Talons.¡±

    He pointed to the first suspect.

    ¡°Varlo Senic. A merchant. Recently, he¡¯s been amassing wealth at an unnatural rate, new trade routes, sudden investments in mercenary companies, and land acquisitions. He¡¯s hungry for power. The kind money alone doesn¡¯t buy.¡±

    Rohan narrowed his eyes. A merchant funding an army of raiders? Possible, but it didn¡¯t feel like the full picture. The older man tapped the second parchment.

    ¡°Lord Edrik Vale. A noble who¡¯s been gathering support for a ¡®people¡¯s revolution.¡¯ He preaches about dismantling the old order, claiming the nobles are parasites. If he¡¯s working with the Iron Talons, it could mean he¡¯s preparing for something bigger.¡±

    Rohan frowned.

    ¡°And the third?¡±

    The older man¡¯s expression darkened as he tapped the last parchment.

    ¡°Prince Lemeir, heir to the largest kingdom in these lands.¡±

    Silence hung in the air.

    ¡°If it¡¯s him, then this isn¡¯t just about bandits or power plays. He¡¯s not funding the Iron Talons to raid villages for sport.¡±

    Rohan clenched his jaw.

    ¡°He¡¯s burning the land so he can rebuild it for himself.¡±

    The older man nodded.

    ¡°The King still rules, but the Prince has been expanding his influence in the shadows. Loyalists, mercenaries, spies. If he¡¯s behind this, the Iron Talons aren¡¯t just an army of raiders, they¡¯re the first wave of his conquest.¡±

    The room felt colder.

    Rohan¡¯s mind raced. If Prince Lemeir was truly backing the Iron Talons, it meant this war had already started.

    Rohan¡¯s grip on the chair tightened. His knuckles were white, but he kept his voice even.

    ¡°The first attack, on my village. Was it just a coincidence? Were the Iron Talons just a bunch of raiders back then, and only after did they start working for someone higher?¡±

    The room went silent. The older man didn¡¯t answer immediately. He leaned back slightly, his fingers interlocking as if weighing his words. Then, after a slow breath, he spoke.

    ¡°No.¡±

    The older man¡¯s voice was steady and deliberate.

    ¡°The Iron Talons weren¡¯t acting randomly that night. They were hired. Specifically to destroy your village, they were after someone. An informant.¡±

    The older man¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver.

    ¡°One of our own had discovered something, a secret big enough to shift the entire balance of the kingdom. He had found evidence that an heir to the same kingdom, Prince Lemeir was from was still alive. Hidden.¡±

    The breath left Rohan¡¯s lungs.

    The older man continued.

    ¡°If that heir were found, they could lay claim to the throne. They could throw Lemeir¡¯s entire path to power into chaos.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s jaw tightened.

    ¡°So, they wiped out the village to cover it up?¡±

    ¡°Yes. To make sure no one else learned the truth.¡±

    Rohan felt his nails digging into his palm, his mind racing. Rohan swallowed, his voice lower now.

    ¡°Who was the informant?¡±

    The older man hesitated. Just for a moment. Then he spoke.

    ¡°Joseph.¡±

    Rohan felt the blood drain from his face. The older man¡¯s eyes stayed on him.

    ¡°My-my father.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s breath was shallow. His hands shook. His father had uncovered something that could have destroyed Lemeir¡¯s rise to power. And for that, they had sent the Iron Talons to kill him.

    The truth was staring him in the face. His family hadn''t been slaughtered by chance. They had been executed.

    Rohan forced himself to breathe. The rage clawing at his chest demanded he act, demanding blood. But he wasn¡¯t going to break. Not now. Instead, he clenched his fists, his voice low and controlled.

    ¡°If my village was destroyed to bury the heir¡¯s existence, then wouldn¡¯t that mean Prince Lemeir is the one backing the Iron Talons?¡±

    The older man sighed, rubbing his temples.

    ¡°It¡¯s not that simple.¡±

    Rohan narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    The older man straightened, meeting Rohan¡¯s gaze.

    ¡°Because the Iron Talons have never been loyal to just one master. They are a tool, an executioner¡¯s blade for the highest bidder. Your village wasn¡¯t their first job, and it wasn¡¯t their last.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s stomach twisted. How many others had suffered the same fate? The older man continued, his voice measured.

    ¡°They''ve been used by nobles, merchants, revolutionaries, anyone who needed something erased. A rival, a settlement, a loose end.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fingers curled tightly around the arms of his chair. He had spent months hating them, hunting them¡­ and now he was realizing they were just a weapon. The hand holding them had changed again and again.

    Rohan stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he muttered.

    ¡°I need a moment.¡±

    Rohan moved quickly, his steps steady until he closed the door behind him in a small, dimly lit washroom. The moment the latch clicked into place, his legs gave out.

    He collapsed onto the cold stone floor, his back pressing against the wall as his breath came fast and shallow.

    His chest tightened. His lungs screamed for air. He couldn¡¯t breathe.

    The room spun around him, his vision blurring at the edges. His hands shook violently, fingers twitching as if still gripping a blade.

    The Iron Talons.

    They had killed his family. They had burned his village. His father had died for a secret that could have changed everything. And now, they were still out there. Thriving. Growing. A ghost army under the command of someone worse.

    Rohan squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands against his skull as a violent rage surged through him. It burned, twisting inside him like a living thing, its claws digging into his ribs, demanding release. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, his fingernails biting into his palms.

    I will wipe them out.

    The thought was like steel, solid and unbreakable.

    Every last one of them. The Iron Talons. The people funding them. The ones protecting them.

    I will kill them all.

    His breath was still uneven, but now it carried purpose.

    No more waiting. No more surviving. He was going to start hunting. Rohan opened his eyes, his body still shaking, but his mind was clearer than ever.

    It begins now.

 Ch 16: The Inevitable

    Rohan emerged from the washroom, his face calm, his breath even. No one needed to know what had just happened. The storm inside him had settled, not gone, but controlled, sharpened into something cold and focused.

    As he stepped back into the main chamber of The Veil, Veyna was already waiting for him, arms crossed, her gaze sharp. The older man hadn¡¯t moved, still seated at the heavy wooden table, watching him with knowing eyes.

    ¡°You good?¡±

    Veyna asked.

    Rohan nodded once.

    She studied him for a second longer, then turned back to the others.

    ¡°We need a plan.¡±

    The older man exhaled, tapping the table.

    ¡°We have two clear paths forward. We either go after Prince Lemeir, or we find out who¡¯s leading the Iron Talons. Either one could lead us to the same answer.¡±

    Rohan moved toward the table, resting his hands against the wood. His fingers no longer shook.

    ¡°What¡¯s our best lead?¡±

    He asked.

    The scarred man with the crossbow spoke up from the shadows.

    ¡°Prince Lemeir is dangerous. He¡¯s already begun consolidating power. If he is behind the Iron Talons, going after him directly would be suicide. We¡¯d need undeniable proof before making a move against him.¡±

    Veyna nodded.

    ¡°Which means the better option, for now, is the Talons¡¯ new leader. If we can find them, we¡¯ll know who¡¯s really pulling the strings.¡±

    Rohan glanced at the older man.

    ¡°Do we have anything on them?¡±

    The older man hesitated before pulling out a single, crumpled parchment. He spread it across the table. It was a symbol, an iron claw, gripping a crown.

    ¡°This was found on a dead Talon enforcer, It¡¯s new. They¡¯ve started branding themselves with it. Which means whoever is leading them, wants to be seen.¡±

    Rohan stared at the symbol. His fingers traced the edges of the paper, feeling the weight of it.

    ¡°Where do we start?¡±

    Veyna exhaled.

    ¡°There¡¯s a contact, someone who used to work with the Talons before they were reorganized under this new leader. He¡¯s hiding in a smuggler¡¯s den near the southern docks.¡±

    The older man nodded.

    ¡°If anyone knows what changed within the Iron Talons, it¡¯s him.¡±

    Rohan straightened.

    ¡°Then I¡¯ll go.¡±

    Veyna gave him a pointed look.

    ¡°You can barely stand.¡±

    Rohan smirked, rolling his shoulders.

    ¡°I¡¯ve fought worse.¡±

    The older man sighed.

    ¡°You won¡¯t be going alone.¡±

    Rohan expected Veyna to volunteer, but instead, the woman with the twin daggers stepped forward, adjusting the gloves on her hands.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take him, if things go bad, he¡¯s not the only one who can fight.¡±

    Rohan studied her for a moment before nodding. He didn¡¯t care who came, as long as they moved fast.

    The older man folded his hands.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s settled. Find this contact, and figure out what the Iron Talons have become.¡±

    The streets of Duskwatch were quieter than usual as Rohan and the woman with twin daggers made their way toward the southern docks. The city was wounded. The attacks on the pits and the nobles had sent ripples through the underworld, and now, the streets felt tense, as if everyone was waiting for something worse to happen.

    The woman moved beside him with effortless silence, her presence calm and calculated. She hadn¡¯t spoken much since they left The Veil, but Rohan didn¡¯t mind. He wasn¡¯t in the mood for conversation either. After a while, she finally broke the silence.

    ¡°I heard what you did at the mansion, the way you fought.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not afraid?¡±

    He asked.

    She gave a small, amused scoff.

