Scorched Boundaries
Seren stood at the edge of the clearing, arms folded tight across her chest, watching the others move with a quiet urgency that set her teeth on edge.
Something was wrong.
She'd thought it was over—that they were leaving. Ryle had made his choice, and she'd accepted it, however reluctantly. But now, the way Riven checked the bolts on her crossbow, the way Lira whispered incantations under her breath, fingers faintly aglow with gathering magic—this wasn't preparation for travel.
This was a plan.
And she wasn't part of it.
"What's going on?" Seren asked, her voice sharper than intended.
The knights stilled. Then Nia spoke, gaze averted. "Elara's taking command now."
Seren's stomach twisted. "My mission is over. That doesn't mean we toss protocol out the window and—"
She stopped. The realization dropped like a stone.
"She's going to force him, isn't she?"
No one answered.
"This isn't right," Seren said, voice rising. "We should be building trust—not ambushing him like some beast in the brush."
"You tried," Riven muttered, still focused on her weapon. "We all saw how that went."
Seren's eyes darted between them. Lira was still chanting softly, the air around her beginning to shimmer.
"Why are all of you involved? Elara should be able to handle a boy."
Riven scoffed. "He's not just a boy. You've seen him—fast, precise. Too precise. He doesn't act like a child. If we hesitate, he'll disappear before we blink."
"So now we ambush him?" Seren snapped. "All of us, at once?"
"We get one shot," Nia said quietly. "If he runs, we won't find him again. Not in this terrain. Not with instincts like his."
"He's still just a kid," Seren said. "Scared. Cornered. Probably more bark than bite."
"No," Lira murmured, eyes distant. "He's survived alone in this forest for years—the same forest that's taken seasoned knights. That's not bark. That's bone-deep instinct."
"And that's why we're doing this," Riven added. "He's been left to fend for himself too long. No guidance. No structure. His instincts are feral. If we don't pull him out now, he'll lose what's left of himself."
"You think dragging him back will fix that?" Seren demanded.
"We're not putting him in chains," Nia said, her voice calm but resolute. "We're taking him to the capital. To safety. To people who can help. Educate him. Heal him."
"He's never known anything but survival," Lira said softly. "But survival isn't a life—it's a cage. He's forgotten what it means to live, maybe never even learned. That kind of existence strips you down until all that's left is instinct. And the longer he stays in that shadow, the harder it'll be to find his way back. If we wait too long… there may not be anything human left to save."
Seren's hands curled into fists. "He saved us. Gave us food, shelter, medicine. Risked himself for strangers. And this is how we repay him?"
Silence hung between them. Even Lira's spell faltered.
"I hate this," Nia said. "But if we don't act, someone far worse will. At least with us, he has a chance to be more than just a ghost in the woods."
"We're crown-sworn," Riven said. "We don't get to ignore threats—or gifts. If the wrong people discover what he is—what he could become—they'll twist him into something dangerous. With us, he has a chance to stay human."
Seren stared at them, heart pounding.
She opened her mouth—but the words stuck.
Because they weren't wrong. She'd seen it too—the way he watched them, wary and calculating. The weight behind his words. He didn't speak like a boy. He didn't move like one.
There was no innocence in him—only control.
But that didn't mean he deserved this.
"He deserves a choice," she said softly.
"And what if he never makes it?" Riven countered. "What if he dies out here, alone, because we respected his pride more than his life?"
Seren stepped forward, jaw tight. "Elara is acting without sanction. I am the Princess—"
A deep, shuddering boom tore through the clearing.
The ground lurched beneath her boots. Wood and smoke erupted from the hut in a burst of flame. The blast slammed into her, ears ringing. She hit the dirt hard, coughing as ash clawed at her lungs.
A second explosion—closer. Then another.
Thick smoke swallowed the clearing.
Lira's spell shattered midair, light flickering out as she stumbled, arms raised to shield her face.
Figures moved in the haze.
Voices rose—shouts, frantic and garbled.
And just like that, everything changed.
This was no longer just about Ryle.
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Ash and Embers
Smoke coiled through the clearing like a living thing—thick, acrid, clinging to his skin and lungs. Ryle's ears rang from the blast, but instinct took over. He dropped low behind a tree, chest tight, breaths shallow.
His left eye wouldn't open. Heat laced the side of his face, raw and tight, but there was no time to process it. Not yet.
He risked a glance past the trunk.
Silhouettes moved in the haze—unfamiliar, fast, armed. Not knights. No formation. No discipline. Just rage.
Outlaws.
His fingers curled around the knife at his hip. He shifted to move—and faltered. His balance was off. Limbs sluggish. Coordination shot.
His vision tunneled, dark at the edges. One step left him dizzy.
No pain, not really. Just pressure. Heat. And that slow-creeping hollowness, starting in his chest and spreading outward. His body rang—silent and high, just like after the crash which took his life.
He knew this feeling.
Shock.
The nerves hadn't caught up to the damage. No pain yet—just the numb clarity that only showed up when things were going south.
He didn't need to check the injuries. The symptoms were telling enough.
Dizziness. Blurred vision. Breathing shallow. Heat pulsing down one side. Skin tight. Internal bleeding, probably. Burns. Maybe a concussion. Maybe worse.
