Hannah couldn’t stop looking at Garn.

  Not his stance.

  Not his wounds.

  His hands—and the fact that fire had answered him at all.

  Zamora already knew Garn could bring heat when he had to. That wasn’t what bothered Hannah.

  What bothered her was the why.

  And the pale knight standing across from them didn’t give her room to find it.

  His armor caught the dying light like silver laid over bone—clean lines, no dents, no scuffs that matched the bodies on the ground. That was what tore Hannah’s memory open.

  Not his voice.

  They’d been too far away to hear him that night.

  But she remembered the armor beside Natalia—pale plating in torchlight, the calm figure near her while the woods screamed.

  Her breath turned cold.

  “I’ve seen that armor,” Hannah muttered.

  The pale knight’s eyes flicked to her. Not recognition—just notice, like she’d become mildly interesting.

  Then his smile shifted, like something clicked.

  “Ah,” he said softly. “I remember now.”

  His gaze drifted past Hannah for a heartbeat, back to that night.

  “Natalia said she was being watched,” he continued, calm as dusk. “And then she started cutting the woods open until someone screamed.”

  He looked back at Hannah and laughed—lazy, cruel.

  “So there were more of you hiding.”

  Hannah’s grip tightened.

  The pale knight’s smile widened.

  “Natalia did kill two enemy scouts,” he added, almost impressed. “I remember thinking: someone just got very unlucky.”

  His eyes raked Hannah up and down.

  Then he laughed again.

  “Were they your friends?”

  The words landed like a slap.

  Julien’s jaw locked so hard the tendons stood out.

  Greyson—still on the ground, still breathing like his ribs hated him—didn’t speak. But his hand curled into the dirt and gripped until his knuckles turned white.

  Hannah’s vision narrowed.

  “Stop talking,” she said, voice low.

  The pale knight tilted his head, pleased.

  “Oh?” he asked. “Did I strike something tender?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “I saw how your people die,” he continued, mild and clean. “The brave ones surge forward. The smart ones try to plan. The rest… they wait for a rescue that never comes.”

  He let the pause hang, savoring it.

  “Then they make sounds that don’t matter,” he said softly. “Right before they stop.”

  Hannah’s spear tip lifted a fraction.

  Julien’s fingers tightened around his bow like he wanted to crush the wood.

  Greyson’s grip dug deeper into the soil.

  Zamora’s staff twitched—just once—like violence trying to leap free.

  The pale knight’s eyes moved between them as if counting which one would break first.

  Then he looked back at Garn, bored of them already.

  His scimitar lifted into a clean curve.

  The air around it tightened—not like the crushing weight Hannah had felt from Tempered fighters.

  Tempered pressure hit you like a forge door opening—heat and mass and inevitability.

  This was different.

  This was Honed.

  Not heavy.

  Sharp.

  Like a wire drawn tight in the dark. Like an edge that didn’t need strength to hurt you—only placement.

  “Honed,” Hannah breathed.

  The pale knight heard her and smiled as if she’d complimented him.

  “Show me,” he said softly.

  Garn didn’t answer.

  He moved.

  Heat snapped behind his legs—tight, controlled—and he crossed the distance like a launched stone, driving a punch toward the pale knight’s throat.

  The pale knight didn’t block like a normal man.

  He angled.

  A shoulder roll. A half-step. Garn’s fist grazed pale armor instead of crushing windpipe.

  Then the scimitar snapped sideways.

  Not a cut—flat of the blade slapping Garn’s forearm.

  It wasn’t overpowering.

  It was perfectly placed.

  The impact carried just enough refined pressure to make Garn’s arm go numb for half a beat—like nerves had been told to stop.

  Garn’s eyes tightened.

  He tried to follow with the other hand—

  The scimitar kissed his shoulder in a shallow line and pulled away like it didn’t care enough to finish.

  Pain flashed hot.

  Garn didn’t stagger.

  But his breathing sharpened.

  And Orion moved.

  Not all at once.

  Not as a mob.

  As a decision.

  Four knights broke from the formation with clean purpose.

  Two peeled straight toward Greyson—not to fight, not to restrain.

  To finish.

  The other two angled for Finn—one reaching for his collar, the other already moving to cut off his retreat.

  Finn’s eyes went wide.

  Greyson, still down, still struggling to pull air into bruised ribs, saw them coming and bared his teeth like anger could stand for legs.

  Hannah’s voice snapped into command.

  “Move to kill!”

  Zamora didn’t answer.

  She became motion.

  She intercepted the pair going for Greyson.

