The night was swallowed by a violent storm. Percival Kent, Legendary Paladin and Commander of the North Border Defense, rode at the head of his detachment. The silver crest of the Phoenix Knights Order on his breastplate was dulled by the driving rain. Flanking him were two dozen militiamen—farm boys clutching swords they barely knew how to swing. They were three days' march out, soaked to the bone, hunting for a merchant caravan that had vanished without a trace.
"Commander! Up ahead!" a voice cracked over the thunder.
Percival squinted through the gloom. Shadows of wagons loomed by the river. "Survivors?" he roared back.
"Don't know! Looks like a raid!"
The stench hit them before they even reached the muddy bank. It cut right through the smell of ozone and wet earth—the sweet, gagging reek of slaughter. The ground was a slurry of mud and blood. The traders had been butchered, their torsos severed from their limbs, heads scattered like discarded fruit. One of the rookies dropped his sword and fell to his knees, retching violently into the reeds.
Percival's stomach tightened, but his eyes darted to the wagons. They were untouched. The horses were gone. Not bandits, he thought, gripping his reins. Bandits steal the cargo.
"Wolves!" a militiaman shrieked, his voice pitching into pure panic. "South tree line!"
Percival drew his longsword. Through the sheets of rain, yellow eyes glinted. They weren't moving like starving scavengers; they fanned out in a deliberate, disciplined crescent. Goblin Wolves. Their masters wouldn't be far behind.
"Shields up!" Percival bellowed, his horse rearing. "Hold the line! Don't break!"
He didn't wait for the terrified boys to freeze. Percival spurred his mount, driving his warhorse straight into the center of the pack. As the heavy destrier built speed, Percival drew on his Paladin training. He pushed his mana down his arm, a faint, golden aura of light magic wreathing his steel. Syncing his magic with the sheer, crushing momentum of his galloping mount, he unleashed a devastating arc of power. The magically boosted strike sheared through wet fur and bone with terrifying, explosive ease, crumpling the first three wolves in a blinding flash.
He hacked down two more in a frantic spray of crimson before a massive weight slammed into his flank. A hidden straggler leapt from the brush, tearing Percival from his saddle. He hit the mud hard, the air driven from his lungs in a sharp gasp.
Before he could blink, hot, foul breath washed over his face. Jaws snapped inches from his throat. Panic spiked, raw and blinding. Percival shoved his glowing blade horizontally between the beast's teeth, groaning as the wolf's sheer weight bore down on him, grinding its fangs against the steel.
His arms shook. The mud offered his boots absolutely no leverage. Move or die. >
With a desperate roar, Percival channeled a sharp, searing burst of light magic directly into his gauntlets. The sudden flare blinded the beast, breaking its relentless downward press. Taking the split-second opening, Percival heaved upward, tossing the wolf just enough to roll free. He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the bloody mud.
The wolf recovered instantly, blinking against the afterimage of the light, and lunged for his chest. This time, Percival dropped to one knee, planted the hilt of his sword against his hip, and let the beast impale itself on the point.
The momentum carried the blade deep through its belly. Hot blood poured over Percival's armor.
The creature thrashed wildly for a moment, then went still. Percival shoved the heavy carcass off him and collapsed backward onto the wet earth. He lay there for a long second, chest heaving, the faint golden glow of his magic fading into the stormy night as the freezing rain washed the blood from his face.