For a moment, the only sound was Ithan's own ragged breathing, loud in his ears, chest straining against bruised ribs. Then the screams came—high, sharp, splitting the night.
The air hissed. A rain of arrows fell from the dark sky, black streaks against the lantern glow. The two boys who had fled didn't make it far—their cries choked as shafts punched through their backs, pinning them to the dirt like broken dolls.
Ithan flinched, throwing himself low. The ground shuddered with the thud of arrows striking all around him, so close he felt the rush of air as one buried itself inches from his arm. His hands clamped over his head, body curling in on itself. His heart hammered. He waited for the bite of wood and iron, for the pain that never came.
Silence followed, heavy and cruel.
Slowly, Ithan cracked his eyes open. The ground around him bristled with arrows, their fletching trembling in the wind, a cage of death that hadn't touched him. His chest hitched. It wasn't skill that had spared him—only blind chance.
"Fuck," he whispered, the word ripped from his throat.
The twang of bowstrings came again, closer this time, a low, steady rhythm from the treeline. Terror jolted him into motion. He rolled to his feet, every muscle screaming, and stumbled toward his hut. His legs were leaden, but he forced them to move faster, refusing to crouch and wait for luck a second time.
The door was almost in reach. His fingers brushed the wood when a thunderous blast split the night. The ground heaved, a rush of firelight searing across the village square. Shadows leapt tall against the huts as an explosion tore the silence apart.
In the sudden blaze, he saw them.
Figures pour out of the forest, their bodies painted and scarred, weapons glinting in the light of the flames. Their howls roll like thunder, savage and guttural, rattling the air. They are the Dionians. Their faces are twisted with war paint and ritual scars, their silhouettes monstrous in the fire's glare.
Ithan froze, spear still inside the hut, fear clawing at his chest. The thought struck him clear and cold for the first time that night: Ravenstone was no longer safe.
The forest vomited them out in waves. Torches flared in painted hands, fire trailing smoke that carried the stench of pitch. The Dionians surged forward in packs, their guttural chants pounding against the night like war drums.
The first line reached the nearest hut. One raider swung a hatchet into the doorframe, splinters flying as the others spilled in behind him. A woman's scream cut short, swallowed by the clash of steel and the thud of wood against flesh. Another group set fire to the thatch roofs, the flames catching fast, leaping from one hut to the next.
Arrows continued to fall, but no longer in random volleys. The Dionian archers aimed carefully, picking off men who tried to run or women who dared to drag their children into the open. One arrow drove straight through a lantern, showering sparks that spread fire down the road.
Ithan ducked behind his hut as a torch crashed against the wall of the one across from him. The flame clung hungrily, black smoke curling skyward. He pressed his back to the wood, breath shallow, heart drumming hard enough to shake his ribs.
The chants grew louder. "Hraaak! Hraaak!" The word, harsh and guttural, repeated in rhythm, each shout timed with the stomp of feet. The Dionians didn't fight like scattered raiders—they moved with terrifying unity, driving the villagers into a corner, hemming them against the longhouse and the square.
From his crouch, Ithan saw Garrick burst from the mercenary hall, axe already in hand. His roar cut through the panic as he cleaved into the first Dionian to cross his path. Blood sprayed, steam rising in the firelight. Behind him, more mercs spilled out, blades flashing.
But even they were being pushed back. For every raider they cut down, two more came howling out of the dark. The Dionians weren't here for plunder alone—they had come to drown Ravenstone in blood.
Ithan's hand twitched toward the door of his hut. His spear was inside. His body screamed at him to stay hidden, but his gut told him hiding wouldn't save him. The Dionians would burn everything.
The ground shook as another explosion rocked the square. Fire climbed high, lighting the night as bright as day. And in that light, Ithan saw them clearly—the raiders' eyes wild with fervor, their bodies smeared in ash and blood, every swing of their blades meant to maim, not just kill.
Ravenstone was falling, and Ithan stood at its edge, unarmed, ash-haired, and marked by fate whether he wanted it or not.
Smoke clawed at the night sky, the screams of Ravenstone curling through it. Ithan forced his legs to move, bolting for the hut. His hand fumbled on the latch, shoving the door open just as a shadow detached from the blaze behind him.
The Dionian came fast, a blur of scarred flesh and war paint. His sword gleamed in the firelight, already swinging as he barreled through the doorway after Ithan.
Ithan barely had time to dive aside. The blade crashed into the table, splitting it clean down the middle. Shards of wood flew, clattering across the dirt floor. The raider snarled, ripping the blade free, eyes wild beneath smeared black ash.
Ithan's spear leaned against the corner. Too far.
The Dionian lunged, swinging again. Ithan threw himself back, the edge missing his ribs by a breath. He scrambled, palms slipping on the dirt, his shoulder crashing into the wall. The hut shuddered.
The raider pressed forward, blows hacking through the cramped space. Each swing carved splinters from the wood, each step driving Ithan further into the corner. The smell of sweat and blood filled the hut, thick and suffocating.