  Her staff cracked into the first knight’s face with an iron-end strike that collapsed him mid-step. The second tried to slip around her, blade low, aiming for Greyson’s throat like it was routine.

  Hannah cut the lane.

  She stepped across the angle and drove her spear shaft into the knight’s throat line—hard enough to choke him and ruin the strike. The knight staggered.

  Zamora finished him with a short temple blow that dropped him like a candle snuffed.

  Behind them, the other two were already on Finn.

  One grabbed for him—

  Finn jerked back.

  The second tried to hook behind him—cutting off his escape.

  Julien loosed.

  His arrow hit the first attacker’s wrist and forced the grab to fail. The blade in that hand clattered into the dirt.

  The second attacker didn’t hesitate. He surged again, faster now, trying to put Finn on the ground before anyone could reset.

  Hannah pivoted—spear tip low—forcing him to commit to a line.

  He committed.

  Zamora punished it.

  Her staff slammed into his ribs and folded him. She struck again—jaw—clean and final.

  Four knights.

  Down.

  But the pale knight didn’t even glance at their corpses.

  He kept Garn where he wanted him—just far enough away to make every close-in attempt expensive.

  Garn lunged again.

  The pale knight’s scimitar kissed Garn’s shoulder shallowly and withdrew like it had never been in danger.

  Not overwhelming strength.

  Just perfect timing.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Finn watched Garn get carved by decisions that were cleaner than his own.

  His breathing sped up.

  His hands shook.

  Then his eyes hardened.

  Decision replaced fear.

  Finn dropped his gaze to the fallen and grabbed a sword by the hilt.

  Zamora’s head snapped.

  “Finn—!”

  Finn didn’t listen.

  He dragged the blade across his palm.

  Blood welled instantly, bright and fast.

  Julien’s eyes widened.

  “What are you doing?”

  Finn dipped two fingers into his own blood and started drawing on his forearm—fast, jagged symbols with sharp angles that didn’t belong to handwriting.

  Each completed stroke glowed faintly as it finished.

  Hannah saw it and her stomach tightened.

  Runes. Blood-binding. Amplification.

  Finn finished the forearm symbol, then pressed his bleeding palm flat and drew a second jagged mark into the center of his hand.

  His voice came out strained.

  “Amplification.”

  The symbol on his arm lit up—ice-blue and hungry.

  Cold snapped into the air.

  Finn screamed as the skin around the symbol tore, as if the magic demanded flesh as payment. The glow intensified. Blood ran down his elbow in thin lines.

  Finn’s knees dipped.

  The backlash hit him hard.

  Julien moved immediately—stepping in close, catching Finn by the shoulder and back before he could collapse.

  “Stay up,” Julien hissed. “Stay with me.”

  Finn clenched his teeth, eyes wet, furious.

  “I can—” he choked.

  “You’re going to,” Julien said, bracing him like a post.

  In front of Finn, a giant ice spike formed—violent, jagged, born from cold and intent. It wasn’t delicate.

  It was a spear.

  Finn’s arm shook. His symbol glowed brighter, skin raw and shining.

  He yelled Garn’s name like he was throwing the spike with his voice.

  “GARN!”

  The pale knight finally gave Finn real attention—interest, not panic—his stance shifting just enough to prepare to slip the line and punish the attempt.

  Garn saw it.

  He saw the ice spike charging.

  He saw the pale knight’s dodge forming.

  And Garn made a choice.

  Inside him, Akash stirred—annoyed, awake.

  You’re greedy, she purred.

  One more, Garn thought back, raw.

  Akash pressed behind his ribs like heat behind a door.

  If you waste it, I’ll let you burn.

  Garn didn’t answer.

  He gathered everything Akash would allow—every controlled ounce of borrowed power—and forced it into his right hand.

  Not into the air.

  Not into a wave.

  Into a fist.

  Heat condensed so hard it felt like his bones might crack.

  Finn’s ice spike launched forward like a thrown mountain.

  The pale knight moved—fast—barely fast enough, slipping the spear’s main line by a hair, scimitar lifting—

  And Garn punched.

  His flaming fist struck the ice spike’s side.

  Ice and fire met and detonated.

  A violent explosion of mist and shattered frost erupted outward—white and blinding—swallowing distance, swallowing shape, muffling sound.

  Hannah didn’t waste it.

  “MOVE!”

  Julien didn’t drag Finn this time—Finn was too weak, too unstable.

  Julien hooked an arm under Finn’s legs and around his back and picked him up, hauling him into a carry as Finn hissed through pain and clutched his wounded arm against his chest.