    ¡°Afraid of you? I work in the shadows. I know monsters when I see them. You¡¯re not a monster.¡±

    Rohan glanced at her.

    ¡°Then what am I?¡±

    She smirked.

    ¡°That depends on whether you can control what¡¯s inside of you or let it control you.¡±

    By the time they reached the docks, the smell of salt and rot filled the air. The den was tucked away behind an old storage warehouse, hidden beneath stacks of abandoned crates and rusted ship parts.

    Rohan eyed the entrance, a narrow doorway guarded by two men, both armed. They looked relaxed but not careless.

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    His companion pulled a small coin pouch from her belt.

    ¡°Bribes usually work here.¡±

    Rohan shook his head.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have time for that.¡±

    She raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°Then what¡¯s the plan?¡±

    ¡°Something faster.¡±

    Before she could question him, Rohan moved. He strode toward the entrance as if he belonged there. The guards immediately straightened.

    ¡°Hold up, this is a private-¡±

    Rohan punched him in the throat. The man staggered back, choking. Before the second guard could react, the woman was already on him. She slipped behind him, a dagger pressed against his throat.

    The first guard gasped for air, reaching for his weapon, Rohan grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. The bone snapped, and the man dropped to his knees.

    The woman knocked the other guard unconscious in one swift strike to the temple.

    The smuggler¡¯s den was dimly lit, cluttered with stolen cargo and crates of illegal goods. A few figures lounged around, gambling or drinking, but no one paid them much attention.

    At the back of the room, their target sat alone, a man with graying hair, a tattered coat, and a nervous twitch in his fingers. He noticed them instantly. His eyes widened in recognition, and then he ran.

    ¡°Damn it!¡±

    Rohan yelled before taking off after him.

    The chase led them through a maze of corridors, past startled smugglers who barely had time to react before they tore through the room.

    The man was fast, but Rohan was faster.

    He lunged, grabbing the man¡¯s collar and slamming him into a wall. The smuggler gasped, struggling, but Rohan pressed his forearm against his throat.

    ¡°You run again, and I break your legs, sit.¡±

    The man gulped, nodding quickly. Rohan released him, shoving him toward an old chair. His companion leaned against the wall, daggers still in hand, watching with amusement.

    ¡°You could¡¯ve just asked nicely.¡±

    Rohan ignored her and focused on the smuggler.

    ¡°You used to work with the Iron Talons, we need information.¡±

    The smuggler¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line.

    ¡°I don¡¯t-¡±

    Rohan slammed his dagger into the wooden table right in front of his hand. The smuggler flinched. He ran a shaking hand through his graying hair, his fingers still twitching as he eyed Rohan¡¯s dagger embedded in the table. He let out a long breath, rubbing his temples before speaking.

    ¡°A while back, my crew got an offer. More money than we¡¯d ever seen. All we had to do was hit a village.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

    ¡°At first, we thought it was just another job. You know how it is, take what we can, leave no witnesses.¡±

    He swallowed.

    ¡°But after the raid¡­ I realized we weren¡¯t just robbing people. We were cleaning up a problem for someone powerful.¡±

    The smuggler glanced around, as if the walls themselves might be listening. His voice dropped lower.

    ¡°I ran. Got out before I was in too deep. The others who stayed? They either vanished or started working for the real players behind this.¡±

    Rohan narrowed his eyes.

    ¡°Who¡¯s in charge now?¡±

    The smuggler hesitated. He licked his lips, his knee bouncing under the table.

    ¡°You don¡¯t wanna know.¡±

    Rohan slammed his palm down on the wood.

    ¡°I asked you a question.¡±

    The smuggler flinched, exhaling sharply.

    ¡°Alright, alright. The Iron Talons have a new leader. They¡¯re not just a bandit gang anymore. They have a stronghold. They took over an old fortress, reinforced it, and turned it into a real base. If you wanna find the one pulling the strings, that¡¯s where you need to go.¡±

    Rohan exchanged a look with his companion.

    ¡°Where is it?¡±

    The smuggler grimaced.

    ¡°A week¡¯s ride from here, deep into the territory they¡¯ve taken. It¡¯s not some camp in the woods. It¡¯s a fortress. Walls, towers, siege weapons. They own the land around it. You don¡¯t just walk in.¡±

    Rohan leaned in, his voice dangerously low.

    ¡°And the leader?¡±

    The smuggler exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

    ¡°Whoever they are, they¡¯re not just some warlord. People say they¡¯re a knight. Not the kind who parades through cities waving banners, the kind that survives wars. If the stories are true, they¡¯re surrounded by other trained fighters, people who could cut down thousands on their own.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fingers curled into fists. The smuggler looked at him, his eyes suddenly dead serious.

    ¡°Listen. I left because I saw what happens when people dig too deep. You don¡¯t get away. You won¡¯t just get yourself killed, you¡¯ll get everyone you know killed.¡±

    His voice lowered to barely a whisper. ¡°There¡¯s something out there, something bigger than you realize. If you keep going down this road, you¡¯re gonna find it. And when you do?¡±

    He shook his head.

    ¡°It won¡¯t let you leave.¡±

    Silence hung between them. Rohan didn¡¯t move and his companion said nothing. Then, finally, Rohan pulled his dagger from the table. He turned toward the door without another word. The smuggler exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping in relief.

    ¡°You¡¯re really gonna go after them, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Rohan paused. Without looking back, he muttered.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a choice.¡±

    Before he walked out he slit the man''s throat in one swift movement. Turning towards the woman she didn''t say a word.

    ¡°Let''s go.¡±

    Rohan and his companion moved quickly through the streets, returning to The Veil as the weight of what they had learned pressed against them. A war was coming. One that would swallow everything.

    When they stepped inside, the older man was already waiting, his hands resting on the heavy wooden table, maps and documents spread out before him. Veyna stood nearby, arms crossed, watching as they approached.

    Rohan didn¡¯t waste time. He told them everything. The stronghold. The knight. The warnings from the smuggler.

    When he finished, silence settled over the room.

    The older man let out a slow breath, shaking his head.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s as we feared.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s jaw clenched.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan?¡±

    The older man looked at him.

    ¡°There is no plan.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s fingers twitched.

    ¡°What?¡±

    The older man leaned forward.

    ¡°The Iron Talons are no longer a bandit group, Rohan. They¡¯re an army. Their leader is a trained warrior, their forces are organized, and their stronghold is nearly impenetrable. And if Prince Lemeir really is involved? That means this war is inevitable.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s voice darkened.

    ¡°Then we need to do something.¡±

    The older man sighed.

    ¡°No. We need to survive.¡±

    Rohan felt something snap inside him.

    ¡°You¡¯re going to sit back and do nothing while they burn everything to the ground?¡±

    The older man didn¡¯t flinch.

    ¡°We deal in information, not wars. This isn¡¯t our fight.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s breathing slowed. His hand moved to his dagger, gripping the hilt tightly.

    ¡°So that¡¯s it?¡±

    He said, voice low.

    ¡°You¡¯ll just wait this out? Hide in your little tunnels while thousands die?¡±

    The older man¡¯s eyes remained steady.

    ¡°It¡¯s not worth losing our lives over something inevitable.¡±

    Rohan exhaled sharply. Then, without hesitation, he drew his dagger and pressed it against the older man¡¯s throat.

    The room shifted instantly.

    Steel scraped against leather as weapons were drawn. The woman with twin daggers had both blades out, ready to strike. The scarred man with the crossbow had already taken aim. More figures in the room stood, their hands on hilts, waiting. But Rohan didn¡¯t back down.

    His voice was deathly calm.

    ¡°If I ever hear that you¡¯ve decided to work with the Iron Talons, I will kill everyone in this room myself.¡±

    The older man stared at him without an reaction. Tension coiled in the air.

    The twin-dagger woman shifted closer, her grip tightening. The crossbowman¡¯s aim didn¡¯t waver. Veyna didn¡¯t move, she simply watched.

    Rohan¡¯s gaze flicked around the room, his blood roaring in his ears. They thought he was bluffing. They thought he wouldn¡¯t do it, but he would. He would carve through every single one of them if it meant stopping the Talons.

    The older man sighed. Slowly, he raised a hand, a silent command for the others to stand down.

    ¡°Enough, put your weapons away.¡±

    No one moved at first. But after a long moment, they obeyed. Rohan didn¡¯t lower his dagger, not yet.

    The older man met his gaze.

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to change your mind about this, are you?¡±

    Rohan¡¯s grip tightened.

    ¡°No.¡±

    The older man exhaled through his nose, then reached for a small satchel beneath the table. He tossed it toward Rohan, who caught it with his free hand.

    ¡°There¡¯s enough in there for a long journey. You¡¯ll find a horse in the eastern stables. Take it. But don¡¯t expect anything more.¡±

    Rohan finally pulled his dagger away. The older man didn¡¯t rub his throat, didn¡¯t react to the threat at all. He simply studied Rohan.

    ¡°You¡¯re walking into a war, and you won¡¯t win it alone.¡±

    Rohan turned toward the door.

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to win, I just need to kill enough of them to make it matter.¡±

    With that, he left, leaving the weight of his vow behind him.

 Ch 17: The Old Man

    Rohan walked through the quiet streets of Duskwatch, the satchel of supplies slung over his shoulder, his mind sharp with purpose. The encounter at The Veil had only solidified what he already knew, he was alone in this.

