It was hard to tell the time of day, for Hollow Village and its outskirts were perpetually shrouded in a thick, ghostly mist. Atop the mountain, in front of Havilah's modest house, the air felt heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine.
Havilah stepped outside, his ears pricking at a familiar voice. "Mikael? Brother?"
From the mist emerged Mikael's tall figure, his cloak damp, eyes sharp. "Yes, it's me. But it seems you've acquired visitors. Why are they here?" He approached with measured steps, each one echoing in the silence.
"They are good people, Mikael," Havilah said with quiet conviction.
Mikael's brow furrowed. "And how can you say that? What makes you so certain?"
"Because—"
"There, you see?" Mikael interrupted, his tone tinged with frustration. "You can't even give me a solid reason."
Inside the house, the trio exchanged glances. Reu turned to Brea. "Watch over Toby. I'll go out there."
"Okay," Brea replied softly. "Be careful."
Reu emerged into the cold mist, his breath curling thickly in the icy air like smoke from a dying fire. His boots crunched softly on the frost-bitten ground as he stepped forward, lifting his hands in a gesture meant to calm. "As I said, we are good people. We're merely passing through the province of Opesia. We seek no quarrel."
Mikael's gaze narrowed, the mist swirling between them. "Where are you really heading?" he asked, his voice low—measured, but carrying a dangerous edge that made the cold seem sharper.
"To Gastonmere," Reu replied, his tone steady at first, but a flicker of hesitation betrayed him before he added, almost reluctantly, "We… we are actually an Ashkin group—the Vesper Knights." He swallowed, watching Mikael's expression shift.
"I told you, Havilah! We can't trust them." Mikael's voice cracked like a whip, tension rippling through the air.
"It doesn't matter if they are Ashkins," Havilah shot back, stepping closer with a determined look. Her voice carried conviction, trembling only slightly. "You, brother—you are Andros's trusted man, yet I know you are a good man, better than the an evil man you serve."
Mikael's jaw worked as though he were chewing on words too bitter to swallow. His face tightened, torn between anger, loyalty, and a confusion that gnawed at the edges of his resolve. "All I have ever wanted is to keep you safe," he said at last, the words landing heavier than he intended.
The mist seemed to hold its breath—until a mocking laugh, deep and venomous, slithered through it, shattering the fragile moment like glass.
"AHAHAHA! I knew it!" Drogbo's massive form burst from the shadows, his boots clanking like thunder as he stepped into the open, each footfall sinking slightly into the packed earth. The monstrous axe in his grip wasn't just resting anymore—it gleamed in the flickering light, swinging with a casual menace that promised violence. He tilted his head, a sneer curling his lips, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "You're harboring prisoners, Mikael! Caught red-handed, just like the coward I always knew you to be."
Mikael's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of footsteps and the shouts echoing around them, meant only for Havilah. "Go now. Escape while you can. Our cover is blown—every second you hesitate makes it harder to get out." His eyes flicked toward the shadows where their enemy was closing in. "And you?" she asked, her voice trembling between defiance and fear.
"I'll handle him," Mikael said, steel edging his tone, his stance already shifting into readiness. "You've already broken one rule tonight—don't disobey me again. Not this time. If you stay, you'll just give him another target, and I won't have you paying for my fight."
Reluctantly, Havilah clenched his fists and turned to Reu. "We're moving out. Now."
"I can help your brother fight," Reu offered.
"Forget it. He's strong enough."
They bolted for the house, Drogbo striding after them—only to be blocked by Mikael's outstretched arm.
"You really want to take this road, Mikael? To fight me?" Drogbo sneered.
"You'll have to go through me first."
With a snarl, Mikael's body shifted into a towering werewolf, fur bristling. Drogbo's lip curled. "This is why I never trusted your kind."
Steel and claw met in furious bursts, each clash ringing like a war drum across the frozen heights, the sound of impact echoing through the mountain air with a raw, bone-shaking resonance. Sparks erupted in showers as Drogbo's massive axe swept through the air, the heavy blade slicing so close that Mikael felt the wind of its passage graze his cheek. He twisted aside, muscles straining, his claws arcing toward Drogbo's chest in a blur of silver. But the blow met the unyielding resistance of armor-like skin, the tips screeching as they slid across the stone-hard surface without finding purchase, leaving only faint scratches that vanished almost instantly.