It was guesswork. But it all pointed one way.
This body is dying.
Unless someone helped.
Unless he let them.
His grip on the knife stayed firm. But it felt heavier now. He wouldn't get far like this. Not alone.
"Damn it…" he muttered, the words barely a breath.
He hadn't trusted them. The knights. Seren. Especially Elara. But now wasn't the time for pride.
If he wanted to live, he had to cooperate. At least for now.
"Elara…?" he rasped, searching the haze.
A groan answered. She lay sprawled nearby, armor scorched and dented, one arm shaking beneath her as she pushed herself upright. Her face twisted, but her eyes were sharp.
Bruised, winded—but alive.
Of course. She was still in one piece. Just his luck.
She coughed, blinking against the smoke. He stayed low, watching. She couldn't see him clearly, but she was moving. That was enough.
"Still breathing?" he asked, voice dry.
"Barely," she croaked.
"Good."
She spat soot from her mouth. "You're still alive?"
He didn't answer right away. Just squinted through the smoke and muttered, "You're a lot harder to kill than you look."
She managed a weak glare. "And you're still running your mouth. Figures."
Ryle snorted. Half laugh, half grunt. "Glad your personality survived the explosion."
Elara gave a broken cough. "If you've got the strength to mouth off, you're fine."
He leaned back against the tree, exhaling through his nose. His skin stung. His eye throbbed. Every breath tasted like ash.
But his thoughts were clear.
That meant he still had time. Not much—but some.
He peered through the smoke again. Figures were closing in.
"Are they yours?" he asked, low. "friends?"
"No," she said immediately, voice going cold. "Survivors. From Garrick's gang. The ones that got away when we raided the lair." She shifted, biting back a sound. "This isn't random. It's payback."
Ryle looked at her. "Suicide mission?"
"Probably. Doesn't matter to them." Her jaw clenched. "We killed their leader. Now they want blood."
His stomach turned—not from fear. From the quiet certainty in her voice. These weren't just enemies. They were here for revenge.
Elara's eyes found his through the haze. Fierce, focused.
"Don't do anything stupid, Ryle," she snapped. "I've got enough to deal with without dragging your half-dead body back. And stay alive. That's not a request. That's an order."
He huffed, the sound catching. "Touching."
Then the tension snapped.
"Spread out!" a voice barked through the smoke. "Find them!"
"There! I see movement!"
Bolts flew. Steel clashed.
The knights had regrouped, breaking through the haze in tight formation. Seren's voice cut through the chaos—steady, sharp.
"Hold the line! Don't let them split us!"
Ryle saw an opening and moved—low and fast. His body lagged behind his intent. Too slow. Too unfamiliar.
But the knife felt solid in his hand.
Muscle memory kicked in—old drills from a past life. Knife work, close quarters. The reflexes stayed, buried deep. But the way he slipped through smoke and shadow—those weren't his.
They belonged to the boy who'd lived here before.
The heat in his face throbbed, but he pushed it down. Focused.
Two attackers broke through the smoke, flanking a knight on the defensive.
Ryle didn't think. He moved.
His body faltered—jerky, uneven. He knew what to do, but his limbs didn't follow like they used to.
Then the knife raised—
And something in him froze.
You're about to kill a man.
It hit, cold and sudden.
This wasn't a drill. These weren't dummies.
One outlaw turned, eyes wild.
He lunged.
Ryle reacted.
Steel met flesh. A sharp breath. Then silence.
The man dropped.
Ryle stood over the body, frozen. Stomach churning. Chest tight—not from the wounds. From the weight of it.
This isn't me.
But it was.
Another attacker charged—screaming something. Grief? Rage? Didn't matter.
Ryle ducked, struck. The knife hit ribs. Warmth followed.
The second body fell.
"Behind you!"
A voice—Nia's, maybe—pulled him back.
He turned just in time to see another knight intercept a blade. Sparks flew. Lira's magic burst through the smoke, catching another in the leg. Screams.
They were turning the tide.
"For Garrick!" someone shouted.
"Your boss is dead," Riven snapped, loosing a bolt. It struck true. "And so are you."
The last outlaw tried to flee.
She didn't make it far.
And then—quiet.
Smoke drifted. Fire crackled. Steel hissed as it cooled in the dirt.
The fight was over. Barely ten minutes.
Ryle stood in the middle of it all, breath ragged. Blood on his hands.
He didn't know which part of this was still him.
Or if it mattered.
His limbs trembled. His wounds roared back now that the danger was gone. His vision blurred. The adrenaline was gone—burned up like everything else.
Then he heard his name. Once. Twice. Voices calling out.
He looked up.
All five knights—bloodied, bruised, alive—were running toward him, eyes wide with something between relief and fear.
He took a step. Then another.
The ground tilted.
He blinked, vision swimming. Blood dripped down his cheek, slow and warm.
His grip loosened. The knife slipped from his fingers.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"I guess… it's goodbye, then," he murmured.
The breath he took after that never quite reached his lungs.
His knees gave out.
And the last thing he saw was Seren's face—mouth open in a shout he couldn't hear—as the darkness closed in.