Night pressed heavy on the village, the kind of silence that pressed against your ribs and made you hear your own heartbeat.
The fields were dark, lanterns dimmed low, only the steady chorus of insects carrying the stillness.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Arthur stood at the edge of the well, black cloak loose over his shoulders, his figure a shadow carved against deeper shadow.
His crimson eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, as though even the night couldn't quite smother them.
Beside him, Darven shifted, adjusting the worn leather straps of his spear, muttering under his breath.
"You think it's Capital men?" His voice was low, but not low enough to hide the edge of unease.
Arthur didn't look at him.
His gaze stayed locked on the tree line beyond the fields.
"If it is, we don't let the village see us flinch." His tone carried weight, like it wasn't up for debate. "Fear spreads faster than fire. One crack, and it burns us all."
Darven grunted. "And if it's not?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Then I'll be glad we wasted the night."
From the shadows near the barn, Fazer crouched low, his chest pressed to the wood, watching them.
He wasn't supposed to be awake.
His mother thought he was curled on his mat, breathing deep, the dutiful son asleep before dawn work.
But he couldn't sleep—not with that gnawing weight in his chest.
Every time Arthur walked into the dark, every time Darven carried steel at his side, it was the same: trusted with danger. Trusted with the fight. Always them. Never him.
Beside him, Brad crouched like he belonged in shadows, grin sharp as broken glass.
"They're leaving now," he whispered. "The old wolf and his shadow. Perfect time."
Fazer's fingers dug into the fence rail until the wood bit his skin. "If my mother finds out—"
Brad cut him off with a hiss. "If. If. Always if. You gonna live your whole cursed life on that word? Look at them. You think Arthur asked permission when he was our age?"
Fazer didn't answer. His eyes followed his father's back disappearing into the trees, steady, unshaken.
Brad nudged his shoulder, grin flickering into something sharper. "We slip after them. Not close, just far enough. We see what they see. No one ever has to know."
Fazer's throat worked. He wanted to say no, but the word died. He wanted to say yes, but his tongue locked. Both words cut like knives.
"Fazer?"
The voice sliced through the yard like a blade. Abigail.
Both boys froze.
She stood at the hut's doorway, lantern in hand, its glow brushing against her cheekbones.
Her crimson eyes—his eyes—were sharp as arrowheads even in half-dark.
Fazer's mouth went dry. "I—I was just… checking the fence."
Her gaze flicked to Brad, who didn't bother to hide his grin.
"At this hour?" she asked, her voice calm but lined with warning.
Brad didn't flinch. "Fence doesn't sleep, ma'am."
Abigail's eyes narrowed, her lantern swaying. "And neither do liars. Inside. Both of you."
Fazer's chest tightened until he thought it might crack. "Mother—"
"No." Her tone snapped, final. "Inside. Now."
Brad leaned close as they walked, muttering low, sharp as a dagger. "See? You'll never get your chance if you keep folding."
Abigail caught the hesitation in her son's step, the fire burning in his eyes.
Her voice softened, but only just enough to cut deeper.
"You think I hold you back because you're weak? I hold you back because I'd rather have you alive than brave and dead. One day, Fazer. Not tonight."
The words hit harder than a slap.
He wanted to fight her, shout, throw the fire burning in him straight at her—but his legs carried him into the hut, Brad trailing with that crooked grin that said he'd already won.
Inside, Abigail set the lantern down with a firm clink.
She didn't speak, just crossed her arms, waiting until both boys lay down on their mats.
Her silence was heavier than any scolding.
When her footsteps finally faded, the air felt thicker than before.
The dark stretched.
Then Brad's whisper slid through it like a knife.
"You heard her. One day. So what—you just keep waiting for the world to hand you a sword?"
Fazer stared at the ceiling, fists curled at his sides.
His whisper came slow, shaking, but steady. "I'm not waiting. I'm choosing my moment."
Brad smirked in the dark. "Then let's make sure that moment's tonight."
Outside, the forest wrapped Arthur and Darven in shadow.
"Two figures," Darven whispered, his voice rough. "Up ahead."
Arthur stilled, lowering his frame, crimson eyes narrowing on the faint ember glow.
The crackle of fire carried faintly through the trees.
Voices—drunken, careless, too loose to be soldiers.
"Bandits," Arthur muttered.
Darven's lip curled. "Fucking parasites."
Arthur raised a hand, calm and sharp, silencing him.
They crept closer, the fire sharpening into view.
Two men hunched near it, leather armor cracked. Their laughter rolled low, thick with ale.
Arthur's voice cut across the night, low but iron.
"You've been watching my village."
The laughter broke. Both men stiffened, eyes snapping to the dark.
"Who's there?" one slurred, Summon his Spiritual Sword.
Arthur stepped into the firelight, cloak dragging against leaves, crimson eyes burning steady. "Name yourselves. Now."
The drunk one barked out a laugh, ugly and shaking. "Who the fuck are you to ask?"
Darven moved in beside Arthur, spear angled, voice like stone. "Answer. Or die."
The sober one's gaze sharpened, then froze on Arthur's eyes.
His breath caught. "Fossa," he whispered. "Cursed eyes."
Arthur's jaw flexed. "And you are trespassers."
The drunk spat. "Trespassers? This land's dead. No king claims it, no lord taxes it. We camp where we want."
Darven spat into the dirt. "You camp on our soil, you bleed on our soil."
Arthur's voice didn't rise, but it cut cleaner than any blade. "Leave. Tonight. Drop what you've stolen. Step back into the forest and never return."
The drunk sneered, teeth bared. "Or what, cursed man? You'll hex me?"
The sober one grabbed his arm hard. "Shut it, Den." His eyes locked on Arthur. "I've heard the stories. Your kind kills for breath."
Arthur's crimson eyes glowed hotter in the firelight. "I don't kill for breath. I kill for cause. Tonight, you decide if it becomes one."
The silence stretched thin as a wire.
Finally, the sober man dragged his companion into the trees, voice rough. "We'll go."
Arthur didn't blink until their shadows vanished.
Darven spat again, restless. "Should've gutted them. Bandits don't keep promises."
Arthur's eyes stayed fixed on the trees. "No. But fear might buy us a few days."
Back in the hut, Fazer lay on his mat, the dark ceiling pressing down.
His mother's words wouldn't leave him—One day, not tonight.
They looped in his skull until he wanted to tear them out.
Brad leaned close, whisper hot in his ear. "They're out there right now. If you were half the fighter you claim, you'd be with them."
Fazer sat up slow, breath trembling. "And if I get caught?"
Brad's grin sharpened, but his tone was steel. "Then at least you went down trying, not rotting in the dark like a useless bastard."
Fazer's fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.
His voice cracked, but he forced the words out. "I just… I just want them to see me."
Brad's smirk faded into something harder, steadier. "Then make them."
The night stretched on, heavy and waiting.
Outside, the forest whispered like it knew the choice crawling through Fazer's chest.
His crimson eyes glowed faint against the dark.
He wasn't waiting anymore.