By his side, Fyodor had lowered his ears, startled and uncertain of what was happening. Hunter put a reassuring hand on his flank. Biggs and Wedge, still perched on the direwolf’s back, had a better grasp of the situation. They had gone eerily silent, both of them taut as bowstrings drawn and ready to let fly.
“You will address him as Elder!” snapped one of the braves.
Hunter didn’t even spare him a glance.
Behind his lackeys, Yuma glared at him with scorn. He was dressed in fine garb, trying his best to look and sound imposing.
“Your presence will no longer be tolerated in Brennai lands, Transient,” he announced, matter-of-fact. “You will leave the village immediately, taking with you nothing but the clothes on your back. All of your possessions—which rightfully belong to the residents of this world, not in the hands of Transients—are to be requisitioned by the Hawk Nation and put to use for the good of the folken. Refuse, and you will be fettered. Resist, and you will be dealt with in the swiftest manner.”
Hunter couldn’t believe his ears.
“You’re driving me out,” he said, his blood rising hot and fast. “After everything that happened… you’re robbing me blind and driving me out.” His lips split in a savage grimace. “You and what army, you sanctimonious fuck?”
“Fuck!” Wedge cawed, echoing the curse with sharp clarity.
“Fuck!” Biggs chimed in right after, the accusation clear and cutting.
The Brennai braves flinched at the ravens’ speech, a clear mark of witchery. Yuma’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Do not try me, s’krit. It is only out of respect for your former status as an Aspirant, misguided as it might have been, that I allow you the chance to leave of your own volition. Do not make me put you down like the rabid dog that you are. Because, Ancestors stay my hand, I will.”
The Hawk Nation’s golden son had been a thorn in Hunter’s side since the first day he set foot in the Brennai village. He was brooding, and conceited, and a bully through and through, and the two of them had butted heads more than once before finally settling into a strenuous truce of sorts. God knew Hunter disliked the man, and not without reason.
But whoever this person was standing before him now, whoever the bastard was that had stomped Inago’s foot to splinters back in the Blood Grove…
That was not Yuma.
The moment he’d sunk his teeth into the spirit fruit of the Malus tree, back in that accursed Blood Grove, something in him had changed. Whatever lingered in that cursed fruit had dragged all his worst traits to the surface and drowned what sense of honor or decency he’d once possessed. Hunter didn’t know how or why, but he’d seen enough to know that Yuma’s threats weren’t just idle bluster.
Not anymore.
He made a quick assessment of the situation: there were four of them, all armed and ready. He on the other hand, fool that he was, had left his glaive back at Inago’s, along with most of his gear. All he had on him now was his dirk, and there was no way in hell he could hold his own with just that. Not against Yuma, not even if the bastard came at him alone.
Biggs and Wedge were his only tactical advantage; he could count on them to sow chaos and rain curses on his foes until the cows went home. With them on his side, he might be tempted to take Yuma and his mooks on even without his glaive.
What held him back, though, was Fyodor.
Despite his great size, the direwolf was, at heart, like a child; easily frightened, innocent, caught in the middle of a bad situation he bore no fault for. He’d fight tooth and nail to protect him if push came to shove; of that, Hunter had no doubt. Still, the thought of the poor thing getting hurt on his behalf made his stomach turn.
Fyodor had already been through enough just days earlier, when he’d faced down the Penitent at the heart of the Blood Grove. Scared as he’d been, the direwolf had stood his ground beside Hunter against the nightmarish creature, and paid for it with scratches, punctures, and torn patches of fur.
Hunter reached out and patted him on his head to reassure him. He wasn’t about to let him get hurt on his account again.
Not if he could help it.
“I’ll tell you what,” he told Yuma, rubbing his temples. “There is no need for any of that. I’m keeping my gear and supplies; that’s not negotiable. But give me until noon, and I’ll be out of your hair on my own.”
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That drew a scoff from the newly appointed alderman.
“Not negotiable?” he echoed, shaking his head. “Does this look like a negotiation to you, Transient? Your possessions are forfeit, and rightfully so. And the only way I’d allow you to remain in the village until noon would be chained to a post.”
