"She's dead, you say."
The man in black tossed the motionless cannibal away like a broken sword.
Aeloria's body flew through the air and landed with a sickening crack on her already broken neck. She lay in the ruined ground in a bizarre, crumpled position, blood pooling beneath her head, her crimson eyes staring blankly at the ravaged sky.
The man in black walked calmly to Blank and spoke.
"That was a little fun. Too bad we couldn't decide who the winner was. In the end, neither of us made a sound."
He continued forward without waiting for a reply, heading straight down the road toward Jorm, where Commander Orin was stationed.
Blank fell in step beside him, silent as always.
…
Meanwhile, at Jorm...
"Commander, look."
One of the scouts pointed toward the horizon. A large group of riders—close to four hundred—were galloping toward them, raising a thick cloud of dust that caught the afternoon light like a banner of bad news.
Ramius had been right. Namesh had attacked Jorm exactly as predicted, and the battle had ended in Runevale's decisive favor. Casualties were low, and the enemy was routed. So who were these new soldiers riding hard from the direction of the Lonorith river?
"They bear Runevale's crest, Commander," a captain reported, shielding his eyes against the sun.
"I believe they are the Head Captain's party."
Why would she ride here? Orin thought, his brow furrowing deep enough to cast shadows. I don't recall this being part of the plan. And there are far too many for simple reinforcements.
Soon the riders thundered into camp, their horses lathered and blowing hard from the desperate pace. The lead captain dismounted in a rush, walked between motionless bodies of the soldiers of Namesh. He dropped to one knee before Orin, and bowed low.
"My name is Ilmos, one of the captains assigned to the Head Captain's party. Please, Commander—the Head Captain requires immediate reinforcement."
Orin's blood turned cold. "What are you talking about? Why are you the one reporting instead of Yoru?"
The captain's face was pale, his eyes haunted by what he had seen. He began to explain everything that had happened—the two strangers appearing from nowhere...
Orin didn't wait for him to finish.
He swung into the saddle, his face carved from stone, and bellowed an order that shook the entire troop.
"All soldiers—head back to the kingdom at once!"
The commander charging ahead alone was completely out of character, but Orin didn't care. He spurred his horse into a gallop and tore towards the river, his cloak snapping behind him like a war banner, dust exploding beneath iron-shod hooves.
He rode like a man possessed, the wind tearing at his face, every heartbeat pounding Aeloria's name.
After riding hard for what felt like hours, he crested a low hill and spotted them.
Two figures walking calmly down the opposite slope, as though they owned the world.
One in red.
One in ragged clothes like a lost beggar.
Orin reined in hard, dismounted in a single fluid motion, and strode forward, his twin daggers already gleaming in his fists.
"What did you do to Aeloria?" he asked, his voice colder than winter breeze.
"Think carefully before you answer, because you won't get a second chance."
The man in black tilted his head, amused.
"Another monster, but this one does not bite. Looks like it's your turn to play, Blank."
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I don't quite like games." Blank replied, stepping aside with a faint bow.
"Your loss, then," the man in black said to his companion. He turned fully to face Orin, his hands still clasped behind his back.
"By Aeloria, I assume you mean the cannibal. If so, then it saddens me to say that she died. It was—"
The sentence never finished.
Orin's daggers moved in twin silver blurs, faster than the human eye could track, arcing from both sides in perfect unison to decapitate the speaker in one crossed strike.
But the man in black was no human. His hand was still clasped and his expression unconcerned. And Orin was also more of a beast than a man.
***
Meanwhile, many days later, in a room of an unknown location, far from blood and battle and the smell of scorched earth, Aeloria opened her eyes slowly.
Pain throbbed everywhere, dull and distant, wrapped tightly in layers of herb-soaked cloth that covered her bare body from collarbone to ankles. The sharp, familiar scent of healing herbs filled her nose.
She turned her head with effort and saw a man sitting beside the low bed, his back was turned to her, grinding herbs in a stone mortar with slow, rhythmic motions.
The pestle scraped softly against stone.
Aeloria tried to speak, but only a rasp escaped her throat.
The man paused.
Without turning, he said in a quiet, steady voice, "You're awake. Good. Don't move yet. Your neck was broken in three places. It's a miracle you're even still alive."