  Finn’s head turned over Julien’s shoulder on instinct—and through the white haze he caught Garn in profile. For a heartbeat, it looked like someone flipped a switch inside him: the air around him changed, the heat sharpened, and Finn felt it without understanding why.

  Zamora went for Greyson instantly.

  One hand under his arm, the other hooking his waist—she hauled him up and threw him over her shoulder in a brutal, practiced lift. Greyson made a strangled protest that turned into a cough.

  Hannah ran beside them, spear up—not because she could see, but because she refused to look defenseless.

  Garn followed last, body shaking from strain, the heat fading unevenly as he forced his legs to keep moving.

  They ran blind through the white.

  Behind them, metal rang once—faint—like a scimitar cutting fog.

  But the cloud held.

  And that was enough.

  They didn’t stop until their lungs burned and the white finally thinned into ordinary dusk again.

  Julien released Finn first.

  Finn dropped to his knees immediately, gasping, clutching his arm like it was the only thing keeping him together. Blood slicked his palm. The torn skin around the symbol looked raw and angry.

  Zamora slowed a step later and dumped Greyson off her shoulder.

  Not gently.

  Greyson hit the dirt with a grunt, rolled onto his side, and coughed like his ribs were trying to leave.

  “Love the… travel method,” he rasped, wheezing.

  Zamora didn’t even look at him.

  Her staff stayed up.

  Her body stayed between Finn and the direction they’d come from.

  Julien’s bow was already in his hands again. He scanned the shadows for pale armor, jaw tight, eyes hunting.

  Hannah stood still for one heartbeat—listening.

  No footsteps closing.

  No calm laughter.

  No scimitar whisper.

  Only their breathing.

  Then her gaze snapped to Garn.

  All the questions she’d been forced to swallow came back at once.

  “What the hell are you?” she demanded.

  Garn’s chest rose and fell hard. His arm trembled. The heat in him was gone now—left behind like a door slammed shut.

  Hannah took one step closer.

  “If you were a mage,” she said, voice cracking with anger and something uglier under it, “why didn’t you save them?”

  The words weren’t about this fight.

  They were about that night.

  The pale knight laughing.

  The forest screaming.

  The friends who didn’t get pulled out of a blade’s path.

  Garn opened his mouth—

  Hannah slapped him.

  Sharp. Final.

  Garn staggered, already weakened, and dropped to one knee.

  Hannah didn’t stop.

  She followed him down like grief had hands and mounted him, fists coming fast—rage swinging with every strike.

  “Say something!” she spat.

  Garn tried.

  She didn’t let him.

  Greyson lifted his head from the dirt, eyes burning, fingers clawing into the ground like he wanted to stand and couldn’t.

  Julien’s arrow slid onto the string on pure instinct—not aimed at Hannah, but ready for anyone who moved wrong.

  Zamora moved.

  Fast.

  Zamora kicked Hannah off Garn in one clean motion and sent her into a large stone nearby with a heavy impact.

  Hannah gasped, shock replacing fury for half a second.

  Zamora stepped over Garn like a guard dog over its wounded.

  Staff raised.

  Eyes flat.

  “Touch him again,” Zamora said, voice low and murderous, “and you die.”

  Julien’s bow snapped up.

  Arrow nocked.

  Aimed at Zamora’s chest.

  “Not another step,” Julien said, voice tight.

  Zamora didn’t blink.

  “You loose that,” she said, “and I’ll still kill you before it matters.”

  Finn shouted, voice cracking.

  “STOP!”

  Everyone froze—because it was Finn’s voice, and it sounded like someone breaking in half.

  Finn pushed himself up, shaking, blood on his palm, torn symbol skin burning on his arm. He looked at Hannah first—then Zamora—then Julien.

  Then at Garn on the ground, breathing hard, bruised, silent.

  “Garn’s fire isn’t his,” Finn said. “It’s contracted beast mana.”

  Hannah’s eyes narrowed, still wild.

  “What?”

  Finn swallowed.

  “He’s not a mage,” Finn said. “He’s a contractor.”

  Julien’s arrow didn’t lower.

  “A contractor?” he repeated.

  “Rare,” Finn cut in. “Rarer than a mage.”

  Hannah pushed herself up from the stone slowly, one hand on her ribs, eyes still burning.

  “What does it matter?” she snapped. “Power is power. He hid it while people died.”

  Finn shook his head hard.

  “He didn’t hide it,” Finn said, urgent. “And I know because I saw it.”

  Hannah’s stare sharpened.

