His smile faltered.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
The confidence, the hunger—that glint of amusement in his eyes—it cracked.
He hadn't expected me to say that.
He thought I'd beg. Plead. Run.
Instead—I stood there. Still. Calm.
And I didn't move.
Not until he did.
He lunged forward.
The blade came fast, aiming low—toward my ribs.
But I'd been waiting.
I turned, twisted my body just enough that his swing caught nothing but air. His arm passed too wide, and in that heartbeat—
I struck.
My elbow slammed into his jaw.
He staggered back, cursed loud, and brought his sword up again.
"You little shit—!"
But I was already moving.
The sword on my back came free in one smooth motion, the weight of it pulling my arm down hard. I hadn't drawn it in a real fight before.
Not like this.
Not against someone who wanted to kill me.
The blade felt heavy—but not too heavy.
I tightened my grip.
He came at me again—slashing wide, fast, brutal. Not skilled. Just angry.
I blocked it. Barely.
The force of the hit jarred through my arms and into my shoulders, sent pain down into my ribs.
I stepped back.
He pressed forward.
Again.
Again.
I blocked each time—slower now—feeling the shock of steel hitting steel, his blade catching sparks as it scraped against mine.
Then—
He feinted left.
And drove a punch into my gut.
Hard.
The air exploded from my lungs. I fell to one knee, gasping, vision flickering.
He kicked me in the chest.
I hit the ground.
My sword clattered to the side.
He laughed—a low, cruel sound.
"Thought you were something special," he spat, stepping forward. "But you're just another brat with a big mouth."
He raised his sword.
I rolled.
The blade slammed into the ground where my neck had been.
I grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it up into his face.
He screamed, stumbling back, blinded.
I lunged for my sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt.
And I turned.
The next swing came from instinct, not thought.
The edge of my blade caught his arm—deep.
He howled, blood spraying across the broken grass.
But he didn't drop his weapon.
Instead—he roared.
And charged.
His roar echoed through the trees.
He charged, blood pouring from his arm, eyes wild with fury—and I met him head-on.
Our blades clashed again. The impact rang out like thunder, vibrating all the way to my bones. I staggered, slipped in the mud, barely caught myself before falling.
He didn't stop.
His shoulder slammed into mine and we went down together, rolling in the filth—kicking, punching, snarling like animals.
The world turned into mud and blood and panic.
His fingers clawed at my face, trying to gouge my eyes. I headbutted him. Heard the crunch of nose against bone. He screamed again—but he didn't stop.
Neither did I.
We scrambled apart, both gasping, both bleeding. I had a cut across my cheek. He was holding his left arm like it was broken.
I gripped my sword tighter. My hands shook.
This is it.
My first real fight.
Not a training dummy.
Not a lesson with Father in the clearing.
This was someone trying to kill me.
And I was trying to kill him.
The thought hit me harder than the blade had.
Was I ready for that?
To kill again?
Back in the woods—it hadn't felt like a choice. The soldier would've killed Father. Then me.
But now…
This wasn't the same.
This man was a thief. A bandit. Maybe a murderer.
But he was also hungry.
Like me.
Desperate.
Like me.
He probably hadn't eaten in days. Probably had no home. No one waiting for him. No name anyone would remember.
Just like me.
Is that who I'm fighting?
Or is that who I'm becoming?
He stood again. Limping. Bleeding.
But still smiling. "You're good," he rasped, blood between his teeth. "Too good for a stray like you."
I said nothing.
My mouth was dry. My chest hurt from breathing.
"You ever killed a man, boy?" he asked, circling me slowly.
I tightened my grip. "Yes."
He grinned wider. "Then you know how it feels. That weight. That heat. That power."
I didn't respond.
Because I didn't feel powerful.
I felt tired.
Cold.
Broken.
And yet—I still raised my sword.
He lunged again, fast despite the limp. He swung high—I ducked. The blade hissed over my head.
I drove my shoulder into his ribs and tackled him backward into the mud.
We hit hard.