Meanwhile, the others dashed through the forest's narrow path. Reu carried a weak Toby on his back, while Brea and Havilah kept pace. "We're heading to Kanter City," Havilah said between breaths. "I know some lycans there who can help us."
Brea suddenly whistled sharply, and from the mist came the sound of hooves. Their horses emerged, steaming in the cold. Without hesitation, they mounted and rode hard.
Back on the mountain, Mikael and Drogbo's battle raged with bone-jarring ferocity. The wind howled around them, carrying the scent of blood and churned earth. Dust and pebbles scattered under the force of their blows, each strike echoing like thunder against the cliffs. Both were breathing heavily now—Mikael's chest rising and falling like a war drum, though his eyes still burned with raw, unyielding defiance, refusing to give Drogbo even a flicker of weakness.
"Let's end this, Drogbo," Mikael growled, tightening his stance, muscles coiled like a predator about to pounce.
Drogbo smirked, his own breath ragged yet brimming with venom. "Not until I've proven to Andros—through your broken body—that I should lead, not some lycan dog." He shifted his grip on his weapon, lowering his center of gravity, the air between them thick with the promise of one final, devastating clash.
Mikael's eyes narrowed, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Without warning, Drogbo stepped forward, shoving him hard. Mikael staggered back, his heel scraping against the packed dirt floor, but he didn't fall. "You've been lying to me," Drogbo growled. Mikael's hand shot out, grabbing Drogbo's collar, yanking him close.
The earth trembled beneath them as Drogbo slammed Mikael hard onto the packed dirt, sending the rocks clattering across the ground. Mikael snarled, driving a sharp elbow into Drogbo's ribs, forcing a guttural grunt from the older man and breaking his grip. They circled warily, feet kicking up dust, each breath sharp, eyes locked like predators.
Drogbo lunged with a heavy, looping punch—Mikael ducked low and swept his legs out from under him, but Drogbo hit the ground only to roll with surprising speed, snatching Mikael's ankle and yanking him down hard. Both crashed into the dirt, grappling violently, their arms straining, fists and forearms hammering against ribs, shoulders, and jaws.
Dust swirled around them, mixing with the sound of labored breaths and the sharp smack of strikes. Drogbo's knee shot toward Mikael's side—Mikael blocked and drove a forearm across his throat, forcing him back. With a surge of strength, Mikael twisted, pinning Drogbo's arm and pressing a knee into his chest, their faces inches apart, sweat and dust streaking their skin, both panting hard—neither willing to yield. They both shot backward and smiled to each other.
Feigning camaraderie, Drogbo extended a hand, his voice honeyed with false warmth. Warily, Mikael reverted to human form and accepted, his own grip tense. In an instant, Drogbo's eyes flared with malice—he wrenched Mikael forward, driving a brutal elbow into his face with a sickening crack. The impact sent him reeling, blood splattering across the dirt and stones. Mikael staggered but caught himself, and they crashed to the ground, rolling in a vicious tangle of limbs, fists, and snarled curses as dust billowed around them.
Mikael stumbled, the earth beneath his boots trembling as his body morphed once more, sinew and bone reshaping in a surge of raw power. He roared and charged, unleashing a torrent of strikes so fast the air cracked with each blow, their impact sending shockwaves through the ground.
Dust and splinters of stone flew as the two clashed, every hit like a thunderclap, every block straining muscle and will. Mikael feinted left, then spun low, his blade slicing through the air toward Drogbo's flank—finally spotting a gap.
But in an instant, Drogbo's body liquefied into churning clay, reforming with sickening speed behind him. Before Mikael could react, a massive clay-fist slammed into his back with crushing force, knocking the breath from his lungs and driving him to his knees.
Mikael collapsed, coughing blood.
"For years I couldn't beat you," Drogbo said, looming over him. "But with the Clay Heartstone, the tide has turned. Today, you live. Next time—we finish this."
Laughing darkly, Drogbo turned and vanished into the mist, heading toward the fleeing group.