The morning broke cold, the plains veiled in pale mist. The companions rose slowly, one by one, their silhouettes blurred in the shifting fog. Darius was already awake, sharpening his axe against a stone, while Seliora crouched beside the embers of last night's fire, coaxing life back into them with murmured incantations.
Kael stood apart, staring into the horizon where the mist thickened into something darker. His instincts stirred—a warning.
"Something moves," he said simply.
Aric immediately stiffened, hand flying to his blade. "Bandits?"
"Too organized for bandits," Kael murmured. "And too quiet."
The mist rippled, then split, as three figures emerged, their armor mismatched but carried with a soldier's discipline. Their blades gleamed faintly, etched with marks Kael recognized from old battlefields.
Seliora rose smoothly, staff glowing. "Mercenaries."
The lead fighter grinned, scar cutting across his jaw. "Travelers on the Sovereign's roads owe a tax. Pay in coin—or blood."
Darius spat. "I prefer blood."
Before Kael could answer, Aric surged forward. "Let me try!"
The boy's eagerness caught them off guard. His blade trembled, but not from fear—it was anticipation.
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Don't try. Do."
The mercenaries laughed and lunged. Aric met the first strike head-on, steel clashing in the mist. He staggered, caught off balance, but Seliora's staff hummed behind him, weaving a shield that absorbed the second mercenary's strike. Darius roared and crashed into the third, sending him sprawling.
Kael didn't move. He watched, silent, crimson eyes measuring every falter, every recovery.
Aric gritted his teeth, swung too wide, then corrected mid-strike—a desperate, clumsy recovery that nonetheless scored a shallow cut across his opponent's arm. The mercenary snarled, suddenly less amused.
"Not bad," Kael murmured under his breath.
Within moments, the companions had subdued their attackers. Darius pressed his axe against the scarred leader's throat. "Still want your tax?"
The man spat blood and glared, but the fight was gone from him. Kael finally stepped forward, his presence enough to make the mercenaries freeze.
"Leave," Kael said, his voice low and final. "Or your blood will stain this mist."
They fled.
Aric was breathing hard, sweat streaking his brow, but his eyes shone. "I… I held my own!"
"You survived," Kael corrected. But this time, there was no edge of cruelty—only the weight of truth.
Seliora smiled faintly, brushing dust from her robes. "Survival is a victory, Aric. Don't let him convince you otherwise."
Kael glanced at her but said nothing. Still, when he turned away, there was the faintest curve to his lips.
That night, around the fire, the tension had shifted. Aric sat taller, pride flickering beneath exhaustion. And for the first time, Kael didn't feel the burden of carrying them alone.
The boy was beginning to stand.