His sword fell from his hand.
But he grabbed mine.
The handle. The blade. Whatever he could reach.
We wrestled in the muck, cursing, grunting, slipping over limbs and broken weapons left behind by other dead men.
I felt his elbow smash into my temple.
White flashed behind my eyes.
Then I felt his knee in my stomach.
I rolled off him, coughing, vision doubled.
He grabbed his sword again and stood.
I forced myself to stand too.
Everything hurt.
Blood in my mouth.
Mud in my eyes.
And still—I raised the blade.
Because I wasn't ready to die.
Not here.
Not like this.
We circled. Both breathing hard. Both waiting for the other to blink.
"Do you even care if you live?" I asked suddenly, breath ragged.
He blinked. Laughed. "Does it matter?"
My heart pounded. My lungs burned.
I could feel the blood running down my sleeve, mixing with sweat and dirt.
And then—
A thought slipped in. Quiet. Cold.
Do I even care if I survive this?
The question hit me harder than his blade ever could.
What was I fighting for?
No home. No name that mattered. No cause to protect.
My father was gone.
And I'd already buried what was left of the boy he raised.
Back in the forest, I had fought to protect him. To stay alive for someone else.
But now?
I clenched my teeth. My hands tightened on the grip.
This man wasn't fighting for pride or glory. He was hungry. Desperate. Just like me.
And I hated him for that.
Because in him, I saw myself.
A mirror. Twisted. Cracked.
Someone who'd kill for another day.
But I wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
Even if I didn't know why.
The bandit came again.
Wounded. Limping. But not hesitating.
His sword raised, his mouth curled in a snarl.
I didn't move.
Not yet.
I watched him. The way his feet shifted in the mud. The angle of his hips. The tension in his arms.
He came in high, swinging from the right.
Wide.
Too wide.
And I saw it.
The opening.
Just beneath his raised arm—unguarded. Exposed.
I tightened my grip and stepped into the strike.
Steel met steel. The impact rattled my arms—but I held.
His blade slid off mine with a screech.
He overextended. His chest turned. His ribs wide open.
Now.
I shifted my stance. Brought the sword around, aimed for the gap beneath his arm.
But just before I struck—something stopped me.
Not my hands. Not my body.
A thought.
Do I really want to kill him?
His face flashed in my mind. Desperate. Angry. Scared.
Like mine had once been.
He was just trying to live.
Just like me.
But if I showed mercy—
He'd kill me.
No second thoughts. No hesitation.
That was the truth.
This world didn't care if I was kind. It didn't care if I hesitated.
Hesitation got you killed.
So I let go of the doubt.
I drove the blade forward.
Hard.
The point punched through leather, flesh, and bone.
Straight into his heart.
He gasped.
His eyes widened—shock, disbelief, and something else I couldn't name.
I held his gaze.
I saw the moment the life left him.
The spark dimmed.
His body slumped forward.
Then he collapsed, falling into the mud at my feet.
Still.
Silent.
Dead.
The world went quiet again.
Only the wind moved—whispering through the trees like it didn't know what had just happened. Like it didn't care.
I stood there, still gripping the sword.
His blood ran down the steel in thick, dark rivulets. Some had already dried on my hands, black against the pale skin of my fingers. My knuckles were white. I didn't even notice how tightly I was holding the hilt until my hand started to shake.
Slowly, I lowered the blade.
The body at my feet didn't move.
I looked down at him. Really looked.
His face was still twisted with the last thing he'd felt—shock. Not pain. Not anger. Just the realization that it was over. That he was dying.
That he'd lost.
The mud around his body turned dark and wet, thick with blood. His sword lay a few feet away, half-buried, useless now.
I took a step back.
Then another.
But I couldn't look away.
The blade in my hand—my father's blade—still dripped red. The same sword that had once been swung to protect. To defend. To teach.
Now it had killed.
I had killed.
Not in defense.
Not to protect someone else.
This time, I killed to survive.
And for the first time since that night in the woods—I didn't feel rage. Or grief. Or even guilt.