    He had expected them to hesitate, to be afraid. But not to abandon the fight altogether. It didn¡¯t matter.

    He had a horse waiting for him. A week¡¯s ride to the stronghold. And when he got there, he would carve his way through every single one of them.

    But as he reached the outskirts of the city, something felt wrong, he was being followed. Rohan kept walking, keeping his pace steady. He didn¡¯t turn his head, didn¡¯t react. But his muscles tensed, every sense on high alert.

    The streets were nearly empty this far out, just a few stray beggars and merchants packing up for the night. The perfect place for an ambush. Then, the faintest sound of a footstep.

    Five, maybe six of them. Keeping their distance, waiting for the right moment. Rohan exhaled through his nose. They didn¡¯t know what kind of mistake they were making. He turned a corner, leading them into a narrow alleyway, his battleground.

    Then, he stopped, waited, letting them come to him. The footsteps hesitated. Then, slowly, they surrounded him.

    Six figures stepped into the dim light, their weapons already drawn. They weren¡¯t mercenaries, they were Talon scouts. Their armor bore the faint insignia of the Iron Talons, the iron claw gripping the crown. One of them, a tall man with a scar running across his nose, smirked.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t think we¡¯d catch you leaving so soon.¡±

    Rohan rolled his shoulders, loosening his grip on his dagger. He wasn¡¯t going to run. The scarred man tilted his head.

    ¡°The higher-ups want you dead. But us?¡±

    He grinned, his grip tightening around his blade.

    ¡°We¡¯re gonna have some fun first.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s lips curled into something that wasn¡¯t a smile.

    ¡°Then you really don¡¯t know who I am.¡±

    The scarred man barely had time to react before Rohan¡¯s dagger sliced through his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon. In the same motion, Rohan twisted, grabbing the second scout by the collar and driving his knee into his ribs. The impact shattered bone, and before the man could crumple, Rohan slit his throat. The third came from behind, but Rohan was faster.

    He ducked, spun, and buried his blade into the man¡¯s side. The Talon scout gasped, eyes wide as Rohan yanked the dagger free, letting him collapse into the dirt.

    Rohan turned toward the last three, they hesitated. Not charging in like the others.  Rohan exhaled slowly, flicking blood from his dagger.  In a single fluid motion, Rohan whipped his dagger across the alley.

    The blade found its mark, sinking into one of their throats. The man gagged, clutching at his wound as blood spilled between his fingers, his body collapsing onto the stone.

    Rohan¡¯s eyes locked onto the leader, his expression was no longer cocky. Rohan took a slow step forward, his voice calm, unwavering.

    ¡°You¡¯re not leaving alive.¡±

    The man¡¯s grip on his sword tightened, his last remaining ally shifting uneasily beside him.

    The leader¡¯s eyes flicked between Rohan and his last remaining ally. He knew he was outmatched.

    Rohan saw the shift in his stance, the way his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The moment his foot moved forward, Rohan acted. He lunged, closing the distance in an instant.

    His left hand grabbed the leader¡¯s wrist, twisting it with brutal force, dislocating it in one fluid motion. The man barely had time to gasp in pain before Rohan used his own sword to slice across his throat.

    The leader collapsed to his knees, gurgling, choking, before his body hit the ground.

    The last Talon scout took a step back, his face pale, his breath ragged. His sword was still drawn, but his grip shook.

    Rohan exhaled through his nose.

    ¡°Run.¡±

    The man hesitated, eyes darting between Rohan and the corpses of his comrades. Rohan didn¡¯t let him take three steps.

    He moved like a shadow, closing the distance in a heartbeat. He slammed the sword into the back of the scout¡¯s knee, dropping him instantly.

    The man screamed, reaching for his leg, but Rohan wasn¡¯t done. He grabbed the man¡¯s hair, wrenched his head back, and drove his blade into the side of his neck.

    Rohan stood and wiped the blood off of his hands before retrieving his dagger. Then he continued forward to the stables.

    Rohan reached the eastern stables just as the first hints of dawn touched the horizon. The air was cold, the scent of hay and damp earth mixing with the distant smoke of the city behind him. The stable master was nowhere in sight, but the horse had been left where The Veil said it would be, saddled, stocked with supplies, ready to ride.

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    He placed a hand on the saddle, but his mind wandered. Should he go back? The noble who had first sent him after the Iron Talons, he deserved to know the truth. That this wasn¡¯t just a bandit problem, but something far bigger. That war was coming, and the Talons were no longer simple raiders but an army, and Talia¡­

    She was still there, still safe. But if he returned, even for a moment, it might change that. The Talons had already targeted everyone who had come close to him, Sera, the pit fighters. Even The Veil had barely avoided being wiped out.

    If he went back, if he warned them¡­ Would they become the next targets? His fingers tightened against the saddle. He couldn¡¯t risk it, couldn¡¯t risk her.

    Talia had already been through enough. She had already lost everything. He wouldn¡¯t drag her into his war. Rohan exhaled slowly, letting go of the idea. This was something he had to do alone.

    He swung himself onto the horse, adjusting the reins. The wind was picking up, carrying the distant sounds of a waking city. Duskwatch was behind him now.

    And ahead, a stronghold full of the people he needed to kill. With one final breath, he rode forward.

    The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the dirt road echoed in Rohan¡¯s ears as he rode through the countryside. Duskwatch was long behind him now, its distant torches swallowed by the darkness. He kept his hood low, his mind sharp despite the exhaustion creeping into his limbs.

    The journey to the Iron Talons¡¯ stronghold would take a week, and though he wanted to ride through the night, he knew better. His body was still recovering. He needed rest, whether he liked it or not.

    After a few hours of riding, he spotted a small village nestled between rolling hills. Unremarkable and quite the kind of place that wouldn¡¯t ask questions.

    He led his horse toward the local inn, a modest building with flickering lanterns illuminating the wooden sign above the entrance. The scent of roasted meat and ale drifted through the air, but Rohan wasn¡¯t interested in food.

    He tossed a few coins to the innkeeper, got a key, and made his way upstairs without a word. The room was simple. A bed, a small table, a washbasin. Good enough.

    Rohan locked the door behind him, setting his weapons within reach. His body ached, and despite the ever-present fire of vengeance burning inside him, his exhaustion won. He laid down and let sleep take him.

    Rohan¡¯s eyes snapped open, something was wrong. Before he could move-

    The door exploded inward. The wooden frame shattered as it was kicked open with brutal force.

    Rohan rolled, reaching for his dagger, but he was too slow. A heavy boot slammed into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. His vision blurred as he struggled to react, but a hand gripped his throat, crushing him against the floor.

    Through the haze of pain, he saw him¡­ An old man. Tall, broad-shouldered, his frame built from war. His white hair was cropped short, and his weathered face bore the marks of countless battles. He stared down at Rohan with something between amusement and disappointment.

    Rohan lashed out, dagger swiping upward, but the man caught his wrist with terrifying ease, and then he slammed Rohan¡¯s face into the ground. Once, twice, the pain was immediate, his vision flashing white as his skull cracked against the wooden floor. Blood pooled in his mouth, his ears ringing.

    His body wouldn¡¯t move, the old man leaned down, his grip still crushing Rohan¡¯s wrist.

    ¡°Pathetic.¡±

    Then, he slammed Rohan¡¯s head into the ground one last time. Darkness swallowed him whole.

    The cold seeped into Rohan¡¯s bones before he even opened his eyes. His wrists burned from the rough rope that bound them together behind his back. The air smelled of damp stone and dust, the kind of place no one would look for him.

    Then a voice cut through the silence.

    "So, you wanna start a war?"

    Rohan¡¯s eyes snapped open. His vision was still hazy, his head pounding from the earlier beating. He forced himself to focus.

    The old man sat across from him in a wooden chair, arms resting lazily on his thighs. Rohan licked the blood from his lips, his voice rough.

    "Did the Talons send you?"

    The old man smirked.

    "No. An old friend told me a young beast was trying to overthrow a kingdom. Said we might have the same interests."

    Rohan tugged at his restraints, testing the knots. His gaze hardened.

    ¡°If we have the same interests, then why the hell did you tie me up?¡±

    The old man leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening.

    "Because it''s easier to tame a beast once it¡¯s captured."

    Rohan¡¯s fingers twitched, his breathing slow, controlled. His mind was clearing now, the fog of unconsciousness lifting.

    Tame a beast? He wasn¡¯t some wild animal to be broken. His eyes locked onto the old man¡¯s.

    "Then you should¡¯ve used a stronger leash.¡±

    The old man laughed. Low and amused, as if he had been waiting for that response.

    The old man leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studied Rohan for a long moment before he finally spoke.

    "From this point on, I''m going to be training you."

    Rohan¡¯s body tensed. He narrowed his eyes.

    "Training me?"

    The old man nodded.

    ¡°I see potential in you, boy. But you¡¯re reckless. Wild. A beast that barely knows how to use its claws.¡±

    His voice was even, but there was an edge to it, something final.

    ¡°You¡¯ll get yourself killed long before you ever reach the Iron Talons¡¯ stronghold if you keep going like this.¡±

    Rohan pulled against his restraints again, glaring.

    "And what if I don¡¯t want your training?"

    The old man smirked.

    "Doesn¡¯t matter. You¡¯re getting it. Whether you like it or not."