Ithan's hand brushed against something—the clay cup from earlier, rolling on the floor. He snatched it up and hurled it. The Dionian flinched instinctively, raising his arm. That half-second was enough.
Ithan lunged past him, sliding across the dirt, fingers closing around the haft of his makeshift spear. He spun with all the strength he had left, thrusting forward.
The Dionian swatted the strike aside with his sword, the clash jarring Ithan's arms to the bone. The spear was nothing against steel. The raider grinned, teeth bared, and slammed the flat of his blade against Ithan's chest. The blow hurled him backward, the air punched from his lungs. He landed hard, the world tilting.
The sword rose for the killing stroke.
Ithan rolled, pure panic dragging his body into motion. The blade crashed into the floor where he'd lain, embedding itself deep in the wood. The Dionian snarled, yanking it free.
Ithan jabbed blindly, the spear's point catching the raider in the thigh. The Dionian roared, staggering. Not enough to kill, but enough to throw him off-balance.
Desperation surged. Ithan drove forward, ramming the spear forward again. The point pushed straight, piercing through the chest where no paint or scars covered the skin. The man's eyes widened. He stumbled, crashing into the broken table, his own sword slipping from his hand.
Ithan fell too, chest heaving, fingers numb around the spear. He stared at the body sprawled across the floor, blood spreading in a slow, dark stain.
Luck. Nothing else. He knew it. The spear shook in his grip as the sounds of the battle outside roared louder—screams, fire, the relentless war-cry of the Dionians.
He wasn't safe. Not yet.
Smoke clawed at the night sky, the screams of Ravenstone curling through it. Ithan forced his legs to move, bolting for the hut. His hand fumbled on the latch, shoving the door open just as a shadow detached from the blaze behind him.
The Dionian came fast, a blur of scarred flesh and war paint. His sword gleamed in the firelight, already swinging as he barreled through the doorway after Ithan.
Ithan barely had time to dive aside. The blade crashed into the table, splitting it clean down the middle. Shards of wood flew, clattering across the dirt floor. The raider snarled, ripping the blade free, eyes wild beneath smeared black ash.
Ithan's spear leaned against the corner. Too far.
The Dionian lunged, swinging again. Ithan threw himself back, the edge missing his ribs by a breath. He scrambled, palms slipping on the dirt, his shoulder crashing into the wall. The hut shuddered.
The raider pressed forward, blows hacking through the cramped space. Each swing carved splinters from the wood, each step driving Ithan further into the corner. The smell of sweat and blood filled the hut, thick and suffocating.
Ithan's hand brushed against something—the clay cup from earlier, rolling on the floor. He snatched it up and hurled it. The Dionian flinched instinctively, raising his arm. That half-second was enough.
Ithan lunged past him, sliding across the dirt, fingers closing around the haft of his makeshift spear. He spun with all the strength he had left, thrusting forward.
The Dionian swatted the strike aside with his sword, the clash jarring Ithan's arms to the bone. The spear was nothing against steel. The raider grinned, teeth bared, and slammed the flat of his blade against Ithan's chest. The blow hurled him backward, the air punched from his lungs. He landed hard, the world tilting.
The sword rose for the killing stroke.
Ithan rolled, pure panic dragging his body into motion. The blade crashed into the floor where he'd lain, embedding itself deep in the wood. The Dionian snarled, yanking it free.
Ithan jabbed blindly, the spear's point catching the raider in the thigh. The Dionian roared, staggering. Not enough to kill, but enough to throw him off-balance.
Desperation surged. Ithan drove forward, ramming the spear again. The point scraped up, catching under the raider's arm where no paint or scars covered the skin. The man's eyes widened. He stumbled, crashing into the broken table, his own sword slipping from his hand.
Ithan fell too, chest heaving, fingers numb around the spear. He stared at the body sprawled across the floor, blood spreading in a slow, dark stain.
Luck. Nothing else. He knew it. The spear shook in his grip as the sounds of the battle outside roared louder—screams, fire, the relentless war-cry of the Dionians.
He wasn't safe. Not yet.
The hut fell silent but for the hiss of blood dripping onto the dirt floor. Ithan stayed on his knees, chest heaving, the spear trembling in his hands. His ears rang with the echo of the Dionian's roar, with the crash of the sword splintering the floorboards.
For a moment, he just sat there, frozen, unable to believe he was still breathing. The stench of iron filled his nose, and sweat slicked his ash-gray hair to his temples. His amber eyes fixed on the dead man's hand, still reaching for the sword even in death.
He had survived—barely. Luck. Nothing but luck.
The silence shattered.
The door burst open, banging against the wall. Another Dionian filled the frame, broader, heavier, his face smeared in black and red. Where the last had been reckless, this one moved with grim certainty. His sword flashed up and came down in a single arc.
