The morning was pale, a weak sun brushing the horizon with gray-gold light. The wind carried the scent of damp earth, moss, and something darker—blood, faint but unmistakable. Kael's stomach growled, loud enough to make a bird take off from a nearby branch, flapping and squawking in indignation.
"Honestly," Jade muttered, crouched behind a fallen log, "if you survive this skirmish, it won't be the demons you have to thank—it'll be your appetite."
Kael grinned, crouching beside her, boots sinking slightly into the soft forest floor. "Better to feed the stomach than the enemy," he said, voice teasing, though his eyes were sharp, alert. Every leaf, every movement in the undergrowth, registered in his mind. The boy had learned that war was not just the clash of swords and screams; it was the pause, the twitch of a muscle, the shadow that lingered where it shouldn't.
The raiders came first as whispers—soft, almost timid, as if testing the air. Then claws and fangs erupted through the trees, a dozen beasts, eyes glowing faintly in the pale morning. Their movements were coordinated, frighteningly so. Kael's pulse quickened, not with fear, but with that strange thrill that came whenever his hands were near a weapon, or when his mind mapped chaos before it happened.
Jade hissed, drawing her dagger. Dill remained behind the safety of the tree line, scribbling observations and occasionally muttering calculations about angles, distance, and potential weaknesses. The cabin they'd fled from a few days ago, the place where they had thought themselves safe, seemed far away now, a memory of comfort swallowed by impending violence.
Kael shifted, the muscles in his arms and legs tightening like drawn springs. He swung a stick experimentally, imagining it a blade, a real weapon. In his mind, the edges shifted with each move, a living thing. He traced arcs through the air, pivots and lunges flowing together, each a rehearsal for what would come.
The first beast lunged—a hulking creature with mottled fur and yellow eyes. Kael stepped to the side, barely brushing past it, and jabbed downward with the stick. The point struck true, more by instinct than calculation, and the creature yelped, stumbling into the undergrowth.
Another came, faster, smaller, sharper. Kael laughed softly, low, a sound meant to disturb. "Slow down, we haven't even begun," he said. The words were playful, but the strike that followed was precise, each swing measured, careful. He imagined the blade separating the air itself, each movement a whisper of power, an echo of something larger inside him that had yet to be named.
The beasts hesitated, sensing the boy's confidence, perhaps something more. They were no longer merely attacking—they were learning, recalculating. Kael noticed it. He noticed the way they shifted when he moved, the way a paw would pause mid-step, as if unsure whether to commit. That hesitation, that tiny crack, was his opportunity.
He lunged forward, faster than his body should have allowed, arms swinging, the stick now more like a specter than wood. He struck each beast in a blur, leaving shallow cuts, bruises, and one or two staggering from misjudged landings. All the while, his mind cataloged their behavior—the way they attacked, the coordination, the subtle hierarchy of movements. Kael was learning, more quickly than anyone could have expected.
From the hill above, Dill's voice called, clear and analytical. "Kael! They're flanking from the east! Adjust your position!"
Kael's grin widened. "Flankers, eh? Fine by me." He pivoted, letting the edge of his swing brush a tree and follow the arc it dictated. The motion was almost musical, the kind of move that could be repeated endlessly in practice and executed perfectly in a moment of life and death. He ducked, spun, jabbed, each motion smooth and controlled.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the skirmish shifted. One of the larger beasts—something that could have been mistaken for a small wolf or a demon in poor light—charged directly at Kael, teeth bared. He met it head-on, staff slamming against the creature's side, throwing it off balance. Kael's body moved instinctively, a half-spin, a kick, a drop to the ground, and the beast crashed into the underbrush, dazed and furious.
Jade clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "How…?"
Kael shrugged, brushing leaves from his hair. "Practice," he said simply. But the truth was more complicated. He was growing, learning faster than anyone knew, understanding movement, reaction, and threat in ways that went beyond normal comprehension. The skirmish was not just a fight—it was a lesson, a mirror, a rehearsal for the chaos of war that would eventually reach beyond Biwa.
In the distance, faint but unmistakable, a horn sounded. Low, mournful, and commanding. Kael froze, listening. The sound carried a weight that reached even through the adrenaline of combat. Somewhere out there, Cassian was moving. The Sagittarius Knight, the Blood Driver, whose name would soon strike fear into the hearts of friend and foe alike. Kael could feel it: a storm was coming, larger than the beasts he had just bested, larger than Biwa itself.
The skirmish ended as abruptly as it had begun. The beasts retreated, regrouping somewhere in the shadows, leaving only the marks of clawed earth and broken branches. Kael stood among them, chest heaving, eyes bright with the thrill of action. Jade approached, dagger still in hand but lowered, face half-exasperated, half-awed.
"You're insane," she said.
Kael grinned. "Or fast. Depends on how you look at it." He glanced toward the horizon, toward the sound of the horn fading in the distance. The war was not over. It had only begun. And he, small and hungry, would be there to meet it.