A lousy punch swings for Knight's face.
"Too slow." His voice is calm—almost bored—as he slips inside the strike, movement fluid, deliberate.
His elbow snaps up like a hammer—bone crashing against jaw.
The royal soldier—bloodied, and stripped of his armor, staggers—but Knight shows him no mercy. His knee drives forward in a sharp, grounded blow to the ribs, folding the man with a breathless gasp.
"Come on," he drawls, fingers fisting in the soldier's hair as he slams his head against the rough trunk of a bare tree,
the crack reverberating through the forest's cold morning air.
Blood and brain matter splatter as Knight slams the soldier's head again—and again—and again, against the trunk, the bark slick and running dark with red.
"What are you doing?" The voice cuts through the air, halting Knight mid-swing.
The elated grin twisting his lips falters, hardening into a scowl as he flicks a glance over his shoulder—Ace is striding toward him, eyes sharp with disapproval.
Knight scoffs, hurling the limp body to the ashen ground of the forest with a dull, heavy thud.
"Tsk." Knight lifts his head,
a look of disappointment shadowing his face as he surveys the two mangled corpses sprawled before him—blood pooling beneath their twisted forms.
Their once-proud red tunics cling to their bodies, slick with blood and sweat;
silver helmets, plumed with crimson feathers, lie dented nearby. Swords and fragments of armor scatter across the ground, pitiful remnants of the grandeur these fallen soldiers of Miraeth once bore.
"I chose the best with my own hands," Knight sighs, leaning back against the trunk. He cups his bloodied hands over his mouth, flicks the lighter, and lights a cigarette between his lips, the faint flare of orange reflecting in his cold, weary eyes.
He pulls the burning cigarette from his lips, pinched between two bloodstained fingers, and exhales a slow, swirling plume of smoke. "Yet they broke faster than I expected," he mutters, the words drifting out with the next ghostly curl of smoke.
"You were supposed to track Raka, not pick a pointless fight," Ace says, his tone low and edged with steel as his gaze settles on the agent—his posture calm as still water, utterly unbothered by the carnage around him.
"Spare me a breather, Ace. Hmm?" Knight purrs, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
"I'm here for the report," Ace says, arms crossed over his chest as he faces Knight, his expression unreadable in the hazy morning light. "Go on—spill it."
"Raka's on the move—headed for the caves," Knight says, flicking a glance at his wristwatch. "ETA, thirty minutes. Maybe less if he keeps that pace."
"Sneak attack?" Ace asks, his gaze narrowing, a shadow flickering across his eyes.
Knight grins, the cigarette glowing between his fingers. "Indeed—though this one's more emotional than physical." He draws in a slow, deliberate breath of smoke, exhaling it in a lazy curl.
"You could've waited a day to report," Ace says with a scowl, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm.
"Nothing could've been done," Knight says, his gaze drifting toward the ocean, now a blur behind the thickening fog.
The crash of waves merges with the restless wind, carrying traces of ash through the dead trees—
a ghost of the wildfire that razed nearly every village, field, and forest around Ephrath.
"One wrong move, and the village he's hiding in—along with a few dozen villagers—goes up in flames."
Ace lets out an exasperated sigh, his gaze drifting toward the ocean—far beyond where they stand, deep within the cliffside forest.
"Along with some of his men—loaded with suicide bombs, planted right among the believers on your side," Knight adds, his tone unnervingly calm, eyes unflinching.
Ace frowns, disbelief flashing in his eyes. "I thought he actually cared for his two kids."
Knight scoffs. "No one ever cares for others more than themselves. Learn that, Ace." He gives a faint, knowing wink. "The wolves in sheep's clothing are still hidden. Tell Czar to give him what he wants—for now."
He flicks the half-burned cigarette to the ground and grinds it under his boot. "We were a step behind. That bastard's been planning this from the start."
Ace exhales a sharp, frustrated sigh. "Keep eyes on him," he says, turning on his heel to leave.
"On it," Knight replies, fingers skimming the dent along the throat mic before sliding the earpiece in and tapping it.
"Now that I've seen a bit deeper into his head," Knight muses with a shrug, "I'm not so sure my little gift will have the effect I hoped for."
---
The stone caves by the sea are cold and damp—silent, if not for the children's unyielding laughter echoing off the walls, the weary murmurs of adults, and the low, pained groans of the wounded.
Neva kneels before a wounded guard, her dress soaked and pressed into the damp sand. Her hands move gently, steadily, as she winds a bandage around his chest and secures it over his shoulder.
"Bless your heart, sister," he says with a tired smile—a middle-aged man with brown hair and kindness buried beneath the weariness in his eyes.
Neva nods, returning a faint smile before rising to her feet.
She lifts the tray woven from wicker reeds, carrying the humble medical essentials: a thin roll of lint, a small pot of honey, animal grease, clean linen strips, and a pair of iron-and-steel scissors dulled from use.
She moves toward another wounded guard, slumped against the cold stone wall—still waiting for aid amid the quiet chaos. Around her, volunteers hurry from one injured soul to the next—ordinary laborers and servants, forced by fate to take up arms and fight their own kin in a desperate struggle for survival.
"May I see your wound, brother?" Neva asks softly, kneeling before the young man whose blood-stained hands press futilely against the gash at his side.
He looks up, his gray eyes shadowed with solemnity, framed by a ruddy, weathered face etched with both old and fresh scars.