    Rohan¡¯s jaw tightened. The arrogance. The certainty. This man had captured him, beaten him, and now he expected him to listen?

    "Why the hell do you care?"

    Rohan growled.

    "If you have the same goal as me, why tie me up instead of letting me go kill them?"

    The old man¡¯s eyes darkened slightly, his smirk fading.

    "Because I don¡¯t want you getting in my way.¡±

    The old man continued, his voice low and deadly serious.

    ¡°I, too, am looking to destroy the Iron Talons. But unlike you, I actually know how to do it.¡±

    Rohan clenched his fists behind his back, his pulse steady but strong. Who the hell was this man? And more importantly, what did he really want?

    Rohan didn¡¯t hesitate, the moment the old man finished speaking, he acted. He gritted his teeth, inhaled sharply, and with one brutal twist, dislocated his thumb. The pain was instant, burning up his wrist, but he had felt worse.

    He yanked his hands free of the rope, lunging forward. His body was still sluggish from the earlier beating, but his intent was deadly. His dagger wasn¡¯t in reach, but that didn¡¯t matter. His hands would do just fine. Rohan¡¯s fist swung toward the old man¡¯s throat-

    He didn¡¯t even move, the old man¡¯s boot slammed into Rohan¡¯s face, sending him crashing to the ground.

    The impact rattled his skull, his vision flashing white for a split second. Before he could recover, a heavy weight pressed against his chest. The old man stood over him, his boot firmly planted on Rohan¡¯s chest, pinning him down.

    Rohan¡¯s breathing was ragged, blood trickling from his nose. But he still glared up at him. The old man chuckled, shaking his head.

    "Haven¡¯t seen someone with so little care for their own body in a long time.¡±

    He removed his foot, crouching down beside Rohan, his voice lowering into something almost amused.

    "I¡¯m going to have fun turning you into a true monster."

    Rohan¡¯s chest rose and fell, his rage still burning, but now, it was something else. A realization, this man wasn¡¯t just strong, he was something else entirely. And if Rohan wanted to stand a chance against the Iron Talons, against the world waiting for him beyond this room.

    He would have to survive whatever this man had planned.

 Ch 18: Training

    Rohan laid on the cold stone floor, staring up at the old man, whose expression was far too amused.

    "You¡¯re stubborn, I¡¯ll give you that.¡±

    The old man said, standing straight again.

    "But strength without control is just wasted power."

    Rohan forced himself up, spitting blood onto the ground. His thumb still hung loosely, but he ignored it, snapping it back into place with a wince.

    He met the old man¡¯s eyes, rage and defiance burning behind them.

    "You talk a lot for someone who just tied me up.¡±

    The old man chuckled.

    "You were easier to deal with that way."

    Rohan clenched his fists.

    "And now?"

    The old man grinned.

    "Now I break you down and build you back up."

    Rohan scoffed, rolling his shoulders.

    "And what if I say no?"

    The old man¡¯s grin didn¡¯t fade.

    "Then you die a pointless death in a week¡¯s time."

    Silence filled the room. Rohan hated how casually the man said it, as if it was already decided. He narrowed his eyes.

    "And if I let you train me?¡±

    The old man¡¯s gaze hardened.

    "Then you might actually survive long enough to make a difference."

    Rohan took a slow breath. He hated this. Hated the feeling of being controlled, of being manipulated. But deep down, he knew the truth. He needed this.

    The old man had taken him down like he was nothing. If the leader of the Iron Talons was truly as dangerous as people claimed, then he would stand no chance.

    His fingers curled, his jaw tightening.

    "Fine, but don¡¯t think for a second I¡¯ll ever call you master."

    The old man chuckled, turning toward the door.

    "Don¡¯t worry, boy. By the time I¡¯m done with you, names won¡¯t matter anymore."

    He gestured for Rohan to follow.

    "Now get up. Your real training starts now.¡±

    The moment Rohan stood up, the old man moved. With no warning or time to prepare. A fist slammed into Rohan¡¯s gut with bone-crushing force.

    His breath was ripped from his lungs as his body doubled over. Pain flooded his ribs, hot and suffocating. He barely had time to react before a boot smashed into his chest, sending him crashing into the stone wall.

    Rohan tried to push himself up, but the old man was already there. A knee drove into his chest, pinning him in place.

    "Lesson one, pain is your teacher. And you, boy, are about to learn a lot."

    He grabbed Rohan by the collar and threw him across the room. Rohan hit the floor hard, rolling before coming to a stop. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself onto his hands and knees.

    The old man smiled.

    "Good. Get back up."

    Rohan wiped blood from his mouth and growled,

    "You call this training?¡±

    The old man cracked his knuckles.

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    "No. This is breaking you.¡±

    There was no sleep, no rest, the old man didn¡¯t let him. Every moment was filled with pain. Fists, knees, elbows. He beat Rohan into the ground, over and over, forcing him to stand only to knock him down again.

    "You fight like a street rat."

    He taunted after breaking Rohan¡¯s nose for the second time.

    "Sloppy and predictable."

    Rohan lunged at him, rage boiling over. The old man sidestepped effortlessly and slammed his forearm into Rohan¡¯s throat. Rohan choked, his vision blurring. He collapsed again, his entire body shaking from exhaustion.

    "Lesson two.¡±

    The old man said, circling him.

    "Control your anger. A beast that fights with rage alone is already dead."

    Rohan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. But he stood, again. The beatings continued, day after day.

    Then came the endurance training, drowning. The old man would hold Rohan underwater, waiting until he was on the brink of passing out before pulling him back, again and again.

    Starvation, he was given just enough food to stay alive, but never enough to be strong.

    Sleep deprivation, every time he started to drift off, a bucket of freezing water was thrown on him. The old man watched him suffer. Studied him, waiting to see if he would break.

    His body screamed, his muscles tore, his bones ached. But every time he was knocked down, he stood again. Something inside him was changing. The rage was still there, but it wasn¡¯t wild anymore. It was sharpening.

    The pain wasn¡¯t weakening him, it was forging him. One night, as he lay on the cold floor, ribs bruised, lips split, the old man crouched beside him. For the first time, he looked pleased.

    "Now, you''re starting to understand."

    Rohan didn¡¯t respond. He just stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly. He wasn¡¯t the same anymore.

    And soon, the Iron Talons would see what he was becoming.

    Lesson One: Pain Is A Teacher

    The beatings never stopped. Every morning, the old man beat Rohan until he couldn''t stand. Not as punishment, but as training.

    Fists, elbows, knees, Rohan took them all. He learned how to roll with the hits, how to absorb pain without letting it slow him down. One day, the old man dislocated Rohan¡¯s shoulder during a sparring session. Rohan screamed, but the old man just stood over him.

    "Fix it."

    Rohan blinked through the pain.

    "What?"

    The old man¡¯s face was stone.

    "Fix it. In a real fight, no one¡¯s going to stop so you can recover."

    Rohan¡¯s breathing was ragged, his vision blurring. But he clenched his teeth, gripped his useless arm and slammed it back into place. Pain exploded through his body, but he refused to collapse and the old man finally smirked.

    "Good. Now, again."

    And Rohan kept fighting.

    Lesson Two: The Body Is Just A Tool

    The old man would shove Rohan¡¯s head underwater, holding him down until he thrashed on the edge of unconsciousness. Then, he¡¯d let him up.

    ¡°Control your panic.¡±

    He said, watching as Rohan gasped for air.

    ¡°Fear is weakness, breathe.¡±

    By the third month, he no longer panicked. He let his body go still, conserving oxygen, waiting until the last second before forcing himself up. By the sixth month, he could hold his breath longer than the old man expected.

    Lesson Three: Every Weapon Is An Extension Of The Self

    The first time the old man gave Rohan a greatsword, he nearly dropped it.

    ¡°Too heavy.¡±

    Rohan grunted, trying to adjust his stance. The old man¡¯s fist slammed into Rohan¡¯s ribs, sending him stumbling.

    ¡°The weight isn¡¯t the problem. You are.¡±

    For hours, Rohan swung the sword over and over again, until his arms felt like they would fall off. Then came the spear, axe and bow. Then finally a dagger.

    Rohan learned to fight with anything in his hands. By the tenth month, the old man blindfolded him.

    ¡°Use your ears.¡±

    He ordered.

    ¡°Feel the attack before it lands.¡±

    Rohan had never dodged an unseen strike before. By the eleventh month, he could.

    Lesson Four: The Will To Kill

    Killing wasn''t new to Rohan. But the way he killed had to change.

    ¡°You kill with emotion.¡±

    The old man said after a sparring match, watching Rohan catch his breath.

    "It makes you predictable."

    Rohan gritted his teeth.

    ¡°And what? You want me to kill like some emotionless machine?¡±

    The old man tilted his head.

    "No. I want you to kill with certainty."

    That night, he took Rohan to a cage. Inside was a man, bound and gagged. A Talon scout.

    ¡°Kill him.¡±

    The old man said simply.

    Rohan hesitated. Not because he pitied the man, but because this wasn¡¯t a fight. This was an execution. The old man sighed.

    "See? You''re still thinking about it. A real killer doesn¡¯t hesitate. A real killer doesn¡¯t need a reason."

    He grabbed Rohan¡¯s wrist, forcing the dagger into his palm.

