He let out a strangled growl and charged at me, his bare feet slipping slightly on the frost-covered ground.
The sight might have been almost admirable if it weren't so painfully naive.
Before he could even reach me, I moved. A single, controlled kick to the chest—nothing more than a reflex—sent him flying backward.
He hit the tent wall with a dull thud and crumpled to the ground, groaning but alive.
For a moment, I thought that would be enough to stop the others. But it wasn't.
Another youngling scrambled to his feet, face contorted in anger and fear, and rushed me. Then another followed, shouting something incoherent.
It was chaos—raw, desperate defiance.
They didn't stand a chance. Each movement was predictable, untrained. I sidestepped the first, my leg snapping out again in a restrained motion that sent him tumbling. The next one barely made it halfway before meeting the same fate.
One by one, they fell, landing in the dirt with pained gasps and broken courage.
