---
The gunshot still rang in Kogan's ears.
The echo faded slowly, swallowed by the forest. Smoke drifted from where Kael stood, the sawed-off weapon already vanished back into his coat.
Kogan blinked once, then snapped into motion.
He dropped to his knees beside Silas, massive hands pressing down hard around the embedded blade.
"Hold on, little rat." Kogan's voice was rough. "Keep still."
Silas hissed through his teeth, face drained of color.
"Get off… you heavy ox… you're crushing it…"
"Move."
Bren stepped in, nudging Kogan aside with his hip. His face had gone pale as he clutched his stomach, still winded from the kick, but his other hand was already pulling supplies from his belt.
"You're trying to stop the blood by squeezing the last drop out of him." Bren breathed carefully.
He knelt in the snow. His movements changed—the hand that had just wielded a dagger with deadly intent was now steady and precise.
He gripped the hilt of the embedded blade, braced his other hand against Silas's shoulder, and pulled. The steel came free with a wet sound. Blood welled immediately.
Bren pulled a small roll of linen and a flask of strong alcohol from his belt.
"This will sting."
He poured the alcohol directly into the wound. Silas arched his back, a strangled cry escaping his throat. Bren kept pouring. He cleaned the edges with quick, efficient swipes, then packed it tight with a wad of clean cloth and began to bind it.
"Shoulder blade took the worst of it." Bren worked as he spoke. "Bone is chipped, muscle torn, but the lung is intact. You're lucky. Any lower and you'd be drowning in your own blood."
He tied the final knot and patted Silas on the good shoulder.
"Done. You'll live to steal another day."
Bren sat back on his heels, wincing as he pressed a hand to his own stomach. "That bastard had legs like iron. Thought he was going to crack my ribs when he kicked me."
Silas let out a shaky breath, then looked at Griggs. His eyes were hard.
"Why is it me?" He hissed through his teeth. "I'm a thief, a gods-damned thief. I should be picking locks, keeping watch from the back. Getting stabbed is your job."
Griggs looked away, his face tight with guilt. "I told you to loosen the ropes. If I'd kept quiet—"
"Yeah." Silas spat. "If you'd kept quiet."
Silence fell heavy between them.
Griggs's jaw worked. He looked down at his hands. Farmer's hands, once. Now scarred from holding a shield.
He'd only been through two real battles. Both times, the enemy had been clear—different races, hostile, armed. He knew what to do with those.
But this? A man who looked like a victim one moment and a monster the next?
He'd thought he was being kind.
"Next time I'll keep my mouth shut." Griggs's voice was quiet.
Silas glanced at him, then away. He said nothing.
Jarek watched from the side, nursing his own bruised arm where he'd been thrown into the tree. He looked at Bren with a new expression.
"You really are an all-rounder. I thought Kogan was just blowing hot air when he said you could do everything."
Bren wiped the blood from his hands onto the snow, looking up with a bright, friendly grin despite the pain in his ribs.
"That's a must! Walking the path of life, you gotta have a few tricks in the bag, right? You need to know how to break things and fix them too, or who's gonna fix me?"
He stood up, dusting off his knees as if he'd just finished gardening instead of battlefield surgery.
Kael watched Bren for a second longer than necessary. The man was too perfect. Too adaptable.
But for now, he was useful.
---
Jarek finally broke the silence, his voice still shaky. "Captain... what was that weapon?"
Griggs looked up, eyes wide. "I told you. I told all of you. Kael has a thunder-stick. Sawed barrels. Fires lead."
"I thought you were drunk," Kogan muttered. "Or making up stories."
"Told you then. You all laughed."
Jarek stared at the blood-spray painted across the snow. "I'm... I'm sorry I laughed."
Kogan grunted. "Yeah. Me too."
Silas, pale and sweating, managed a weak grin. "So what you're saying is... Griggs was right about something. Write that down. Historic moment."
"Fuck off, Silas."
But the humor died quickly. The reality of what they'd just seen—what that weapon had done—settled over them like a weight.
---
"Bren. Check the body."
Bren blinked, then looked over at the corpse. "Captain, he's dead. Very dead. I can confirm that from here."
