The man was the sa one he had seen earlier that afternoon.
His blond hair was a tangled ss, dulled by blood and ash, but his face—though now covered in wounds and dust—was unmistakable. Riven would never forget it. This was the man who had found him spying on the battlefield from the tall grass, who had gripped his neck without hesitation and threatened to slit his throat if he dared speak a word about their infiltration.
An infiltrator from the Kingdom of Arkham.
Riven quickly ducked and slipped behind a thick tree trunk, dropping his sack of weapons without a sound. His chest pounded, but his gaze remained sharp. He peeked through the branches, eyes fixed on the blonde man’s movents.
His condition was horrendous.
His right arm was gone—severed either at the shoulder or elbow, Riven couldn’t tell. His left hand still gripped a sword, though barely. His fingers trembled under its weight. His steps faltered, his body a wreck of burn wounds, the flesh blistered and blackened like charred wood. His every movent looked brittle, as if his fra could collapse at any second.
And yet... his eyes burned with fire.
With hatred. With resolve.
And his path was clear.
He was following the trail of blood.
The sa blood left behind by the mysterious woman now sleeping inside Riven’s house.
Riven held his breath.
The man wasn’t hunting him.
He was hunting her—the woman who, until hours ago, had been a stranger, unconscious and bleeding on the battlefield. A woman now under the protection of his ho. She was the target of this mission.
Riven forced himself to recall the fragnts of the conversation he had overheard earlier in the day, muffled between the screams of dying soldiers and the thunder of distant magic.
"Assassination mission..."
That was the only phrase he had heard clearly.
His eyes dropped to the longsword strapped to his hip, still wrapped in worn cloth. Inside was the Enchanted weapon. He didn’t know its na or power, only that it pulsed with a cold, uncanny energy that raised goosebumps the mont he first touched it.
And now, it seed he might have to use it.
A question pressed into his mind, cold and sharp.
Should he fight this man... and protect the woman?
A stranger. Soone he didn’t know. Soone who might very well bring trouble into his life. But also soone clearly marked for death.
That man—this killer from Arkham—could’ve killed Riven earlier when he found him. He didn’t. He had only threatened him, then walked away. rcy? No. That wasn’t the point. The point was: if the mission failed because of this woman’s survival, that rcy might co back to haunt him.
Worse still... what if the others were still out there? Riven rembered it well—ten infiltrators in total. Now, only one was in sight.
Were the other nine still alive? Or had they perished in the battle?
If they were alive... and they ca for the house...
Riven bit his lower lip.
He was no soldier. He’d never fought with a sword in a real battle. How could he possibly stand against an elite soldier from Arkham, even one half-dead?
But inside that house... Mira was waiting.
That little girl. The only family he had left.
If he did nothing, that man would find the house. He’d find the woman. And, without question, he’d kill anyone in his way.
That included Mira.
Riven bowed his head.
His hand moved slowly to the cloth-wrapped bundle at his waist.
"This is the dumbest decision I’ve ever made..." he whispered. "Going up against soone like him... for a woman I don’t even know."
He drew in a long breath. The night air cut into his lungs like ice.
"When she wakes up," he muttered, "she’d better pay back big ti for saving her life."
Carefully, he loosened the bindings around the sword. Slowly, he drew it—its silver hilt glead faintly in the moonlight. And as his fingers closed around it...
A strange calm washed over him.
The blade didn’t speak in words, but in feeling. A stillness that wasn’t his. A courage that didn’t co from him.
He held it with both hands, then stood slowly, his back pressed to the tree. Eyes and ears sharpened, waiting for the right mont.
The man’s footsteps drew closer. The drag of his boots, his labored breathing, the soft growl in his throat. Riven could see him clearly now—burns across his chest and neck, blood still dripping from the stump of his arm. But he walked on.
Approaching the very tree where Riven hid.
One... two... three steps more.
Even in this state, Riven knew—this man was still far more dangerous than he was.
The footsteps closed in.
Riven gripped the sword tighter. His breath caught, heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs. Every mont stretched into eternity. Every faint sound—the crunch of dead leaves, the snap of a twig, the whisper of cloth—etched into his ears.
The man passed the tree.
Now.
Without another thought, Riven burst from the shadows. He let out a sharp, hoarse shout and raised the sword above his head, bringing it down in a powerful overhead slash—aid straight at the man’s shoulder.
But—
What happened next was nothing like he imagined.
The strike missed.
In a blink, the man shifted to the side—not with supernatural speed, but with the precision of soone who knew the attack was coming. He stepped lightly to the left. His body dipped, spine curling just enough to let the blade slice past harmlessly.
His one good eye turned toward Riven—cold, expressionless.
And before Riven could pull back his weapon—
WUSHH!
The man’s own blade—barely hanging in his limp fingers—slashed upward in a clean, swift arc.
Straight for Riven’s neck.
Riven’s eyes widened.
His heart stopped.
Ti froze.
The night air bit deep into his throat, but he couldn’t breathe. And in that split-second, the only thought that surfaced in his mind was—
"Mira."
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