    "You kill because you decide to. Because your enemy doesn¡¯t deserve another breath. Because it¡¯s already over."

    Rohan stared down at the bound man and this time, he didn¡¯t hesitate. The dagger sliced cleanly across the man''s throat. The scout¡¯s body twitched, then went still. Rohan exhaled through his nose, stepping back.

    And the old man smiled.

    For all the brutality, the old man wasn¡¯t just a teacher. He was something more. He was shaping him into something unstoppable, and in return, Rohan listened.

    Some nights, when training was done, they sat by the fire, drinking in silence. The old man never spoke about his past. Never told Rohan his name. Yet the respect grew between them.

    One night, after hours of grueling combat drills, Rohan looked at him and asked.

    "Why are you doing this?"

    The old man smirked, tossing a knife between his fingers.

    ¡°Because I was once like you, and no one was there to make me into what I needed to be.¡±

    Rohan took that in, watching the fire flicker. After a moment, he nodded, and they never spoke of it again.

    A full year had passed. Rohan was seventeen now. The old man watched as he disarmed three opponents in seconds. He watched as Rohan drove a knife through a man¡¯s skull without blinking. Then, one morning, he simply said.

    "You¡¯re ready."

    Rohan, bruised and bloodied from their latest fight, looked up. His body no longer ached the way it used to. His breathing was steady. His mind was calm.

    He had felt this moment coming for a while now.

    Still, he asked.

    "For what?"

    The old man grinned.

    "For war.¡±

 Ch 19: To Be Seen

    Rohan stood at the edge of the clearing. The wind carried the faint scent of damp earth and pine, the morning mist curling around him like unseen hands. He barely felt the cold anymore¡ªhis body had been tempered by months of suffering, his nerves dulled to anything but survival.

    He was different now. The boy who had once fought with reckless anger, who had let his emotions rule him, was gone. Now, when he moved, he made no sound. His footsteps, once heavy with inexperience, barely disturbed the dirt beneath him. His breathing was so controlled it was almost unnatural.

    His body, hardened through endless pain, had changed. Gone was the thin frame of a desperate street fighter. Now, every muscle was honed for killing. He wasn¡¯t broad like a knight, nor towering like a brute, he was something else entirely. He was lean, fast, and efficient.

    His arms and back were lined with scars, reminders of the brutal lessons beaten into him. His face had changed too. The sharp, youthful features had given way to something colder, more defined. His jaw was stronger, his cheekbones sharper, his skin rough from training under the elements.

    His eyes were the most different of all. Once, they had burned with rage, wild and uncontrolled. Now, they were something worse. Empty, not emotionless, there was no hesitation in them, no fear, only certainty.

    He was like a shadow, a presence that lingered just out of reach, something that felt unnatural in its silence. Even the old man had noticed it.

    "You walk like a ghost now, that''s good, the deadliest ones are never seen until it¡¯s too late."

    Rohan hadn¡¯t responded. He had only continued sharpening his blade. Because soon, it would be put to use.

    The old man stood with his arms crossed, watching Rohan from across the room.

    "It''s been a year, your training is done. It''s time for you to go out into the world."

    Rohan remained still, his grip tightening slightly on the hilt of his dagger. He had known this was coming. Still, something about hearing it out loud made the air feel heavier.

    The old man continued, his voice as firm as ever.

    "You have four months. On that day, I¡¯ll meet you in a village near the Iron Talons¡¯ stronghold. And when that time comes¡­"

    "We¡¯ll burn it to the ground."

    Rohan finished.

    The old man nodded.

    "Exactly."

    Rohan exhaled slowly, his thoughts already rushing ahead, planning.

    "Why wait? We can take them now."

    The old man chuckled, shaking his head.

    "And that¡¯s the difference between us, boy. You think like a fighter. I think like a strategist.¡±

    Rohan frowned, but the old man continued.

    "You¡¯re not just going to attack the stronghold. You''re going to dismantle them. From the inside, from the outside, from every angle they don¡¯t see coming."

    Rohan listened.

    "For the next four months, you will become a nightmare to them."

    The old man¡¯s gaze was sharp, filled with certainty.

    "You will raid their supply lines. Attack their outposts. Burn their smaller strongholds. Kill their commanders in the night. Make them bleed. Make them fear the shadows.¡±

    Rohan understood now. This wasn¡¯t just a war. It was psychological destruction.

    "You will be one man forcing an entire army to spread itself thin, they¡¯ll send men after you. Waste resources tracking you. Their ranks will lose trust in their leaders when their strongholds start to fall."

    Rohan''s lips pressed into a thin line. It was smart, and it was ruthless. It was exactly the kind of war he wanted to wage.

    He looked at the old man, nodding once.

    "Four months."

    The old man smirked. "I¡¯ll see you at the meeting point, boy. Until then-"

    He stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand on Rohan¡¯s shoulder.

    "Make them suffer.¡±

    Rohan rode through the dense woods, his movements silent. It had been a year since he had last seen civilization, a year spent in isolation, becoming something deadlier than the boy who had first entered the old man¡¯s dungeon.

    Now, as he neared the first village, he felt something different, a tension in the air. The world had changed while he had been gone. And now, he was about to see just how much.

    The village wasn¡¯t large, but it was active. Too active. Rohan entered just before dusk, keeping his hood low, his steps careful. The streets bustled with people moving supplies, crates of food, barrels of weapons. Men stood at corners with swords at their hips, their eyes scanning the road for threats.

    This wasn¡¯t a peaceful village. This was a border town on edge. Rohan took in everything as he walked, his movements purposeful but not suspicious. He listened. Watched. What he learned was worse than he expected.

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    The war had already begun. Rumors whispered in the marketplace. The Iron Talons had expanded their reach. More strongholds had been built, entire regions taken under their control. Some resisted, but those who did didn¡¯t last long.

    The kingdom¡¯s nobles were divided. Some prepared for war, others hesitated, hoping the problem would resolve itself.

    Prince Lemeir? No one spoke his name outright, they only did in hushed tones, behind closed doors, Rohan heard the truth. He wasn¡¯t just claiming land. He was tearing down the old world piece by piece.

    Rohan stepped into a dimly lit tavern, the scent of ale and damp wood filling his senses. The room was lively but tense. Men drank in silence, casting glances toward the armed guards near the door.

    A place like this would have information. Rohan moved to the bar, sitting down without drawing attention. A heavyset bartender approached, wiping a mug with a rag.

    ¡°What¡¯ll it be?¡±

    Rohan placed a few coins on the table.

    "Information.¡±

    The bartender paused. His eyes flicked to the coins, then to Rohan¡¯s face.

    ¡°What kind?¡±

    Rohan leaned in slightly.

    "The Iron Talons. Their movements. Their commanders."

    The bartender let out a slow breath.

    "That¡¯s dangerous talk, kid."

    Rohan gave him a look.

    "So is keeping quiet."

    The bartender studied him for a long moment, then sighed. He pocketed the coins and leaned in.

    ¡°Word is, one of their officers is passing through in a day or two, not a commander, but someone important. Someone who collects information for them."

    Rohan¡¯s eyes sharpened.

    "Where?"

    The bartender nodded toward a table in the corner where a group of men sat drinking, their voices low.

    ¡°Ask them. They work the roads. If the Talons have a messenger coming through, they¡¯ll know.¡±

    Rohan didn¡¯t hesitate. He stood, adjusting his cloak, and walked toward the table. If the Iron Talons had an information officer coming through, then Rohan would be there to greet him. And when he did, he¡¯d start tearing them apart from the inside.

    Rohan didn¡¯t waste time. He moved through the dimly lit tavern with purpose, his footsteps silent but firm. The men at the table barely noticed him at first, too focused on their drinks and hushed conversation. But when he pulled out a chair and sat down, their attention snapped to him.

    Four of them, rough-looking and armed. Smugglers, mercenaries, or scouts, it didn¡¯t matter. The largest of the group, a thick-necked man with a scar running down his cheek, scowled.

    ¡°Who the hell are you?¡±

    Rohan leaned back slightly, unbothered.

    ¡°I heard you might know something, about an Iron Talon officer traveling through here.¡±

    The men exchanged glances. The scarred man chuckled, shaking his head.

    ¡°You must be new around here. We don¡¯t talk about the Talons to strangers.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s gaze stayed locked on him, cold and unwavering.

    "Then let''s stop being strangers.¡±

    The man¡¯s smirk faltered. The way Rohan spoke, the way he carried himself, it didn¡¯t match his age. There was something else behind those eyes. Another man, leaned forward.

    "What¡¯s it to you?"

    Rohan exhaled slowly.

    ¡°Let¡¯s just say I have business with them.¡±

    The scarred man narrowed his eyes.

    "And what kind of business would that be?"

    Rohan let the silence stretch, just long enough to make them uneasy. Then, he spoke, his voice steady, sharp as a blade.

    "The kind where people stop breathing."

    The table went still. The younger man¡¯s fingers twitched toward the hilt of his knife. The scarred man¡¯s smirk returned, but this time, it didn¡¯t reach his eyes.

    ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re looking for trouble, kid.¡±

    Rohan¡¯s lips barely moved.

    "No, I¡¯m looking for a name."

    The scarred man¡¯s smirk widened, but his hand drifted toward his belt. A bad move. Rohan was already in motion. His dagger flashed under the table, pressing into the man¡¯s side before he could react. The others stiffened, hands freezing on their weapons.

