′Keep it steady,′ the hooded man’s voice was low, like a shadow trying to speak, yet it carried an undeniable authority. ′Hold your breath just before you release.′

  Inhaling deeply, Kian tried to calm the flicker of nerves that always seemed to tighten his chest at moments like this. The straw dummy loomed in the distance, its face worn and scarred from countless failed attempts, a silent witness to past mistakes.

  It took a moment to pull the bowstring back, focusing solely on the target. The hum of the string vibrated against the fingers, holding it for too long. Breath hitched, one fleeting moment, releasing the string.

  The arrow sped forward, a streak of intent, but it veered slightly. The tip buried itself in the dummy’s shoulder. ′Not bad,′ the hooded man murmured. ’But I could tell, by the faint curve of his lips, that it wasn’t enough, you held the string for too long.’

  ′Not bad? Not bad, you say,′ the other hooded figure muttered, his voice laced with disdain. His voice so cold that you could feel it freeze you. ′But don’t kid yourself. That was more luck than skill. For a beginner, that would almost be impressive.′

  His eyes narrowed as he studied Kian, his gaze colder than the morning mist. ′No wonder you ended up with Albaras. It’s both your blessing and your curse.′ Kian looked at the man as if not knowing what it meant. Hard to tell with that hood. The man looked down, then aside, taking a slow, deliberate breath. ’Guess you’ll find out in time.’ He walked towards the dummy.

  As if to drive the point home, he yanked the arrow from the dummy’s shoulder with pure force. He hurled it like a javelin, the shaft spinning through the air before landing an inch from Kian’s feet.

  Was he testing me? He had thrown the arrow with the same precision I could shoot. A silent message. A challenge. Proof that he was just as skilled with a bow as he was strong enough to throw an arrow accurately.

  ′Now,′ the man continued, his voice low, almost taunting. ′Shoot from double the distance.′

  There was no other choice. Stepping back, doubling the distance to the target. Fingers brushing the bowstring, feeling its familiar tension. Their gaze pressed down on the boy, silent yet heavy, filled with expectation, perhaps even anticipation of any failure.

  But I knew better. No words would change their judgment. Only actions. Releasing the arrow, breath steady, this time holding the bow string for not too long.

  He let the silence stretch between them, using it as a shield against their probing questions. He wasn’t ready to share the truth, not yet.

  The arrow flew again, this time striking the dummy squarely in the chest. A small victory, one that brought a flicker of satisfaction, a feeling of success. The tension in the air shifted, the hooded men exchanging a glance with each other.

  For now, he trained, each arrow a step closer to the man he needed to become.

  Albaras rode toward the canyon, where towering stone walls rose like ancient sentinels, their jagged edges carving the sky. The path narrowed, the stone at the entrance jagged and sharp like teeth, and the world seemed to close in around him. As he ventured deeper into the canyon, he heard it: a voice resonating through the cliffs, each note a haunting echo that filled the space with an eerie chorus.

  être imprévisible, imparable.Les jours d’hier sont révolus.Nouveaux jours viennent, oublie tout.Jours, age, vie…Jusqu’à la fin des temps.Jusqu’à la fin des temps.

  The voice carried pride, almost defiant yet laced with melancholy. As Albaras pressed on in silence, the soft singer came into view, a lone figure seated on a rock within a circle of carefully placed stones. At the canyon’s heart he balanced a blade on his finger, its green edge trailing wisps of smoke. A half-skull mask of blackened metal obscured most of his face.

  As Albaras approached, the singing ceased abruptly, its final echoes swallowed by silence. The man turned, his eyes gleaming with a dark, knowing amusement. ′Albaras,′ he drawled, his voice rich with mockery, as if greeting an old friend. ′Tell me, have you come for the bounty…′ He paused, letting the words linger like a challenge. ′Or simply for the pleasure of our… familiarity?′

  Albaras answered with silence. Without hesitation, he drew his dark bat-guard sword, its blade swallowing what little light filtered through the canyon’s gloom. Raising his shield, he steadied himself, bracing for what Drettius would bring.

  ′A bounty, then,′ Drettius sighed, disappointment lacing his tone. In one swift, almost liquid motion, he reached into the folds of his cloak, producing two jagged green daggers. The dim light caught the metal plates lining his body beneath the cloak, a patchwork of armor forged with precision, offering both protection and unrestrained agility.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  ′Why do you do this?′ Drettius asked coldly, his words laced with quiet fury. ′Why help those who treat us as nothing more than cheap sacrifices for people who aren’t worth saving? You know what they’ve done, yet you still follow them.′

  Albaras closed the distance, his shield always aimed at Drettius. They stood just a pace apart when Albaras struck, trying to drive his sword into Drettius. But Drettius reacted swiftly, throwing a dagger into Albaras′ foot while parrying with the other.