  “Saw what.”

  Finn’s breath hitched with pain.

  “When Julien was carrying me,” Finn said, voice rough, “I looked at Garn—and it was like someone flipped a switch. One second there was nothing… the next there was pressure. Heat. Like a door opened.”

  Julien’s grip tightened on his bow.

  Finn kept going.

  “That wasn’t Garn deciding,” Finn said. “That was the contract allowing it.”

  Hannah’s face tightened.

  “Explain better.”

  “The beast,” Finn said. “The contracted beast. It lets him use its power through him. That’s what you saw.”

  Finn’s thoughts spun anyway, heavy and dangerous.

  A contractor… a mortal who made a contract with a mythical creature…

  Sweat slipped down his temple.

  Where did he get one? How did he convince it—

  A wave of pressure slammed into Finn.

  Hot. Ancient. Suffocating.

  Not to kill.

  To warn.

  Finn’s knees buckled for a heartbeat. His vision blurred. A message pressed into him like a hand on his head:

  Don’t pry.

  Finn swallowed hard and forced his head down like an apology.

  The pressure eased.

  Hannah saw it.

  Saw Finn’s sudden collapse and recovery.

  Saw fear that wasn’t aimed at Orion.

  Slowly, Hannah stepped forward again.

  Everyone tensed—Julien ready, Zamora guarding, Greyson still coughing in the dirt.

  Hannah lifted one hand.

  “I’m not hurting him,” she said quietly.

  She knelt beside Garn.

  Her hands—still shaking—reached for his arm.

  Garn flinched.

  Then stopped.

  Hannah helped him sit up.

  Helped him stand.

  Awkward. Heavy. Human.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, low.

  Garn swallowed and nodded once.

  “It’s alright,” he rasped.

  Hannah hesitated.

  Then—quick, almost angry at herself—she kissed his cheek.

  Just once.

  Zamora’s grip on her staff tightened until her knuckles whitened.

  Greyson, still on the ground, managed a wheezing smirk.

  “Careful,” Greyson rasped, smirking through the pain. “If you keep doing that… she’s gonna hit Garn again out of jealousy.”

  Zamora’s eyes cut toward him—cold.

  “Shut up,” she said.

  Julien finally lowered his bow fully and stepped to Finn’s side, helping him steady without touching the torn symbol skin.

  Hannah started walking again.

  Toward the capital.

  Toward whatever safety existed beyond trees and Orion.

  And the others followed—because moving was the only way to stay alive.

  The white finally thinned.

  Mist slid away in slow sheets, reluctant to give the world back its edges.

  The pale knight stood still until it did.

  Scimitar down. Breath steady. Armor filmed with cold moisture and fine frost-dust. His eyes tracked nothing at first—just listened.

  No footsteps closing.

  No voices.

  Only debris settling and the faint drip of meltwater off metal.

  They were gone.

  Of course they were.

  He exhaled through his nose and looked at what the mist had left behind.

  Bodies.

  Broken shapes.

  A gap where a clean fight should have been.

  His gaze slid to the headless one, still smoking faintly at the neck. He stared at it a beat longer than necessary.

  Then his brow lifted.

  “…Two,” he said aloud, like he was still annoyed at the number.

  One carving blood-symbols into skin to force ice into the world.

  And the other—

  The other moved like a fighter and carried fire like it was a trigger. No chant. No distance. Just heat that turned on and off like a door being opened and slammed.

  He let out a quiet laugh, sharp with irritation.

  “A fire user who fights,” he murmured. “Of course.”

  His eyes drifted across the aftermath again, measuring the dead men, the wasted time, the way the whole encounter had stopped being simple the moment the mist bloomed.

  Then he sighed—long and theatrical, like the world had inconvenienced him.

  “Natalia is going to yell at me for this,” he muttered.

  He took a step, then paused, like the thought caught up late and decided to be funny.

  “Who knew I’d witness two mages on the same day,” he said, voice dry.

  His hand rose to his helmet.

  With a single motion, he pulled it free.

  The dusk revealed a young man’s face—too calm for the violence behind him—framed by pure white hair that fell loose and bright against the dark.

  His eyes were red.

  The red of blood seen up close.

  Takil Lunaris.

  House Lunaris.

  A name that carried weight even when spoken quietly.

  He ran a thumb along the edge of his scimitar, watching the last frost melt, and smiled faintly—more to himself than anyone else.

  The younger bastard brother of Natalia.

  The same House.

  The same blood.

  And judging by the mess behind him—

  the same talent for making the world worse.