The morning mist clung low to the ground, curling around boots and legs as the students broke camp. No one had slept well—every snap of a twig in the distance had kept their nerves on edge. Eryndor hadn't closed his eyes at all, his focus sharp and unrelenting.
They moved in a cautious line, Lyanna close by his side, her bow already strung. The forest was different in daylight—brighter, yes, but no less dangerous. The silence here wasn't peace; it was warning.
Callen muttered from the rear, "Feels like we're being watched."
"You're not wrong," Eryndor said without turning.
The words had barely left his mouth when it came—fast, brutal, silent until the very last second. A blur of movement erupted from the treeline, tackling one of the students to the ground. The boy screamed before the sound was cut short, blood spraying as teeth sank deep.
"Form up!" someone shouted.
Three more of the creatures appeared—sleeker than carrion hounds, their limbs long and thin, their hides stretched tight like dried leather. Their eyes burned red, their movements twitching, jerky but impossibly quick. Stalkers.
The group panicked. Weapons flailed. Arrows missed their mark. One stalker cut through their line, slashing another student's arm open with claws that gleamed like black steel.
Eryndor surged forward, lightning already crawling along his veins. Gale Step launched him past the nearest beast, his movement a blur. He pivoted mid-step, fists charged, and struck—Lightning Surge crackled through his punch, sending the stalker staggering with a howl.
But it didn't stay down. Its body twitched, twisted unnaturally, then lunged again.
Eryndor exhaled sharply, meeting it with his palm. Crackling Palm. The discharge slammed into its chest, hurling it back into a tree. The bark splintered. This time, the creature didn't get up.
Across the clearing, Lyanna's arrows sang, each one tipped with faint energy. One pierced a stalker's eye clean through, dropping it instantly. But the others weren't slowing.
One came straight for her.
Eryndor moved before thought, wind carrying him across the field. He slammed into the stalker's side with a Tempest Spin, the spiraling energy carving a shallow crater in the ground. The beast shrieked, disoriented, and Lyanna finished it with a shot to the throat.
The last stalker was different. Larger. Smarter. It didn't charge blindly—it circled, its jaw opening wider than humanly possible. Its red gaze locked on Eryndor.
"Leader," he muttered, stepping forward. His body screamed with fatigue from yesterday's fight, but something inside him burned hotter. He clenched his fists. Test me again. I'm ready this time.
The stalker dashed.
Its claw descended, faster than the others. Eryndor braced, energy wrapping his frame. Lightning Reflection absorbed the impact, snapping back at the beast. The recoil stunned it just long enough. He slipped into the Eightfold Flow, every motion practiced yet instinctive. He moved past its swipe, twisted under its arm, and drove his palm upward—Crackling Palm, full charge.
The hit detonated against its chest. The creature's body arched unnaturally before it slammed to the ground, unmoving.
Silence returned to the clearing, broken only by ragged breathing.
The students stared at him again—not just with respect, but something sharper. Unease. Fear. They had seen him move with precision, kill with certainty. And this time, there was no hesitation in his eyes.
Eryndor wiped blood from his lip and said flatly, "If you can't keep up, you'll die out here. Don't expect me to carry dead weight."
His words landed heavy. Even Lyanna glanced at him, startled by the coldness in his tone.
But Eryndor didn't soften. Not anymore. The mission had taught him once—trust blindly, and it could kill you. Out here in the wilds, only strength and sharpness mattered. And he intended to sharpen himself until nothing could break him again.