Brennar had fought in more battles than he could count, but this one was different.
He could hear Rowan's ice cracking like thunder from the river. He could hear Ari's bowstring snapping, arrows hissing in the dark, each one finding a throat or chest. He could even feel Nyx in the way the raiders' shouts shifted, their rear-line unraveling under a terror they couldn't see.
For the first time in a long while, Brennar thought the plan might actually work.
He bared his teeth and raised his axe. "With me!" he roared, voice carrying over the clash of steel.
The four swordsmen—Toren among them—tightened their line. They weren't soldiers, not really, but they had the fire in their eyes. Together they formed a wall of iron and grit, shoulder to shoulder, blades raised as the raiders came crashing down the narrow choke.
---
The first clash was a storm.
Brennar's axe sang through a shield, splitting wood, and buried itself in the man behind it. Blood sprayed, hot on his face. To his left, Toren grunted as he parried, then drove his sword into an exposed gut. The nameless swordsmen fought hard, their strikes wild but determined, the press of bodies holding them in place.
Mud churned beneath their boots. Men screamed. Wolves snarled from the dark.
For a time, they held. Every raider that fell piled on the others, bodies stacking in the choke. Brennar roared with every swing, his axe an unrelenting rhythm.
"Weight!" he shouted, half to himself, half to Toren. "Every fight teaches you weight—learn it!"
His arms already ached. Each strike bit bone, each parry jolted through his shoulders. His breath steamed in the cold night, thick as smoke. The weight was there, dragging him down, but he grinned through it. This was what he was made for.
But even as he carved men apart, the tide didn't lessen. For every raider that fell, three more pressed forward.
---
The first loss came fast.
A wolf, massive and slavering, barreled into the choke. It hit one of the nameless swordsmen full on, knocking him backward. The man screamed once before fangs closed on his throat. Brennar turned, axe flashing, splitting the beast's skull—but it was too late. The man lay still, eyes open, body already being trampled by boots.
The second fell not long after. A spear punched through the line, skewering another man clean through the chest. He sagged forward with a choked gasp, his sword falling from numb fingers. The raider yanked the spear back, and the man collapsed in the mud, gone before Brennar could reach him.
The line wavered.
Brennar slammed his shoulder into Toren's side, steadying him, holding the gap. "Stay tall, boy!"
The third—gods help him, the one with the child in the cages—fought like a man possessed. He swung until his blade bent, blood running from a dozen cuts. Then a raider's sword tore across his ribs, spilling him sideways.
Brennar caught him before he fell. The man's blood was hot, his breath ragged.
"Behind the tree!" Brennar snarled, shoving him toward the felled log that marked their fallback. "You've done your bit—don't waste it now. Live for your kid."
The man stumbled away, clutching his side.
And suddenly it was just Brennar and Toren holding the line.
---
The weight pressed harder now. Brennar's swings slowed, his arms leaden. Every breath burned his lungs. For the first time, he felt the tide pressing not just on their blades, but on his chest.
He saw it in Toren too. The boy's strikes faltered, his blade nicked, his stance too wide. Sweat stung his eyes.
And still the raiders came.
Brennar wanted to believe. He wanted to think Rowan's ice and Ari's arrows and Nyx's shadows would be enough. But here, at the choke, the truth was plain: they were drowning.
His axe buried itself in another raider's skull. He yanked it free with a roar, blood spraying his face, and still they came.
For every one he killed, five more pressed forward.
This is it, he thought grimly. This is where we break.
---
Then Toren roared.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was something deeper, something that clawed its way out of his chest and split the night. His eyes blazed, and his sword arm snapped into place like it had always belonged there.
And then it happened.
Light.
A white-gold aura burst from Toren like a thunderclap. It surged down his arms, along his blade, and then outward in a wave of force that shook the choke itself.
The raiders at the front screamed as they were hurled backward, shields shattering, bodies slamming into the mud. Wolves yelped and skittered away. For the first time since the battle began, the press broke.
Space opened.
The wounded swordsman stumbled clear, clutching his side, dragged to safety by freed fighters. The line breathed again.
Toren stood in the center, blade gleaming with light, his chest heaving. The glow wrapped him like fire, white and pure, every strike now cutting sharper, faster. His aura flared with each breath, searing the dark.
Brennar's chest swelled. A grin split his bloodied face. " Finally woke up... Good"
"That's it, lad!" he bellowed, voice raw. "Show them what you are!"
---
They pressed forward again, Brennar and Toren side by side.
The boy's blade moved like it had always been meant for him, arcs of light cleaving through armor. Every parry rang like a bell, every strike carried the weight of something more than muscle.
Brennar laughed, a sound half savage, half proud. He swung with renewed fury, his axe cleaving a man clean in two. For the first time in minutes, hope roared through him.
But even as the front faltered, the tide did not stop. More raiders poured in, endless, the weight of their numbers still pressing down.
Brennar knew the truth. Even with Toren's awakening, even with the gap they'd bought, they couldn't hold forever.
But gods, they'd make the bastards bleed for every step.
He set his stance, lifted his axe, and roared into the endless dark.