The smaller man stepped closer, his grin splitting wider with each dragging step. Panic prickled through Avin's veins.
Every instinct screamed to surrender. To collapse. To let whatever these monsters planned simply happen. That was who he used to be — who Clive was. The boy who had never fought for anything, not even his own life.
But something inside had shifted.
He didn't want to die. Not again. Not here, not like this. Even the faintest spark of survival was enough to change everything.
His crimson eyes darted between the three men. The towering giant in the center stood silent, a statue of menace, arms folded. The other on the right smirked but stayed still. It was the one advancing who drew Avin's attention.
Smaller. Weaker. A limp in his step. His skin pale, unhealthy.
And at his waist — a brown, dirty sheath that had a dagger.
Deadly in the wrong hands. Useful in Avin's.
I need that weapon.