Ithan caught it on his spear, but the impact rattled every bone in his arms, forcing him back. The Dionian pressed forward, strike after strike hammering against the weak shaft, each one splintering the wood further. Ithan stumbled, trying to keep distance, but the hut was too small. His back slammed against the wall.
The spear snapped under a crushing blow. Ithan barely dodged the next strike, the blade grazing his shoulder and opening fire-hot pain down his arm. His weapon was nothing but jagged wood now.
The Dionian grinned, teeth gleaming in the firelight. He raised his sword high, both hands on the hilt, poised to split Ithan in two.
And then the wall of the hut exploded inward.
Garrick came through the smoke like a thunderbolt, axe already in motion. His roar shook the rafters as he brought the blade down. The Dionian had half a heartbeat to turn before steel split him from collarbone to chest. Blood sprayed the wall as the raider collapsed in a heap, eyes wide, mouth still frozen mid-curse.
"Up, boy!" Garrick barked, yanking his axe free with a wet crack. His eyes found Ithan, sharp and fierce even in the chaos. "No time for shaking. Ravenstone burns, and we've got killing to do."
Garrick seized Ithan by the collar and hauled him upright, ignoring his staggered breath and the blood dripping down his arm. "On your feet!" he snarled, shoving him toward the door. "You've lived through worse than a scratch—move!"
The night outside swallowed them whole. Ravenstone was fire and screams, smoke pouring from thatched roofs as flames licked the sky. Dionians swarmed the streets, blades flashing, torches flung into homes. Children cried. Men died trying to shield their families.
"Stay close!" Garrick's axe rose and fell, hacking through the first raider that barred their path. He shoved Ithan forward with his free hand. Together, they cut through the chaos, heading for the mercenary hall.
The bar stood like a fortress at the edge of the square, its windows glowing red with firelight, silhouettes clashing within. Mercenaries spilled from the doorway, steel glinting, their battle cries breaking against the Dionian chants. Marta's voice roared above the din, bellowing orders, her apron soaked in blood as she wielded a butcher's cleaver like a war-axe.
Garrick and Ithan crashed into the fray. The clash of iron rang in Ithan's ears, the stink of sweat and blood pressing against him as he swung what was left of his splintered spear. Every strike felt clumsy, desperate, but Garrick was there—roaring, striking, a whirlwind of violence that carved space around them.
Then the chanting changed.
It deepened, low and rhythmic, rolling from the throats of the raiders as if the earth itself hummed with them. The Dionians pulled back slightly, their eyes alight with savage fervor. From the firelit street ahead, a figure strode into view.
He was taller than the rest, shoulders painted in spirals of ash and crimson. Animal bones dangled from his braids, clattering as he moved. His eyes gleamed with something more than madness—an unsettling focus, like fire that knew where it wanted to burn. In his hand was no simple sword but a jagged staff, its head carved into the shape of a snarling wolf. Dark smoke coiled from it, writhing like living things.
The air bent around him. Flames guttered, then flared higher, as if the fire itself obeyed. The mercenaries' roars faltered, unease seeping through even hardened killers.
The war-leader raised the staff and spoke words Ithan didn't understand. The ground beneath their feet split, jagged cracks spilling heat, and a ripple of force shoved men back as though the night itself exhaled.
"Stay behind me!" Garrick roared, planting himself between Ithan and the figure. His axe rose, knuckles white. "This one's mine."
The Dionian charged, staff striking like a blade. Garrick met him with steel, the clash shaking the air. Sparks showered. Blow after blow fell—Garrick's strength against the raider's unnatural power. Each strike drove Garrick back, boots grinding trenches into the dirt.
Still, he fought like the bull he was, swinging with wild fury, catching the war-leader's side and drawing blood. The raider staggered, snarled, then slammed the staff into the ground. A shockwave rippled outward, hurling Garrick off balance. The Dionian moved with sudden speed, too fast, staff spinning in a blur.
Ithan's heart lurched.
The staff pierced Garrick's chest, the jagged wood bursting out his back in a spray of blood. For a heartbeat, the big man's eyes widened—shock, then defiance, then nothing. His axe slipped from his fingers as his knees buckled.
"NO!" The word ripped from Ithan's throat as Garrick crumpled, the light leaving him in the dirt.
The Dionian war-leader yanked his staff free, Garrick's blood steaming as it dripped. He turned his head, eyes locking on Ithan through the haze of smoke and fire. And Ithan froze, amber eyes wide, the world narrowing to that gaze. Then it came: a sharp, piercing whistle that split the night.
The raiders answered at once. Like hounds called back, they pulled away from the mercenaries, slipping into the smoke and shadows of the burning streets. The war-leader held Ithan's gaze a moment longer, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile—then turned and strode into the firelit dark, his warriors vanishing with him.
Ravenstone burned. Garrick's blood pooled at Ithan's feet. And the boy stood frozen, ash-haired and wide-eyed, as the echoes of the whistle faded into silence.