They came at him like wolves.
Five sets of boots pounding the dirt. Five voices rising in a hungry roar. Steel flashing in the moonlight. No hesitation. No mercy.
Kresos didn't run.
He didn't even think.
His body just moved.
Before his mind caught up, he dropped low—barely slipping under the first wild slash. His shoulder slammed into the attacker's gut, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The man staggered—and Kresos didn't stop.
He yanked the bloodied knife from the corpse beside him and plunged it straight into the man's thigh.
A scream tore through the clearing.
The man crumpled, clutching his leg, writhing in the dirt.
But Kresos was already gone.
Another figure lunged behind him, swinging a rusted mace toward his spine.
Kresos twisted—an awkward, impossible movement—and the weapon hissed past his ribs, slamming into the ground where he'd been a second earlier.
His foot lashed out, heel cracking into the man's knee with a sickening pop.
Another scream. Another enemy incapacitated.
But there was no time to breathe.
Two more were coming.
Fast. Synchronized. One curved left, the other, wielding a hand axe, went right—blades raised, trying to box him in.
Kresos turned, scanning. Blade high. Pulse hammering.
A flash of steel came at him.
He parried by instinct—his knife scraping against the larger blade. Sparks lit the dark. The impact jolted his wrist. He staggered.
The second one charged.
Kresos dropped, rolled, and came up behind the thinner one. The man spun, too slow—Kresos slashed upward, drawing a line of red across his ribs. Not deep. But deep enough.
The man fell back, gasping.
The axe-wielder didn't.
He charged, eyes wild, blade raised high.
Kresos ducked the first swing and stepped inside the second, slashing across the man's forearm. Blood spattered the dirt. The axe fell.
Kresos caught it mid-drop.
He pivoted, breathing hard—eyes cold, steady, inhumanly calm.
The man he'd cut tried again, maybe hoping the kid would flinch.
Kresos didn't.
He stepped forward and buried the axe in the man's gut.
The blade sank deep.
The man gasped, mouth wide, blood pouring between his lips. He fell backward into the brush. Didn't rise.
Four down.
Kresos stood above the corpse, blood coating his arms, his fingers, his breath ragged.
Then pain.
A line of fire across his ribs.
He turned in time to see the last one—the leader—lower his blade, teeth clenched, after almost impaling Kresos. Luckily, he had only grazed the boy.
"You little monster…" he growled, chest heaving.
Kresos said nothing.
He took a step forward.
The man flinched—blood already running from a deep cut on his cheek, one Kresos hadn't even seen land. Probably when he'd twisted through the earlier rush.
The leader backed up a step.
"What… what are you?"
Kresos met his eyes.
"I'm a Dragonbane."
He raised the axe.
Then everything went white.
A sharp crack bloomed at the back of his skull—pain exploding like a starburst. His knees buckled. The axe slipped from his hand.
The world tilted sideways.
He collapsed, breath stolen, vision pulsing.
A shape loomed behind him.
Someone he hadn't seen—maybe the first man, the one he thought he'd crippled. Crawled close enough to strike.
Kresos' fingers twitched toward his knife.
But his limbs didn't respond.
His thoughts scattered.
He heard voices. Boots. Laughter.
Then—
Darkness.
*****
Everything hurt.
His body swayed. Limbs numb. Back pressed against something hard—wood, maybe. A thick rope bit into his wrists and ankles.
He wasn't walking.
He was being carried.
Dragged.
Every jolt sent a fresh bolt of pain across his ribs. His head throbbed, skull ringing with each step.
He blinked.
Sky.
Then black.
Then sky again.
The world spun.
He opened his mouth. Tried to speak.
Only a hoarse rasp escaped.
Time passed—too much or not enough, he couldn't tell.
Then a shout.
"Open the door!"
Kresos flinched.
The voice tore through his haze like steel through wet cloth.
Memory followed, dragging itself through the fog. The fight. The blood. Too much blood.
He remembered moving like someone else—faster, harder, colder.
Then a flash.
Then nothing.
He'd been winning. He was sure of it.
Until the world went white.
A grinding sound followed—wood against metal. Then footsteps. The texture beneath him changed—dirt to stone. The air grew colder. Wet.
They were inside.
He was dropped. Hard.
Pain bloomed in his chest. He gasped—but it was barely a whisper.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Footsteps circled.
Then voices.
One—sharp, annoyed.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Another—nervous. Familiar.
"It's the kid, boss. He's not right. Killed Jones and Brett."
A pause.
"You're telling me one scrawny kid did that to six men?"
Another pause. Then:
"Said he was a Dragonbane."
Silence.
Then the boss spoke again.
Low. Calm. Too calm.
"Dragonbane? Haven't heard that name since I was a lad."
Another beat.
"Probably worth something. Toss him in with the others. We'll figure it out later."
Hands grabbed him again. Rough. Impatient.
They dragged him across the floor.
He tried to fight. Nothing worked.
Rope slid from his wrists. Then from his ankles. Fingers pulled at his clothes. Yanked them loose. He tried to snarl—but it came out as a whimper.
Then—
Dropped again.
Stone floor. Damp. Cold.
The pain slammed through him all over again.
He curled in on himself, weak and shaking, blood dried across his side.
Then the sound of metal.
A gate. Slamming shut.
Hard.
Silence followed.
No light. No voices.
Just the sound of his own breath.
And then—not even that.
Only darkness.