Brown Beard's cutlass came down in a strike considerably faster and better aimed than anything his crew had managed. Xavier only barely got his own blade up in time to catch it, the impact ringing up through both arms hard enough to numb his fingers for a half-second.
"There it is," Brown Beard said, almost admiringly, shoving off the lock and circling wide. "Was wondering when I'd get to see if you're actually as good as you looked cutting through my boys, or if you just got lucky four times in a row."
"Feel free to find out."
Brown Beard obliged. He fought like a man who'd survived considerably more real fights than staged intimidation routines. He wasted no motion and used no theatrical flourishes. Just a heavy, relentless series of strikes that forced Xavier to give ground step by step across the shrine's worn stone floor. Xavier parried, redirected, waiting and looking for an opening, but took a shallow cut along one forearm for his trouble when he misjudged the timing on a feint.
"You're better than the last one who tried this," Brown Beard said, conversational, like they were discussing the weather instead of trying to kill each other. "Not better enough, though."
Xavier didn't waste breath answering. He'd noticed, over the last several exchanges, the same small habit repeating itself. Brown Beard telegraphed his heaviest strikes with the barest hitch of his back foot, just enough warning if you were watching for it. Xavier had been watching for it since the second clash.
The next heavy strike came, foot hitching exactly on schedule, and instead of retreating again, Xavier stepped inside it, closer than any sane opponent should, letting the cutlass whistle past close enough to nick his shoulder rather than catch it square. From that distance, blade-to-blade contact abandoned entirely, he slammed the flat of his free palm into Brown Beard's chest and let go of every bit of restraint he'd been holding onto with his fire.
The blast wasn't subtle. Brown Beard went flying backward into the shrine's outer pillar hard enough to crack stone, cutlass clattering away, his beard — his genuinely, absurdly enormous, dyed-brown beard — smoking gently at the ends where the fire had caught it.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
"...My beard," Brown Beard said, in a voice of pure, wounded betrayal, patting frantically at the singed ends. "You absolute... That took me years!"
"You tried to shoot an unarmed old woman," Xavier said, breathing hard, sword still raised. "I'd say we're even."
Brown Beard looked at his crew. One unconscious, one disarmed and sullen in Bruce's grip, one doubled over and wheezing, one still shaking off a rock to the skull... He made, visibly, the exact same calculation he'd clearly made many times before in his career.
"...Right," he said, scrambling upright, cutlass abandoned entirely. "This has stopped being profitable. Wonderful working with you all. Truly, let's never do it again."
He turned and bolted for the treeline with a speed that seemed almost insulting given his size, abandoning his groaning crew without a shred of visible guilt, one hand still clutching his ruined beard like a wounded limb, and vanished into the woods before Xavier had even finished exhaling. Xavier considered chasing him for exactly as long as it took to remember that he had no idea how large this island's forest actually was, or what else might be living in it, and decided the better part of a good outcome was knowing when to stop pushing his luck.
"...Well," Desmond said into the silence that followed, staring at four defeated bandits and absolutely no sign of their captain, ledger already half-forgotten in one hand. "That's one that got away, at least. I'll need all your names spelled correctly for this report, by the way. I have a feeling this incident is going to come up again."
"He'll turn up again," Bruce said, with the weary certainty of a man who'd met enough recurring nuisances to recognize the type on sight. "Guys like that always do. Especially ones with a grudge about their beard now."
Xavier pressed a hand to the shallow cut on his forearm, wincing, and crouched beside the brute slumped against the pillar, checking, out of some reflex he couldn't quite name, that the man's smoking coat wasn't about to become an actual problem. He was groaning, dazed, but breathing. Mostly just embarrassed.
"You're not going to kill them?" Stephan asked, genuinely curious, still not attempting to stand.
"They surrendered by falling over, mostly. Seems rude to escalate from there." Xavier straightened, sheathing his sword, the flame along its edge guttering out as it slid home across his back. "Also, Vidora seems like the type to have opinions about unnecessary bloodshed on a religious pilgrimage, and I'd rather not find out what those opinions sound like out loud."
"Wise," Vidora said, entirely unbothered by having nearly been shot, already walking back toward the Zephyrine. "Bind the rest for the local watch to collect. We have two more shrines and a schedule to keep."
"Right on it, my lady." Desmond flipped his ledger back open, already composing what Xavier assumed was going to be a truly remarkable incident report, and cast one more glance at Xavier with something new in his expression. Not quite fear, but a healthy, freshly-earned respect. "Remind me never to ransom you personally. Or shoot at anyone you're standing near."
Bruce finished tying off the knife-wielder's wrists and glanced over at Xavier's bleeding forearm with a frown. "That needs a proper wrap before we fly anywhere."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. It's bleeding on the shrine."
"...Okay, it's a little fine."
Stephan, finally allowed to hobble over now that the danger had passed, clapped Xavier on the good shoulder with entirely too much enthusiasm for a man who'd contributed exactly one thrown rock to the entire fight. "For what it's worth, that was extremely cool. The beard thing especially. I'm never going to stop thinking about the beard thing."
"I would also like to never stop thinking about the beard thing," Xavier admitted, letting Bruce wrap the cut while he caught his breath, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb out of his limbs. "Well, two shrines left. Let's hope the next one's a little less eventful."
It would not be.