"I want to know what made him like that. Check him."
Bren's grin faded. He walked over to the body and crouched, cutting through what remained of the blood-matted wool tunic.
The others moved closer.
The farmer's torso was exposed. Pale skin, streaked with dirt and blood. But beneath that—
"Look at this." Bren traced a finger along the man's ribcage.
There was nothing extra on him. Just skin stretched tight over bone and sinew.
The muscle was drawn thin and hard, corded and lean. Arms, chest, core—everything pared down to pure function.
"This body belongs to a fighter. Someone who's survived through conditioning. Through repetition. This is what's left when everything else gets burned away."
Kogan grunted. "Explains the strength."
"Strength is one thing. But did you see how he moved? That speed? That reaction time?" Jarek's voice shook.
"When he dropped to all fours and came at me like a mad dog—" He swallowed hard. "I froze. Just… froze. Forgot the bow was even in my hands."
"Coordination." Griggs stared at the corpse. "He spun mid-air while pulling Silas under him and still had the control to stab him in the back. That's..."
"Inhuman." Silas finished, his voice bitter. "That's what that was."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "He was docile before. Terrified. Broken."
"And then he changed." Kogan's voice was flat.
Bren continued his examination, peeling back more fabric. Then he paused.
"Here."
On the man's left forearm, partially hidden by dried blood, was a tattoo. Precise. Deliberate.
A circle, bisected by a vertical line, with strange markings radiating outward like the spokes of a wheel.
"Anyone recognize this?" Kogan leaned in.
Silence.
Griggs shook his head. Jarek frowned, squinting at the symbol.
"Some kind of cult marking?" Jarek offered.
"Maybe." Bren's fingers moved to the man's neck, then his wrists. He frowned. "There's more. Look at the veins here—see how they're darker? Almost black under the skin."
He pressed down gently on the man's forearm.
Then he froze.
"The muscle is twitching."
Everyone went still.
"What?" Kogan's hand went to his hammer.
"The muscle." Bren's voice was steady, but his eyes were wide. "It's still moving. Under the skin."
Kael felt it then.
Something wrong.
His instincts screamed. The same feeling he'd had in the alley before the ambush. The same crawling sense of danger that had kept him alive when others died.
"Cut the markings off him. All of them."
Bren looked up sharply. "Captain?"
"Do it. Now."
"And take the head."
Steel moved. Bren's knife worked methodically, peeling the tattooed skin from the forearm in a single, clean strip. The flesh came away like wet parchment, dark veins still visible beneath.
He moved to the other symbols—one on the chest, another at the base of the neck.
Then he took the head.
The blade cut clean. When it was done, Bren slid the head into the burlap sack he carried and cinched it shut. The strips of marked skin went into a smaller pouch.
Silence fell over the group.
Kael stared down at what remained of the body, his expression unreadable.
Valen's orders had been simple: bring back a body. Any body. Someone to pin the blame on, someone to show the nobles.
But Kael had wanted more. He'd wanted the truth. Wanted to interrogate the man, get answers.
He'd thought capturing him alive was the smart play.
He'd been wrong.
Silas had nearly died for that mistake.
His jaw tightened.
*Next time, steel first. Questions later. If they're breathing and they're a threat, they won't be for long.*
He looked toward Blackstone Keep.
"We're done here. Move out."
"Captain," Kogan gestured at the headless corpse. "What about the rest?"
"Leave it. We have what we need."
Kael started walking.
"We've wasted enough time."
---
Silas struggled to his feet, Bren supporting him on one side. He looked back at the blood-stained snow where he'd nearly died.
"Next time I'm staying at the back. Way at the back."
His teeth clenched, upper body held rigid, afraid to move even an inch for fear of tearing the wound in his shoulder blade.
Griggs walked beside them, jaw tight, hands clenched.
The forest was silent. The sun, cold and white through the bare branches, gave light but offered nothing else.
They walked.
Behind them, the headless body lay in the snow, forgotten.
Ahead, in the burlap sack Bren carried, something moved.
Just once.
The severed head's eyelid twitched.
Then was still.