    The scarred man grunted, realizing his mistake. Rohan¡¯s voice didn¡¯t change.

    "Don¡¯t make this harder than it needs to be."

    The man hesitated, then exhaled.

    "You don¡¯t mess with the Talons, boy."

    Rohan pressed the blade deeper.

    ¡°I already have.¡±

    Another silence.

    "Fine."

    He leaned back slightly, submitting.

    ¡°There¡¯s a courier. Name¡¯s Marek. He¡¯s passing through tomorrow night. Stays outside the village, doesn¡¯t trust the locals.¡±

    Rohan pulled the blade away, standing up.

    ¡°And?¡±

    The man rubbed his ribs where the dagger had pressed.

    ¡°And he¡¯s always got two bodyguards. Mercs. Good ones.¡±

    Rohan adjusted his cloak.

    ¡°Not good enough.¡±

    The scarred man watched him, something unreadable in his expression.

    ¡°You¡¯re a dead man if you go after him.¡±

    Rohan turned slightly, his eyes shadowed beneath his hood.

    "No, he is."

    And with that, he walked out, leaving the table in stunned silence. Tomorrow night, the real hunt would begin.

    Most of the locals had retreated indoors, locking their doors as the chill of evening settled in. Only the faint flicker of torchlight lined the roads, barely cutting through the darkness.

    Rohan waited. His hood was drawn low, his body pressed against the cold stone wall of an alley corner. He had been here for hours, unmoving, watching and waiting, and finally, they came.

    Three figures approached down the road, their boots crunching softly against the dirt path. Marek, the courier, walked in the center, flanked by two armed mercenaries.

    They were talking, but Rohan wasn¡¯t listening. He was already moving. The first merc never saw it coming.

    Rohan slipped from the shadows, his dagger flashing in the moonlight as he drove it deep into the man¡¯s throat. The merc gurgled, hands flying up, but Rohan had already ripped the blade free.

    The second merc spun, reaching for his sword but it was too late. Rohan slashed his dagger across the man¡¯s wrist, severing tendons. The sword clattered to the ground.

    The merc staggered back, clutching his ruined hand. Rohan buried his blade in the side of his skull, his body collapsing without a sound.

    Marek froze, the entire exchange had happened in seconds. One moment, he had two armed guards. The next, he was alone. His breathing quickened. He turned to run.

    Rohan grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the alley wall. Marek choked as his back hit the stone. He clawed at his wrist, but the grip was like iron. He dragged him deeper into the alley, out of sight, out of reach.

    When he finally released him, Marek collapsed to the ground, coughing, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall.

    "W-wait, you don¡¯t know who I work for!"

    Rohan crouched in front of him, his dagger dripping with blood

    "Yes, I do."

    He reached out and broke one of Marek¡¯s fingers.

    "And now you¡¯re going to tell me everything.¡±

    Marek panted, shaking, his face pale. Rohan grabbed his hand, twisting another finger.

    "Start talking."

    Marek sobbed.

    "I-I don¡¯t know much! I just deliver messages!"

    "Who sent you?"

    Marek swallowed hard.

    "A-a lieutenant! From the stronghold!"

    Rohan leaned closer, his dagger hovering just over Marek¡¯s eye.

    "Which one?¡±

    Marek flinched.

    "Varek! His name is Varek!"

    Rohan filed the name away.

    "And what was your message?"

    Marek hesitated, Rohan twisted his already broken finger causing Marek to scream again.

    "Supplies! The stronghold is getting low! They need more steel, more food, they¡¯re preparing for something big!"

    Rohan¡¯s gaze darkened. The stronghold was stockpiling supplies. That meant they were expecting an attack, or planning one.

    "Where was the message supposed to go?"

    Rohan pressed.

    "A Talon outpost, two days east! They have runners there, they relay information to the stronghold!"

    Rohan stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he stood.

    Marek gasped in relief.

    "Th-thank you-"

    Rohan slit his throat. The body slumped forward, lifeless. No loose ends.

    Rohan cleaned his blade on Marek¡¯s cloak, sheathed it, and stepped back into the shadows of the alley.

    He had his next target, the outpost, and when he got there, he¡¯d make sure they remembered his name.

 Ch 20: To Be The Hunter

    The cold wind whipped against his face, but he didn¡¯t slow. There was no time to waste. The outpost was two days east, a critical link in the Iron Talons¡¯ communication chain. If he took it out, it would disrupt the flow of information between their forces, making their defenses weaker.

    By the time dawn broke, he had already covered more ground than most men would in a full day¡¯s travel. He stopped only when his horse needed rest, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the roads.

    By the time he arrived, the sun was beginning to set behind the hills. Rohan dismounted a safe distance away, leading his horse into the cover of the dense forest. He climbed a nearby ridge, moving with the silent precision drilled into him over the past year.

    From his vantage point, he studied the outpost. It was larger than expected. The wooden fortification had two watchtowers at the front, with guards patrolling the perimeter. A dozen men walked the walls, while more moved between the tents and barracks inside.

    At least thirty soldiers. Most were Iron Talons, but some looked like mercenaries, hired muscle to reinforce their numbers.

    At the center of it all was a command tent. Rohan narrowed his eyes. That¡¯s where the messages were being sent. If he could get inside, he could uncover what they were planning.

    Going in head on would be suicide. He needed a plan. He could do what they least expected, infiltrate, pretend to be a mercenary. If he blended in, he could get close to their officers, hear their plans, and when the time came¡­

    Tear them apart from the inside. It was risky, but risk didn¡¯t matter anymore. Rohan moved down the ridge, his mind already working through the details. By the time the next sun rose, he would be inside that outpost. And by the time the next night fell, blood would stain the ground.

    The best way into the outpost wasn¡¯t through force or deception. It was through something far simpler, opportunity.

    As dawn broke, he observed the supply wagons rolling in from the east. They were led by a mix of hired workers and Talon soldiers, hauling barrels of food, weapons, and whatever else the outpost needed. No one questioned a worker carrying supplies. That was his way in.

    No one paid him any mind. A man carrying crates wasn¡¯t a threat. He lifted a bundle of supplies, walking beside the other laborers. The guards at the entrance were barely alert, scanning for threats, not workers.

    One of them glanced his way but didn¡¯t even stop him. Just like that, he was inside.

    The outpost was loud, busy, but disciplined. Soldiers moved between barracks, weapons clanking at their sides. Mercenaries stood in small groups, laughing, sharpening blades, or arguing over who got paid what.

    The Talon officers barked orders, keeping things efficient. Rohan kept his head down, moving with the workers, scanning everything. The command tent was at the center. That¡¯s where the information was.

    He needed to get inside. But first, he had to become invisible. He followed the other workers toward the supply storage, stacking crates in their designated spots. The moment they moved on to their next task, he quietly slipped away.

    No one noticed, just another faceless worker. He moved deeper, weaving through the camp, one step closer to the Talons¡¯ secrets.

    Rohan slipped into the command tent like a shadow, his dagger already drawn. Four men, seated at the large table, engrossed in conversation.

    They never even saw him coming, the first man barely had time to exhale before Rohan¡¯s dagger sliced through his throat. The second turned at the sudden sound, too late. Rohan drove his blade deep into his skull, twisting violently. The third reached for his sword, mouth opening to yell, Rohan slashed across his windpipe, silencing him forever.

    The fourth had time to stand, eyes wide in terror, Rohan grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, and slid the dagger across his exposed throat.

    The entire exchange took less than five seconds. Blood dripped onto the table. The flickering lanterns cast shadows over the motionless bodies. Rohan wiped his blade on a fallen man¡¯s cloak. Then, he turned to the desk.

    Documents lay scattered across the surface. He skimmed them quickly, supply routes, orders, and maps. But one thing caught his attention. A note, ¡°Deliver Below.¡±

    His eyes flicked to the corner of the tent. A hatch, partially covered by a rug. Something the Iron Talons didn¡¯t want seen. Rohan¡¯s fingers curled around the handle. He pulled it open, and the staircase descended into darkness.

    The air stank of rot and filth, It was damp. As Rohan descended the stone steps, the torchlight barely reached beyond the passage ahead. Shadows flickered over the cold, dripping walls, stretching out like clawing fingers.

    Then, he heard it, a ragged breath, a soft clanking of chains. His footsteps were silent as he moved forward, his dagger still drawn. Until he saw her, a single girl, no older than thirteen, chained against the far wall.

    Her clothes were ripped, filthy. Her hair hung in tangled strands over her hollow face. Her skin was streaked with dried blood, bruises blooming across her arms and legs.

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    Rohan¡¯s stomach turned violently, the girl¡¯s head lifted, her eyes were dead. She blinked slowly at him. Unimpressed and unafraid. As if his presence didn¡¯t matter. And then, she spoke.

    "Kill me."

    Rohan froze, the words hit him harder than any blade ever had. His mind couldn¡¯t process it. The brutality of it. The acceptance in her voice. She wasn¡¯t pleading, she wasn¡¯t begging.

    She was simply stating a fact, she didn¡¯t want to live anymore. Rohan¡¯s breath slowed. His grip tightened on his dagger, his knuckles white. Something inside him, something buried deep, began to surface.

    His blood boiled, his body shook, not with fear, not with hesitation, with rage. His mind whispered one simple truth, every single man in this outpost deserves to die, and Rohan was going to make sure they did.