In response, he lifts his worn tunic, revealing a fresh, dark-red gash—shallow, yet deep enough for blood to trickle slowly down his bruised skin.
Neva sets the tray on the sand, rips a strip of clean linen, dampens it with water from a nearby cask, and gently presses it against the young man's wound to stem the bleeding.
"Who… who am I fighting for?" the young man suddenly whispers, his voice strained.
Neva's hand hesitates for a beat before she continues, dipping her fingers into the small pot of honey and lightly coating the lint.
The sticky sweetness mingles with the sharp tang of blood, sweat, and the damp earth around them, a crude antiseptic in the harsh reality of the cave.
"You're from a foreign land," she murmurs, catching the accent in his words as she spreads a thin layer of animal grease over the honey-soaked cloth. "Taken prisoner… but now, you are a free man."
"My… my family—" he chokes out, the words strangled, weighed down by grief and disbelief.
Neva lets him linger, giving him space to gather himself.
She leans in, hands steady as she winds the bandage around his stomach, each movement practiced and precise, even amid the quiet chaos of the cave.
"Invaders…" he pauses, swallowing hard, his voice trembling. "They burned our homes—my family is gone. But why? Why am I the only one left alive?"
"You're caught in the chaos of a world that's changing faster than we can understand," she says softly. "But you're still here—alive, fighting—for a divine reason that goes beyond us all.
You are loved, protected, and so is your family… they're in a better place now."
Her gaze drifts toward the believers gathered in the cave, huddled against each other to shield from the cold.
"You're fighting for God, for these people—for yourself—and for the hope of a better future… until we're home in eternal peace."
He buries his face in his hands, shoulders trembling as a muffled sob escapes him.
"May God's grace always be with you," she whispers, her hand settling gently on his shoulder.
"Neva." The voice is sudden, familiar, and sharp—etched deep into her soul, pulling her attention.
Neva lifts her gaze and finds Rhett standing there, his eyes grim, jaw tightening and loosening with an unspoken tension, every line of him radiating a controlled intensity.
"We need to talk," he says, his voice calm but taut.
Neva frowns in confusion, then spots a familiar figure approaching with a medical tray. "Maria," she calls, catching her attention.
Maria strides forward, and Neva rises to meet her. "Do you require something, Sister Neva?"
"Help me put this away, please," Neva says, passing the tray to her.
Maria accepts it with a nod and a warm smile.
"Thank you," Neva whispers.
She glances at Rhett, his back rigid as he strides ahead, every movement taut with urgency. Without hesitation, she falls in step behind him, her heart quickening with anxiety of what might lie ahead.
The moment they step out of the cave's mouth, flanked by two tall, burly volunteer guards armed and alert,
Rhett seizes Neva's wrist, tugging her a few steps back onto the damp sand—just beyond where the waves break, their frothy edges nearly licking their feet.
He turns to face her, tone sharp and distant, masking the worry beneath. "You need to take the children and leave."
"Why?" she whispers, her voice fragile against the susurrus of the waves. The chilly breeze swirls around them, biting at her skin and tugging at the edges of her dress.
"Raka—" his voice stiffens.
"He's coming here. I let it happen. And it's clear… he'll prey on the villagers' faith, luring them into the traps he's set."
Neva turns her gaze to the emerald sea, its surface dissolving into a swirling, dense pale fog—vanishing into the white unknown.
"Ace and Sky are waiting at the car," Rhett says, his fingers brushing gently under her chin, tilting her face to meet his gaze. His touch is cold against her skin,
as sharp as the urgency in his voice. "Go with them. I'll meet you once the situation's under control."
"Let the children leave," she replies, gently pushing his hand away. "I'm staying. I won't abandon the believers in their time of need."
His gaze hardens as she moves to leave. "Don't make this harder for me, Neva.''
He clenches his teeth as her steps remain steady. "He's holding all of us hostage here." Rhett strides forward, forcing her to halt and meet his unyielding stare.
"My hands are tied," he murmurs, his tone softening. "Go… escape somewhere—until I can buy us time."
"If the believers are tempted to take shelter with him," she asks, her eyes searching his for the answers her heart cannot find, "do we let them?"
He rakes a hand through his wind-tousled hair, glancing away with a sharp, frustrated sigh. "We can use that against him," he says, meeting her eyes once more. "The numbers have grown, and supplies are thin. I don't know if command has answered Elk's request for aid yet. For now… we wait and see what can be done."
"We're just risking everything on Ishmael's patience," she says, her spirit barely carrying above the whisper of the wind.
"I'm sorry, Angel," he says, his eyes dim but tender. "I let things get out of our control." His hands find hers, gripping with quiet firmness. "But I promise… I'll make it right."
She nods, a faint smile brushing her lips. "I know."
"Boss," a low, steady voice calls.
They both turn, eyes landing on Ace as he strides toward them.
"The children are in the car," he reports, stepping beside them.
"Three SUVs inbound from the east. They'll be here in seven minutes."
"Any luck detecting the handlers?" Rhett asks, his expression tight and distant.
"Not yet," Ace replies with a curt shake of his head. Then, for a heartbeat, everything stills—no one moves, no one breathes.
A voice cuts through the silence, familiar in its quiet dominance, calm yet dreadful—the tremor of it echoing deep within Neva's soul.
"He's already here," she whispers, lifting her gaze to Rhett's pale face, unmasked and drained—
mirroring the same frosted tightness coiling in her chest.