The torches outside the shack danced wildly, casting gargantuan, predatory shadows against the rotting wooden walls. The shouts of the villagers grew more feral, fueled by a vengeance that had festered for decades. These were no mere fishermen; they were the hollowed-out remnants of a people decimated by Silas Devano, and now, the son of their destroyer stood within their grasp.
Alaric stepped in front of Anna, shielding her body, which was draped in nothing but tattered rags. Despite the rhythmic throb of the wound on his forehead, his killer instinct had fully awakened. He gripped the rusted gutting knife as if it were a blade forged of gold.
"Stay behind me, Anna," Alaric growled. "If they breach the door, do not hesitate to gut anyone who gets close."
"Alaric, there are hundreds of them!" Anna whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. "We can't fight them all with a rusted blade!"