    The deep blast of a horn shook the silence. Rohan¡¯s head snapped upward. Boots thundered against the ground above. They were coming, fast.

    He turned back to the girl, his dagger trembling in his grip. His jaw clenched, his breath shallow. His body felt wrong. Killing had never made him hesitate before. But this, this was different.

    His stomach twisted as he lifted the blade to her throat.

    "I¡¯m sorry."

    He whispered.

    Before he could act, behind him were footsteps.

    A voice barked.

    "Put the weapon down! Surrender now!"

    Rohan didn¡¯t move. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his dagger. The soldiers flooded the room, swords drawn. Their eyes flicked between him and the girl, their stances tense.

    Then one of them, the one in charge, spoke again.

    "Step away from her."

    Rohan¡¯s voice was barely a whisper.

    "Did you know?"

    The man hesitated.

    "What?"

    Rohan''s shoulders trembled. His body shook with something far worse than anger.

    "Did you know she was down here?"

    The man didn¡¯t answer. His face gave nothing away. And that told Rohan everything. His breathing turned ragged. His nails dug into his palm. Slowly, he turned toward them. Blood dripped from his lip, torn open by how hard he was biting down.

    Tears ran down his face, but his eyes were something else entirely. They weren¡¯t sad, they weren¡¯t pained.They were pure, uncontrollable fury.

    Behind him, the girl¡¯s body slumped against the cold stone wall. A faint smile lingered on her lips. Rohan barely breathed as he took a slow, deliberate step forward.

    The commander stiffened.

    "Stay where you are."

    Rohan didn¡¯t stop. His voice came out hoarse, and broken.

    "Did you know?"

    The commander¡¯s grip on his sword tightened.

    ¡°I said-¡±

    Rohan screamed, a raw, shattering sound that echoed through the chamber.

    "DID YOU KNOW?!"

    The commander took a step back, startled. One of the soldiers near him muttered,

    "Shit, we should just kill him now-"

    But the commander lifted a hand.

    "No. He¡¯s more valuable alive."

    Rohan¡¯s nails bit into his own palms so hard his hands bled. His entire body shook. The commander exhaled, taking a measured step forward.

    "Why would you kill her?"

    He asked.

    "Do you even realize what you¡¯ve done?"

    Rohan didn¡¯t blink or move. The commander¡¯s voice dropped lower, more dangerous.

    "Now the noble will come after us.¡±

    "Who is it?"

    The commander hesitated.

    Then, his mouth curled into something between amusement and disdain.

    "Lord Belvane."

    Rohan¡¯s heart stopped, he had heard that name before. A noble who sold people like cattle. Who funded mercenaries and raiders. A man who had profited from war, sending soldiers to slaughter innocent villages for gold.

    "Then I''ll send him a message.¡±

    Before the commander could react, Rohan moved. His dagger flashed, cutting across the man¡¯s throat in a single, fluid motion. Blood sprayed across the stone floor, the commander¡¯s body twitching before collapsing.

    The room erupted into chaos. The first soldier lunged, Rohan twisted, catching his blade mid-strike, and drove his dagger through his armpit, twisting until the man¡¯s scream turned into a gargle.

    The second swung a spear, Rohan caught it, yanked the man forward, and snapped his neck with a brutal twist. The third tried to run, Rohan threw his dagger, the blade burying into the back of his skull.

    Blood covered the walls, bodies hit the floor one after another. Then, the reinforcements arrived. More shouts, and boots thundered down the staircase. A dozen men poured into the chamber.

    One hesitated, eyes wide at the sheer carnage before him.

    "What the hell is he-"

    Rohan ripped his blade free from a corpse, turned, and rushed them. He smashed a man¡¯s face into the stone wall, the bones cracking like shattered glass. He turned, slicing a soldier''s hamstring, then burying his blade into his gut, yanking upward until his intestines spilled out.

    A spear-wielding guard thrust forward, Rohan dodged, catching the shaft, snapping it in half, then using the broken edge to impale another soldier through the eye.

    More men poured in, twenty, then thirty. By the time Rohan had killed his fortieth man, the survivors were fleeing. One dropped his weapon, backing away in terror.

    "He¡¯s not human!"

    Rohan silenced him with a dagger to the throat. The chamber was unrecognizable. Blood pooled across the stone floor. The scent of iron, sweat, and death hung thick in the air.

    Rohan stood in the center of it all, his hands dripped red. He could feel his own blood running down his side, but it didn¡¯t matter.

    Fifty men dead, the Iron Talons would know, Belvane would know, that a monster will be coming for them. Rohan turned back to the girl¡¯s motionless body.

    He stared at her for a long moment, then he wiped the blood from his dagger, turned, and walked away.

    He moved through the wreckage, rifling through the papers, scanning them quickly. Supply routes, orders, troop movements, exactly what he needed. He shoved them into his satchel. Then, he turned his attention to the outpost itself. It needed to burn, they needed to see the flames from miles away.

    He grabbed a lantern from the tent, shattering the glass against the wooden crates in the supply depot. The oil spilled across the ground, soaking into the dirt, spreading across the storage. Then, he moved to the barracks, tossing burning scraps of fabric onto the beds.

    The fire spread instantly, it climbed the wooden walls, curling up into the rafters. Flames licked at the support beams, turning the dry wood into kindling. The outpost began to groan, crack, splinter.

    Smoke billowed into the night sky, Rohan stepped back, watching. Watching as the flames consumed everything. The bodies, the buildings, every last piece of this wretched place.

    The girl¡¯s chains melted in the fire, the screams of the dying were gone. Only the roar of the inferno remained. Rohan turned, walking away as the outpost collapsed behind him.

    By the time he reached the forest, the fire had fully engulfed the outpost. Smoke rose high, choking the sky. The Iron Talons would see it.

    He pulled his hood over his head, adjusting the weight of his satchel. The information he carried was valuable. This was just the beginning. Belvane, the stronghold, the Talons, hey were next. When the time came, he would burn them all.

    With one last glance at the inferno behind him, Rohan disappeared into the night.

 Ch 21: Fragile

    Rohan rode through the ashen dawn, the scent of smoke still clinging to his cloak. The outpost was gone, its remains smoldering in the distance behind him.

    The documents in his satchel were his next weapon, maps, supply routes, letters of correspondence between the Iron Talons and their allies. Names, locations, weaknesses. He needed time to read, to plan.

    But first, he needed to disappear. The Talons would be looking for him. The moment they discovered the massacre, they would send riders in every direction, hunting for the one responsible. He needed to stay ahead of them, and he knew exactly where to go.

    Rohan had memorized the map before leaving the outpost. There was a small village half a day¡¯s ride west. Not large enough to be strategic. Not wealthy enough to be worth raiding. The perfect place to disappear.

    By midday, he approached the village. The fields stretched wide, dotted with simple homes, smoke rising from chimneys. No banners, no Talon presence.

    Yet something felt off. As he rode closer, he noticed the silence. Villages were never this quiet. His fingers drifted toward his dagger.

    Rohan dismounted at the outskirts, leading his horse carefully through the dirt path. The streets were empty. No children running between houses. No merchants selling goods. Not even animals moving in the fields.

    His eyes swept the village, taking in the signs of a struggle. A cart was overturned. A door hung open, swinging in the wind. Then, he saw the first body. A man lay face down in the dirt, a sword wound across his back. Blood had soaked into the earth, dried beneath the harsh sun.

    Rohan moved carefully, stepping over the corpse, dagger now fully in his grip. More bodies, women, men, the elderly, slaughtered.

    The stench of death filled the air. Then, as he neared the center of the village, he saw something worse. A wooden post stood in the village square, driven into the ground like a marker.

    Atop it, a severed head. The eyes had been removed. The mouth stitched shut. And beneath it, scrawled into the wood with dried blood:

    "THIS LAND BELONGS TO THE IRON TALONS."

    Rohan¡¯s grip tightened around his dagger. His teeth ground together. He had left one ruin behind him, only to find another.

    Rohan moved through the village with silent precision, his eyes scanning every detail. The massacre had been recent, days, maybe less, and yet, he wasn¡¯t alone. Near the village square, fresh footprints stood out in the dirt. Smaller. Lighter.

    Not soldiers, but children. His pulse slowed, his grip on his dagger loosening. He followed the tracks, careful not to disturb them. They led toward a small cabin, tucked away behind the ruins of a barn. A hideout, Rohan approached cautiously, stepping onto the wooden porch without making a sound.

    The door was slightly ajar. The stench hit him first, unwashed bodies, stale air, sickness. He pushed the door open in one swift motion.

    Three children, huddled together in the farthest corner of the room. They were thin, dirty, and malnourished. Their clothes were little more than rags, their faces streaked with dust and dried tears. Two girls, one boy.

    The eldest girl looked no older than seven, her long, tangled hair hanging over hollow cheeks. The youngest girl, five, maybe seven, clung to her, trembling.

    The boy, the oldest, couldn¡¯t be more than eight. But when he saw Rohan, he moved.

    A small dagger flashed in his tiny hands, slicing through the air as he lunged forward. Rohan stepped back, easily dodging. The boy swung again, wild and desperate.

    "I won¡¯t let you hurt my sisters!"

