Carrying the hiss of sand and steel, the remaining raiders fanned out in a crescent, their scarves snapping beneath the pale sun. Eryndor's boots sank slightly into the sand as he raised his fists.
Eight more to go.
One of them dashed forward, swinging his blade in a wild arc. Eryndor pivoted on his left foot, deflecting the strike with a sharp sweep of his forearm. His right leg snapped out twice—once into the man's ribs, once into his temple—dropping him in a heap.
From Eryndor's right, a scimitar flashed low, aimed at his thigh. He pushed off his left leg, vaulting cleanly over the sweep, then spun midair and cracked his heel across the attacker's skull. The man collapsed instantly.
Two more charged together.
Eryndor slid aside from the first, catching the thrust on his forearm brace and guiding it past him. He rotated with the motion—smooth, precise—and before the raider could react, drove his elbow into the man's head. He dropped without a sound.
The second blade whistled toward him. Eryndor back-stepped, ducking under the slash, then lunged low. His fist slammed into the inside of the raider's knee, forcing him to drop with a cry. Before the man could raise his head, Eryndor's rising uppercut snapped into his jaw, sending him sprawling unconscious.
Four down. Unmoving.
Five remained, boots thudding like war drums as they tightened the circle. Their expressions were a mix of rage and uncertainty. Mana flickered faintly around Eryndor, warping heat and light. He breathed hard but measured. The magic was not fire or lightning—it was flow. Energy that sharpened his senses, heightened his focus and movement. Every flicker of sand, every heartbeat, every glint of steel stood clear as glass.
Then the desert erupted.
A spear thrust straight toward his ribs.
Eryndor met it head-on, striking the shaft with a sharp punch that knocked it aside as he sidestepped. His left hand shot out in a quick jab, but the raider jerked his head down just in time. Eryndor shifted to follow with a side kick—
Too late.
A second attacker slipped in from the right. The blade skimmed across Eryndor's shoulder. A hot line of pain flared as he back-stepped hard, opening distance. Not too deep but deep enough to sting.
He gritted his teeth as blood seeped through his sleeve.
They pressed harder.
Steel flashed again. He caught the next strike on his brace—barely—the impact jolting his arm. Sparks snapped as metal scraped metal. His left sleeve was nearly soaked now, fabric clinging wet and heavy to his skin.
Then he felt it.
The faintest shimmer of movement behind him. A whisper of instinct tightening his spine.
He spun.
A blade sliced through the space where his neck had been a heartbeat earlier. Sand exploded around him, stinging his eyes as he dropped low. His lungs burned with heat and dust, every breath harsh and tight.
Eryndor steadied his stance, ignoring the blood. Ignoring the pain.
"Alright…" he exhaled, eyes narrowing.
"Come on, then."
The leader stepped forward.
He was broader than the others, wrapped in tattered desert leathers, scars like cracked stone crossing his eyes. His scimitar was looked heavier, its edge blackened with old oil. When he moved, the sand itself seemed to shift with him.
Eryndor barely had time to brace himself before the first strike came from above—fast and brutal.
Eryndor raised and crossed both of his forearm brace and block it. The impact rattled his bones, driving him a step into the sand.
The second strike followed a heartbeat later—horizontal, low, and vicious. Eryndor twisted just enough. The blade carved across his side instead of his gut. The cut was shallow but long, fire raced along his ribs as fabric tore open.
He hissed, stumbling back.
The leader advanced without pause, measured steps forcing Eryndor deeper into the shifting ring of sand. A thrust shot toward his stomach. Eryndor knocked it wide—
Then a knee slammed into his abdomen.
Air blasted from his lungs in a sharp gasp.
Eryndor dropped to one knee, rolling instinctively as the scimitar stabbed down where his spine had been. He kicked off the ground, pivoted tightly, and cracked his heel against the leader's wrist. The grip loosened—but did not break.
The leader snarled, more irritated than hurt, and pressed in again.
Eryndor parried left, then right, but the man's strength was overwhelming. Another slash tore across Eryndor's upper arm, clean and burning. His fingers tingled from a block he barely held.
Blood spattered the sand.
Another strike. Another impact.
His legs trembled from absorbing the force. The leader's presence felt like a collapsing dune—relentless, heavy, impossible to halt.
Eryndor forced himself to move, ducking beneath a sweeping arc, sand spraying from his feet. He countered with a sharp elbow to the ribs, then a palm strike to the throat—small hits, but enough to slow the next swing.
Enough to stay alive.
For now.
The leader wiped blood from his lip and smiled, slow and feral. Eryndor reset his stance, breath sharp and shallow.
The wind howled, carrying heat and dust between them. His breathing grew erratic. Mana flickered, ebbing away like water slipping from a cupped hand. His wounds were piling up.
One mistake now would be fatal.
A blade came from behind.
The remaining raiders surged back in, pressing him from all sides, intent on wearing him down. Eryndor ducked as sand sprayed into his eyes—and felt it then, that whisper of instinct.
Enough.
Survival demanded retreat.
He rolled beneath a swing and yanked a small orb from his satchel. It shimmered—
Then exploded in a blast of blinding light and wind.
The raiders staggered, cursing and coughing as balance fled them. Eryndor did not wait. He sprinted into a narrow side tunnel of the ruin.
The chase was chaos—sand and dust whipping through the corridor, shouts and curses echoing off obsidian walls. Eryndor's heart pounded with exhilaration.
"All right, old bones," he muttered between breaths.
"Let's see you keep up."
He slipped into a narrow cleft between walls, which turned out to be a concealed chamber. With collapsed shelves lay in ruin, their contents spilling like frozen rivers of parchment. Faint sigils marked the walls—warnings, or perhaps guidance left by the ancients. He stepped carefully, boots crunching through powdery dust.
Then his heel struck something hollow.
Not sand. Not stone.
He froze.
Crouching, he brushed the dust aside, revealing a sealed door. An engraved symbol rested at its center.
Before he could think further—
A raider slammed into the stonewall behind him.