Arthur woke before dawn.
There had been no sound to wake him. No dream. His eyes opened because staying asleep felt wrong. He sat up slowly, hand already on his sword, and listened to the forest.
Nothing.
He packed without lighting a fire and left before the fog thinned.
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The road dipped into low ground where mist clung close to the earth. Arthur kept his pace steady, steps measured, eyes forward. Visibility was short.Sounds carried poorly. He adjusted his breathing,keeping it shallow.
Voices reached him before shapes did.
Three men stood across the road.
They were not the kind who pretended. Leather armor worn smooth by use. Weapons maintained, not scavenged. One carried a spear, another a sword, the third a short axe. They did not move when Arthur stopped.
"You're coming from the village," the swordsman said.
Arthur said "Yes."
"And you're the one who bury the dead?"
"Yes."
The man nodded once. "Then you saw what happens to people who don't pay."
Arthur felt his jaw tighten.
"Move aside," Arthur said.
The axeman laughed. "You think you're in a position to ask?"
Arthur drew his sword.
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The spear thrust came fast.
Arthur barely stepped aside. The tip grazed his cloak. He struck the shaft with his blade, knocking it wide, and moved in before the man could recover. He hit the spearman's shoulder hard, felt bone give. The man screamed and stumbled back.
The swordsman attacked immediately.
Steel rang. Arthur blocked once, twice, then felt the impact drive him backward. The axeman moved in from the side. Arthur turned too late. The axe clipped his arm. Pain flared. Warmth followed.
Something snapped.
Arthur surged forward.
He stopped thinking about spacing. About caution. About restraint. His world narrowed to targets and movement.
He struck the axeman across the throat.
Not clean. Not quick.
The man dropped, hands clawing uselessly at the wound. Blood spread across the road.
Arthur turned before the body hit the ground.
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The swordsman hesitated.
That hesitation cost him his life.
Arthur charged. He took a shallow cut across the ribs and did not slow. He drove the swordsman back step by step, blows heavy, unrelenting. The man slipped in the mud.
Arthur did not stop.
He struck once. Twice. The blade sank deep on the third. The swordsman stopped moving.
Arthur stood over him, chest heaving, vision tight.
The spearman tried to crawl away.
Arthur followed.
The man raised his hands, crying out, begging to be spared words breaking apart in panic. Arthur did not listen. He drove his sword down into the man's back and did not pull it free until the body went still.
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Silence returned.
Arthur stood among the bodies, blood on his hands, his sword, his cloak. His breathing came hard and uneven. His heart would not slow.
He looked at the three men.
Dead.
All of them.
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The rush faded slowly.
His hands began to shake. His legs felt weak. He leaned on his sword, swallowing hard.
He had not planned it.
He had not chosen how far it went.
But he had not stopped.
Arthur wiped his blade clean on the dead man's cloak. Then again. Then a third time. It did not feel clean.
He did not bury them.
He did not speak.
He left them where they lay and walked on.
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By the time the fog thinned, the road was clear again.
Arthur's arm throbbed. Blood soaked the edge of his sleeve. He tore a strip from his cloak and bound it tight without slowing.
He did not look back.
Killing had been easier the second and third time.
That knowledge settled in him, cold and heavy.
Arthur kept walking.