The Dark Elf commander moved like a shadow that had learned to wield steel. Every step was calculated, every feint meant to drive Gideon into open ground. But Kaelvryn's molten frost armor shone brighter with each clash, steam rising from where blade met crystalline plate.
Gideon's breath came hard and steady. He wasn't chasing — he was waiting.
The commander lunged with a thrust meant to bait him. Gideon took it, letting the steel rake his pauldron — then his Whirlwind Splitter spun into motion.
Kaelvryn roared, her molten veins flaring as frost erupted in a spiral. Gideon's twin blades blurred — crimson katana slashing high, icy shortblade cutting low. The two strikes met in the same heartbeat.
The commander's left knee buckled under the frost bite, his right gauntlet shattering under molten impact. For the first time, the Dark Elf stumbled.
Gideon stepped in, voice low and final:"Your stance is broken."
One last crosscut ripped through the commander's guard, sending him to the ground in a spray of black steel and silver blood.
A horn split the night.
Eliakim froze mid-stride, the Codex of Imreth's mental map burning in his mind. Patrol markers shifted — not scattering, not retreating — converging.
Skyling's shriek hit his mind like a dagger:—They're not fleeing. They're herding you.
Ezra skid to a halt beside him, her robes smoking from her last blast. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Caleb said, eyes narrowing as he scanned the slope, "this fight was just the bait."
The "hole" in the encirclement yawned before them — a narrow gully, moonlight catching on wet stone. It was their only clear exit.
"Move!" Eliakim barked. They plunged in — Gideon hauling his twin blades free, Ezra throwing sparks over her shoulder, Caleb's arrows killing shapes in the treeline before they could close.
The gully twisted twice… then widened into a clearing.
And the trap shut.
Shadows peeled from the treeline, not Elves but black-armored mercenaries marked with a jagged crimson sigil — Vaeryn's people. The path behind closed with a quiet, almost polite precision.
From the far side of the clearing, Vaeryn stepped into view. His expression was unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back as if this were a private meeting, not an ambush.
"I did warn you," he said softly. "Every hunter thinks the kill is theirs… until they see whose ground they're standing on."
Eliakim's chain tightened in his fist. "So you've chosen your side."
Vaeryn's smile was as thin as paper. "Not quite. I'm choosing the moment."
The mercenaries shifted forward as one. The triple-agent game was no longer quiet — it had just moved into open play.