He didn't need a genius IQ to put the pieces together. This was a fantasy world — and the tone of those voices was unmistakable.
Slave traders.
And judging by the sound of their boots, there were a lot of them.
Oliver's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Even if he turned tail right now, there was no way they'd just let him walk away. Witnesses didn't last long in places like this.
So instead of running, Oliver stepped forward, placing himself squarely between the hooded figure and the approaching thugs.
His sword hissed as it cleared its sheath — the same one bearing the rune he had carved earlier that day.
"Alright, buddy," Oliver muttered, feeling the faint hum of mana in the blade. "Time to see if you were worth all the bruises and lectures."
Behind him, the hooded figure stared in bewilderment.
What is he doing? she thought. There's too many of them — he should be running, not standing there like an idiot. Does he have a death wish?
