Tree after tree splintered and fell beneath an immense, unseen force.

  The mercenaries’ shouts echoed through the woods as they pursued a swift, shadowed figure darting between the trunks.

  Riding the howling wind a few paces behind them, the mage known as Black Sword followed at an unhurried pace. In his palm floated a sphere of light etched with intricate runes. Three larger orbs hovered in tandem with it, casting a pale brilliance that lit the forest path—no torches were needed for the hunt.

  “Who would’ve thought such a rare creature lurked here?” Black Sword murmured idly, smoothing the feathers of the black raptor on his shoulder. “Seems it’s mutated after devouring werewolf flesh. Another fine specimen for our experiments, isn’t it, my dear?”

  The raptor’s crimson eyes glimmered; its beak twisted upward in a grotesque parody of a smile.

  Ahead, Snoke and his men pressed their hunt, wielding every trap and weapon meant for capturing beasts. Yet the creature known as Nighthowl slipped from every snare with uncanny precision, turning what should have been a swift chase into a drawn-out pursuit.

  Nighthowl’s body bore numerous wounds, the blood sluggish to clot—some curse of Black Sword’s making had blunted its natural regeneration.

  Knowing he could not win, the creature fled, circling through the trees, hoping for rescue.

  Snoke swung a hooked chain, keeping pace with the beast. When his men forced it to veer sharply, he lunged and hurled his weapon.

  Clang!

  The sound of metal biting into flesh sent a thrill through him. The chain went taut; Nighthowl roared and crashed to the ground.

  The mercenaries charged as one, eager to finish the prey.

  But danger flared—Nighthowl’s monstrous jaws split wide, far beyond any natural proportion, and snapped toward the leading man. The veteran fighter barely twisted aside in time; the thunderous crack of fangs meeting echoed through the clearing, leaving him pale and shaken.

  Even the boldest among them hesitated. One bite, and even enchanted armor would be sheared in half. They fell back, loosing arrows and bolts from a distance instead.

  Watching their hesitation, Black Sword’s patience thinned. A blade of black wind formed in his hand, and he prepared to hurl it—when suddenly, a violent sense of danger seized him.

  Before he could react, the raptor on his shoulder spread its wings wide.

  They flared like an explosion, enveloping him completely.

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  A metallic shriek—sharp enough to pierce the ear—split the air.

  His levitation spell shattered, and both mage and bird were hurled backward.

  The cries of dying mercenaries followed. Black Sword’s immaculate attire was now creased and torn; his once-slick hair hung disheveled. Fury ignited in his chest.

  He rose with the aid of his cane and looked toward the battlefield.

  A young man stood beside the wounded Nighthowl. His forearms were sheathed in dark fur, hands transformed into razor claws. Around him, most of the mercenaries lay dead—only Snoke and three others still clung to life, and barely.

  The black raptor fluttered back to its master’s shoulder, its wings still spread, smoking faintly where deep claw marks marred them.

  “So it was you who stole our cargo, boy?” Snoke barked, sweat beading down his scarred face. His heart still trembled from their earlier clash.

  “Cargo?” Glen tilted his head, puzzled at first, then smiled faintly. “Ah, you mean the forest elf. Yes, she’s with me. But I won’t hand her over. What will you do about it?”

  Snoke’s veins bulged. “You arrogant brat! You think a bit of strength lets you defy anyone you please? You’ve no idea who we serve! Return the cargo and come with us to face judgment—if you value your miserable life!”

  “Oh, how terrifying,” Glen replied flatly. “Do you take me for someone who’s never met nobility? Your master—the Punk family, isn’t it? A mere count’s house. You think that’s supposed to scare me?”

  He wasn’t bluffing. In these borderlands, a count might hold lofty status, but Glen had met plenty of such nobles in his time—even marquises. To him, they were nothing remarkable.

  His casual contempt made Snoke grind his teeth until they creaked, too furious to speak.

  “So proud,” he spat at last. “You’ve tasted a scrap of power and think yourself invincible. I’ll teach you what real strength means.”

  Black Sword stepped forward beside him. His attire and hair had somehow returned to perfect order.

  Glen eyed him, sensing the aura of corruption that clung to him. “A practitioner of dark magic, then?”

  “Magic is magic—it has no morality,” the old man hissed. “And lowering myself to debate that with a magicless wretch like you is beneath me. Now die.”

  He covered his face with one gloved hand, then suddenly thrust forward.

  A sphere of condensed wind blades exploded from his palm, tearing through the air toward Glen with terrifying force.

  The attack came fast—too fast. Glen shoved Nighthowl aside and spun with the momentum, barely evading the strike. Even so, he could feel the cutting pressure of it; the spell’s penetration would shred even a werewolf’s hide.

  But he had already gauged his foe’s strength. A third-tier mage at best. He wouldn’t even need to transform.

  The missed strike didn’t surprise Black Sword; it had only been a prelude. His lips moved swiftly—another spell already complete.

  Whirling currents condensed into crescent blades, fanning out in rings to slice the air.

  Glen’s form flickered and weaved through them, ghostlike, drawing ever closer.

  “Fast little rat,” the old man snarled. “Let’s see you dodge this!”

  Grace abandoned him. With a wide, desperate motion, he flung a net of seething black energy that hissed with corrosion, spreading across the air like a storm cloud.

  “Then I won’t bother dodging.”

  Unless it carried the same piercing force as before, Glen hardly cared.

  He slashed upward—one swipe of his clawed hand—and the corroding net disintegrated instantly.

  Panic flared in the mage’s eyes. Realizing he was losing control, he unleashed his most powerful spell.

  Mid-charge, Glen felt it—a suffocating lock, an attack impossible to evade.

  From behind Black Sword, a colossal arm of shadow burst forth, plunging into the ground and drawing up a massive, half-broken knight’s sword dripping with black ichor—then swung it down toward him in a single, devastating arc.