I felt cold.
Not just from the air.
Inside.
Empty.
Like something had been carved out of me and thrown into the dirt with the rest of the dead.
I crouched beside him. Slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stared past me—wide, glassy, lifeless.
The mud on his cheek had dried in streaks. His beard was matted with blood. One of his hands still twitched faintly from the last nerves firing their final signal.
I reached out.
And gently closed his eyes with two fingers.
He deserved at least that.
No one should be left like this. Not even him.
Not even someone who tried to kill me.
I stayed there for a long time, kneeling in the blood and mud, sword still in my lap, the cold biting through my soaked clothes.
Then I spoke.
Quietly.
Like he could still hear me.
"I'm sorry."
The words felt strange. Hollow.
But true.
"You didn't ask for this. And neither did I."
I looked at the blood on my fingers. His. Mine.
"I don't even know your name."
A beat of silence.
Then another.
"I don't know mine anymore, either."
The wind stirred.
And I closed my eyes.
"I didn't want to kill you."
My voice cracked. My throat was dry, raw.
"But I couldn't let you kill me."
Another breath.
"I guess that makes us the same."
The trees said nothing.
The sky stayed grey.
I stood slowly. My legs ached. My arms felt heavy. The sword dragged in my hand like it weighed twice as much as before.
I looked down at the body one last time.
Then I turned away.
And walked into the trees.
The forest was quiet when I left the body behind.
Not peaceful.
Just quiet.
Like the trees had turned their backs and pretended not to see.
My legs moved on their own. Step by step, through grass and root and shadows. I didn't know where I was going—only that I needed to go. To put space between me and what I'd done.
Between me and the blood.
Eventually, I heard it.
Water.
Soft. Constant. Like a whisper threading through the undergrowth.
I followed the sound, stumbling a little, until I found the stream.
It wasn't much. Just a narrow ribbon winding through moss and stone. Clear and cold. A dozen small fish darted away the moment I stepped near.
I dropped to my knees.
My hands were filthy—coated in blood, caked with dirt. My sleeves were torn. My knuckles raw. My face... I didn't even want to see what it looked like.
I dipped my hands into the water.
Cold bit into my fingers. I let it.
For a while, I just sat there. Letting the stream wash over my skin. Watching the red curl away into the current.
"I killed him."
I said it aloud. Just to hear the words.
"He would've killed me. But still."
The water turned pink around my wrists before fading away again.
I splashed some onto my face. Scrubbed until the sting brought tears to my eyes.
"Does it make me a killer?"
No one answered. Only the wind.
I looked down at my reflection.
Pale skin. Wet hair clinging to my forehead. Green eyes too wide. Too sharp.
I didn't look like the boy who had sat by the fire with Sera. Or the one who'd cried in the dark.
I didn't even look like myself.
"I'm changing," I whispered.
Not in some grand, dramatic way. Just… shifting. Quietly. Like a blade being honed in the dark.
I sat back, dripping, and pulled the small pouch from my belt—the one I'd taken from the bandit.
Inside: a few copper coins. A rusted ring. Dried meat wrapped in cloth. A flint.
It wasn't much.
I stared at it in my palm.
"All that for this?"
I let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
"Guess we're both pathetic."
I set the meat aside. Took the flint and the coins. Pushed the rest back into the pouch.
Then I reached for my sword.
It lay on the moss beside me, still streaked with blood.
I dipped the blade in the stream. Watched the red swirl away, watched the water take it like it had taken mine not long ago.
When it was clean, I set it across my knees.
"How many more times will I have to use you?" I asked it quietly.
Of course, it didn't answer.
But deep down—I already knew.
I leaned back on my hands, eyes drifting to the sky above the trees.
The sun was low now. A golden line behind the hills.
I wasn't hungry anymore.
Not for food.
Just for something else.
A reason. A path. A place to become what I needed to be.
Whatever that was.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Let the water run past my feet.
And for the first time that day—
I let myself breathe.