  Albaras, momentarily thrown off balance, pushed forward with his shield, using it like a battering ram to shove Drettius back. As Drettius staggered, he raised his hand, gripping the edge of Albaras’ shield and pushing himself forward until his hand was dangerously close to Albaras’ helm.

  Drettius moved his thumb, revealing a concealed mechanism. There was a sharp twang, and an arrow shot from beneath his palm, slipping through a narrow slit in Albaras′ helmet. As the arrow found its mark, Albaras′ training kicked in. He raised his shield, but it was too late to deflect the shot. The shield’s movement forced Drettius′ hand back, dislocating his wrist and making him drop the dagger.

  In that brief instant, as Albaras held his shield high, Drettius rolled over it with fluid grace, landing behind him in a way that seemed impossible. Before Albaras could react, Drettius drove his last dagger into the vulnerable spot behind his knee. The blade sank deep, severing nerves with surgical precision. The hilt snapped off, and Drettius, almost casually, discarded it and reached for another blade.

  Albaras, still silent, turned to face his foe. Blood seeped from the wound, and for a moment, he felt his body threaten to buckle under him. But he forced himself to remain upright. Drettius, however, was already retreating, his movements fluid, ghostlike, a predator slipping back into the shadows.

  Albaras didn’t speak. He sheathed his shield on his back, the motion slow, deliberate. With a steady hand, he reached up to pull the arrow from his helmet. As the arrow was dislodged, blood spurted from the wound, a crimson streak staining the earth beneath him.

  But still, he stood tall. Silent. His eyes never left Drettius, watching in stillness as the man mounted a horse. Its dark form appeared as though it had emerged from the very shadows themselves.

  The man’s wave of goodbye was the last thing Albaras saw before Drettius spurred his horse forward, the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance.

  For a moment, the world seemed to freeze, its poison creeping steadily through Albaras′ veins. The wind whispered through the canyon, carrying with it a heavy sense of time. Albaras remained still, blood seeping from the slits of his helmet. Slowly, he turned, regaining his strength after what felt like an eternity, and made his way back to his horse. The trail left by Drettius pointed west, a clear path to follow. But as Albaras gazed toward the horizon, his eyes drifted northward, toward Dunten.

  Albaras didn’t hesitate to make his choice. He urged his horse forward, following the path westward, each step leaving a streak of his own blood behind. The hunt was far from over, and he knew this dance with death was only just beginning.

  Rederick stood at the edge of Dunten’s grounds, His horse followed close behind, hooves pounding the earth. His gaze cut through the chaos, eyes darting across the frantic scene. Soldiers scurried like ants, their movements quick and desperate as they fortified the castle’s defenses. Wooden stakes were hammered into the ground with urgent force, forming spiked barriers, while others carried buckets brimming with razor-edged shards of metal and glass, crude but deadly traps awaiting whatever menace lurked beyond their walls.

  Despite the frantic urgency around him, Rederick’s focus remained fixed on the ground beneath his feet. The earth was a patchwork of disturbed soil, nearly half of it turned over in the frenzy. He knelt, his gloved hand brushing aside the loose dirt, searching for any clue amid the chaos. His patience wore thin with the constant distractions, yet he forced himself to slow down, to look for what others might overlook.

  Then, something caught his eye. Half-buried in the churned earth was a hilt, a simple sword handle, unremarkable at first glance. But as Rederick grasped it, his pulse quickened. This is it, he thought, a surge of certainty rising within him.

  He stood, scanning the area with renewed focus. The ground was a mess of footprints and discarded debris, but there, just beyond the reach of the soldiers’ chaotic paths, he noticed something: small patches of grass that had been pressed down not by a human foot, but by a hoof. The tracks were faint, almost imperceptible amid the disorder, but they were there. At least I learned something from that man, he mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

  Carefully, he began to follow the trail. It led him away from the castle, past the frantic activity of the soldiers, and into the quiet embrace of a small wood. The further he went, the more the noise of the fortress faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds. T The last light slipped beneath the trees.

  Hours passed, each step drawing him deeper into the woods, the trail growing fainter with each mile. But Rederick was relentless. His eyes never strayed from the ground; his senses attuned to every subtle shift in the earth. Alone now, the only sounds were his breath and the soft crunch of leaves beneath his boots. The solitude was a welcome relief from Dunten’s chaos, providing him the clarity he needed.

  As he moved farther from the castle, a tightening anticipation gripped him. Where will you lead me now? His mind raced with possibilities. The trail was faint, but it was real. And Rederick knew it would lead him to something—something worth all this effort.

  The woods darkened as the sun dipped below the treetops, and the air grew cool and still. Rederick’s thoughts honed in on the trail before him. He could feel destiny pulling at his bones, a sense that something significant awaited. With each step, the path ahead grew more uncertain, but he knew he had no choice but to follow it to the end.