    His voice cracked with fear, but his stance was firm. His grip on the blade was steady. Rohan felt something cold twist in his gut. For a split second, he saw her. The girl he couldn¡¯t save. The one who had asked him to end her life.

    At that moment, the boy lunged again. Rohan caught the child¡¯s wrist before the blade could reach him. The boy struggled, kicking and screaming.

    Rohan crouched, his grip gentle but firm.

    "I¡¯m not here to hurt you."

    He said softly.

    The boy¡¯s eyes were wild, untrusting. His sisters stared at Rohan with wide, fearful eyes. He slowly reached out his free hand.

    "I swear it."

    Rohan kept his grip on the boy¡¯s wrist gentle but firm, his other hand raised in a gesture of peace. The child trembled, dirty cheeks stained by tears that had long since dried to salt on his skin.

    ¡°I¡¯m not here to hurt you.¡±

    Rohan repeated, careful to keep his voice low and steady. The girls clung to each other, eyes wide, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. The boy¡¯s eyes darted between Rohan¡¯s hands, the dagger, and his sisters. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his makeshift weapon.

    ¡°Why¡­ should we trust you?¡±

    He asked, his voice trembling.

    Rohan swallowed hard. He felt that twisting ache in his chest again, the same that tore at him when he¡¯d found the thirteen-year-old girl in the outpost¡¯s dungeon. The same helpless rage that left him cold and hollow.

    ¡°Because¡­¡±

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    He paused, searching for the right words.

    ¡°Because I¡¯ve seen what men like the Iron Talons do. I¡¯m trying to stop them.¡±

    The boy¡¯s lip quivered.

    ¡°They killed everyone.¡±

    A flicker of memory rose in Rohan¡¯s mind, flames at his own village, screams echoing in the darkness. He exhaled slowly, nodding once.

    ¡°I know.¡±

    He released the boy¡¯s wrist, and the child stumbled back, still clutching his little blade. The two girls looked just as wary, their eyes like frightened animals caught in a snare. Rohan knelt, maintaining as non-threatening a posture as he could manage.

    ¡°I won¡¯t leave you here.¡±

    He said gently.

    ¡°Come with me. I can take you somewhere safe.¡±

    The children exchanged uncertain glances. Finally, the eldest girl spoke up, her voice thin.

    ¡°Where¡­ where would we go?¡±

    Rohan let out a breath he didn¡¯t realize he¡¯d been holding.

    ¡°There¡¯s a town.¡±

    He said quietly.

    ¡°Far from here, where people I trust can help you.¡±

    He remembered Talia, recalled leaving her with others who might protect her. He¡¯d never thought he¡¯d be back that way, but now it seemed his only choice.

    It took time, reassurances, gathering what little supplies he could find in the ruined huts, a few blankets, scraps of food, a battered leather flask. But eventually, the children agreed to follow him. They had no one else.

    Rohan headed for the village stables, half-burned, roof caved in. Inside, he found a small carriage sitting in one corner, the wood scorched and half-rotted, but still intact enough to be pulled, it would have to do.

    The children stood at the stable door, clinging to one another, flinching at every sudden movement or noise. Rohan tried to ignore the gnawing ache in his chest as he set about rigging the carriage to the horse.

    ¡°Get in, you¡¯ll be safer there.¡±

    The boy helped the younger girls climb aboard, then turned back to Rohan with a stubborn set to his jaw.

    ¡°If you try anything¡­¡±

    Rohan almost smiled, though there was no humor in it.

    ¡°I won¡¯t, I promise.¡±

    He tried not to dwell on how much the boy¡¯s tense posture reminded him of himself at that age, afraid, angry, with nowhere to turn.

    It was late afternoon by the time they were ready. Rohan sat atop his horse, leading the small carriage behind, where the children huddled under blankets he¡¯d salvaged from the wreckage. The smell of decay still lingered in the village, a grim reminder of why he couldn¡¯t leave them behind.

    He urged the horse forward, and together, they left the silent ruins behind. The children didn¡¯t look back, there was nothing left for them there.

    As they rode, Rohan¡¯s mind raced. He¡¯d planned on heading straight into war, burning strongholds, cutting down Talons, carving a path to the monstrous heart of the conflict. But now, he had three young lives in his care.

    He thought of Talia. Thought of the people who had taken her in after the bandits were slain. They¡¯d shown her kindness, given her a chance at a safer life. Perhaps they could do the same for these children.

    He had no illusions about the danger, travel was risky, and the Iron Talons might be searching for him by now. But every time he glanced back at the terrified faces peering from under the blankets, his resolve only grew stronger. He wouldn¡¯t fail them.

    He let the reins slacken, guiding the horse onto a winding road that led south. The children said little, exhausted and wary, drifting in and out of restless sleep.

    A chill wind picked up, carrying the scent of distant rain. Rohan pulled his cloak tighter around him, jaw set, eyes scanning the horizon.

    He was changing course, abandoning his immediate hunt in favor of saving the children. It wasn¡¯t the path he¡¯d planned, but he wasn¡¯t going to be the man who left them to die.

    Rohan guided the small carriage off the narrow road, stopping at a secluded spot in the woods. The sun was dipping beneath the treetops, painting the sky in hues of oranges and purples. He dismounted carefully, tying the horse to a low-hanging branch before walking to the carriage. The children peered at him with uncertain eyes.

    ¡°We¡¯ll camp here, It¡¯ll be safe enough for the night.¡±

    They nodded, but none spoke. The exhaustion of the day, their entire ordeal, hung over them like a heavy cloak.

    An hour later, Rohan had a small fire crackling. The flames danced in the encroaching darkness, throwing flickering shadows across the forest floor. He¡¯d hunted briefly before night set in, managing to snare a small game bird, enough for a makeshift meal.

    He¡¯d decided on a stew. It would be gentler on the children¡¯s empty stomachs, easier to digest than tough meat. He tossed bits of the bird into a battered pot along with some herbs and roots he¡¯d collected. The steam rose, carrying the aroma of something warm and comforting.

    The children sat around the fire, hunched in blankets, watching him work. The boy still kept his makeshift dagger tucked close, his gaze darting to Rohan¡¯s movements with guarded mistrust. The two girls were quieter, eyes distant and haunted.

    When the stew was finally done, Rohan ladled it into wooden bowls he¡¯d salvaged from the wrecked village. He passed them around, careful not to get too close lest he spook them.

    ¡°Eat slowly.¡±

    He said, voice low.

    ¡°Your stomachs aren¡¯t used to it yet.¡±

    The boy sniffed at the bowl, then took a cautious sip. A moment later, his posture relaxed slightly, and he nudged the bowls toward his sisters. They followed his lead, hesitant at first, then more eager as the warmth of real food seemed to bring them back to life.

    After the meal, Rohan gathered some water from a nearby stream and helped the children wash. Their skin was caked in layers of grime and dried tears, their hair tangled in knots. He tried to be gentle, mindful of their bruises and the shadows of fear that still clouded their faces.

    They said little, but the eldest girl whispered a soft ¡°thank you¡± when he handed her a ragged, oversized tunic he¡¯d found among the supplies he¡¯d scavenged. The other two children dressed in similar clothes, torn and worn, but far cleaner than what they¡¯d had before.

    Once the fire burned down to a gentle glow, the children settled near its warmth. Rohan¡¯s body ached, his own wounds still healing from countless battles, but he remained vigilant. His eyes swept the dark outlines of trees, ears attuned for any rustle or snap of branches that might signal danger.

    The youngest girl, maybe six or seven, shuffled closer to him, dragging her blanket along. Her feet were bare, caked in mud and scrapes he¡¯d tried to clean earlier. She looked at Rohan with wide, sleepless eyes. Before he could react, she plopped down next to him and rested her head on his lap. Rohan went rigid, the dagger in his hand stopping mid-sharpen.

    She was so small and fragile. He slowly set his blade aside, unsure what to do. The girl was already drifting, her eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in soft, uneven rhythms. A pang hit his chest, a mix of protectiveness and an unfamiliar tenderness he didn¡¯t know how to handle.

    She¡¯d entrusted him with her safety, barely knowing him beyond a single day.

    Me, of all people¡­ he thought, swallowing hard.

    He was scared to move. If he did, would he hurt her? Would he shatter the tiny bit of trust she¡¯d given him? I¡¯ve broken so many things, he thought. Hurt so many people.

    Yet here was this child, asleep on his lap, utterly defenseless. And for once, Rohan felt a twisting in his gut that wasn¡¯t rage. It was fear, fear of failing her, fear of letting something so innocent be destroyed by the cruelty of the world.

    He took a slow breath, forcing himself to relax. The boy glanced over, saw his sister asleep on Rohan, and tensed. Rohan met his gaze, nodded once, as if to say It¡¯s okay. The boy held his stare for a moment longer, then exhaled and wrapped a blanket around his other sister, nestling together for warmth.

    Rohan¡¯s muscles remained tight, but he didn¡¯t shift. A distant owl hooted somewhere in the forest, and the gentle crackle of the dying fire set a strange, fragile peace over the small camp.

    He kept his eyes on the trees, on the darkness that might bring more nightmares. But every so often, he glanced down at the little girl asleep on him, and felt something he hadn¡¯t let himself feel in a very long time.

    Hope, maybe I can still save something in this world.

    With that thought, he stayed awake, unmoving, keeping watch until the first glimmer of dawn approached.