EL RITCH
The cacophony grew louder.
El Ritch tensed.
His body moved before his thoughts could settle, feet pressing against the rough bark as he descended, leaping down from the towering tree. The vines wrapped around its trunk gave way beneath his weight, snapping back as he kicked off them, finally landing on the moss-covered ground below.
He ran.
The fox followed.
"Where are we going?" she asked, keeping pace beside him.
"Towards the sound."
He didn't hesitate.
"They don't think we're powerful," he said, voice sharp with determination. "We'll prove them wrong."
A beat.
"We'll be of aid—"
"—Or die miserably," the fox cut him off with a sharp exhale.
El Ritch ignored her.
It didn't matter.
He had to see the battles.
He had to know.
What was he missing?
He had learned to fight, had trained, had shaped himself into something capable—and yet, the difference between himself and the true warriors around him was like night and day.
What was it?
