⚔️ **CHAPTER 65 — Hunt in the Mist**
The forest was alive with motion. Mist twisted between the trees like smoke from an invisible fire, and every sound—the snap of a branch, the rustle of leaves—was a signal of danger.
Kael's body ached, hunger clawed at his stomach, and exhaustion clawed at his muscles, but Centering kept him upright. Not perfectly. Not invincible. Just enough to move, to survive, to think clearly in chaos.
"Keep your eyes open!" Mireya hissed.
Kael and the others barely had time to register her words before the first strike hit.
A black-helmed figure dropped from the trees ahead—**General Rhayel**, the Whispering Blade. His attack was lightning-fast, cutting through the air like a whip. Kael sidestepped, barely, letting the blade whistle past his shoulder. Pain shot through his muscles, but Centering kept him steady.
Tavric, the Iron Hand, sent uprooted logs crashing down. Kael twisted mid-air to vault over one, landing on uneven ground, nearly losing balance. Centering tethered mind and body—just enough.
Soryn, the Mindbreaker, hit next—not with steel, but with psychic probing. Memories of Lysa's death, the Council's executions, every failure he'd ever known assaulted Kael's thoughts. His vision blurred. Heart hammered. But he focused on **the anchor points**—weight in his legs, breath in his lungs, fingers brushing bark—and refused to crumble.
"Move!" Caelin shouted, striking Rhayel's side with his sword. Mireya blocked Tavric's next strike, using the log as leverage to shove him back. Tomas darted forward, throwing knives at Soryn's focus points, trying to break the mental grip.
Kael's legs burned, sweat stung his eyes, but Centering kept him upright. Each step, each dodge, each motion was **calculated under desperation**. He wasn't fast. Not perfect. But **he survived each attack**.
Another ambush hit from the mist—two more Council agents joining the generals. Kael rolled under a swing from Rhayel, landing in front of Mireya just as she deflected Tavric's axe. He barely had time to lift a fallen branch to block a dagger aimed at Tomas.
The mist seemed alive, bending the senses, hiding threats. Kael stumbled once—enough to make the group tense—but he corrected mid-step, relying on Centering to tether body and mind.
Veyrath observed from a ridge above. "Good," he murmured. "They're learning your limits… slowly. Push them further."
Kael adjusted, moving through the forest like a thread weaving through chaos. He feigned weakness, letting attacks overextend, then pivoted at the last second. Rhayel crashed into a tree. Tavric misjudged the log swing. Soryn's mental push met a mind **balanced enough to endure**.
The Council hesitated. Not often, not long, but enough for Kael to realize: **he could manipulate their expectations now**.
But it came at a cost. Every dodge, every misstep, every anchor required effort. Hunger gnawed, muscles screamed, mind strained—but the group pressed forward.
By dusk, the generals and their reinforcements retreated into the mist, frustrated. Kael fell to one knee, chest heaving, sweat and blood covering him. Centering had kept him alive—but barely.
Caelin gripped his shoulder. "You're barely standing, but you made them falter."
Kael wiped a trickle of blood from his temple. "It's not strength… it's balance. Average balance. Enough to survive."
Veyrath stepped closer. "Good. Average is enough to frustrate them—and you still have room to improve."
Mireya exhaled. "We survived… for now. But next time, they'll coordinate faster, harder."
Kael nodded, looking into the mist. The Council's hunt was far from over. And next time, he wouldn't just survive—he'd **choose the battlefield, choose the rhythm, and make them pay for every strike they thought would break him**.
The mist swirled around them like a living predator. Hunger, exhaustion, and mental pressure clawed at Kael relentlessly.
And he smiled faintly—desperate, but **still standing**.
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