With a single thought, Hunter had his ravens take wing. Be ready. They circled around the Brennai braves, cawing menacingly from above. A couple of the warriors slackened their grip on their weapons just long enough to run a hand over their brows and hearts, a gesture meant to ward off evil.
Yuma, on the other hand, remained unmoved. “Your vile witchery only worsens your position.” He was cold, detached. He had changed.
“We don’t have to do this,” Hunter said, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears. He could still think of a dozen ways this might play out, but one that didn’t involve fighting was looking less plausible by the second.
As if to confirm that assessment, Yuma gave the order.
“Seize him.”
Looking uncertain, the braves took a step closer, closing the circle around Hunter and the direwolf.
“Pelt them with Ill Omen,“ Hunter projected to his familiars as he drew his dirk and assumed a basic knifefighter stance. “I don’t want anyone killed, though. Just slowed down. And whatever they do, keep an eye on the mutt.”
Not two breaths later, the ravens erupted into action, raining lime-colored witchfire down on the heads of the Brennai braves.
A cascade of combat messages appeared on Hunter’s HUD:
Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses Inai Asuju for 3 eldritch damage.
Inai Asuju is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen.
Biggs uses Ill Omen. Biggs curses Romu Yatai for 2 eldritch damage.
Romu Yatai is now afflicted with Curse of Ill Omen.
Biggs and Wedge were blasting them with weakened versions of their curse—it was obvious from the smaller damage numbers—but the effect was spectacular all the same.
Bogged down by the magic, driven to the edge by their own fear and superstition, the three warriors broke formation, screaming and flailing wildly, trying to swat the ravens away with their spears. Biggs and Wedge reveled in the chaos, cackling like lunatics over the telepathic link.
Just as startled as they were, Fyodor began to growl, ears flattened tight against his skull, hackles bristling.
So this was it then. There was no turning back.
“Fyodor—go!” Hunter barked, pointing back toward the edge of the village. “To Inago! Go now!”
The direwolf hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking between Hunter and the chaos, then turned and bolted, paws thudding against the packed earth as he raced toward the tent.
Above the scene, Biggs and Wedge continued to harry the panicked braves with sharp bursts of magic, stacking the intensity of their curse until the warriors moved like they were wading through molasses. Wedge let fly a more powerful blast toward Yuma, but it fizzled out just short of its mark.
Bastard, Hunter thought. He must have been using one of his own Corpse Hair Charms, the same ones he’d given him just days ago to protect him from the Bramble Blights lifedrain.
Unfazed, Yuma pushed through the flailing braves and came straight for Hunter, glaive set to kill, eyes cold, focused, and utterly devoid of hesitation. Hunter’s dirk suddenly felt too small in his hands. For a split second, he considered tackling one of the braves and wresting a spear from him; anything to even the odds.
No time.
Yuma was already on him, and he came in hard.
From the very first exchange, it was clear Hunter wasn’t going to win this one. Yuma lunged and slashed with explosive force, his glaive’s superior reach granting him an overwhelming advantage. Hunter dodged and sidestepped frantically, hard-pressed as the attacks came faster than he could counter. His Adaptive Defense was working overtime, gradually helping him read Yuma’s patterns, adjusting his reflexes bit by bit, granting him just enough breathing space to stay alive.
Still, it was far from enough.
He focused his thoughts to Biggs and Wedge.
“A little help here, guys?”
Wedge immediately made a mid-air U-turn and launched a concentrated blast of lime-green witchfire at Yuma, buying Hunter some precious time. Biggs, meanwhile, took a more direct approach: he dive-bombed Yuma with a furious screech, flapping and clawing at the man’s face, trying to peck his eyes out.
Yuma cried out and almost dropped his weapon trying to swat the furious raven, but the reprieve didn’t last.
Shouts of alarm erupted from all sides as the folken gathered to gawk at the commotion. Worse still, a couple of Yuma’s braves were already shaking off their panic and starting to close in again, moving to circle him once more. Rushing in from deeper within the village, another trio of guards appeared and moved to join them, weapons drawn and eyes wary.
Shit.
The odds against him were overwhelming. As the ring of spears tightened, there was nowhere to run. Whatever good luck Hunter had so far, it had officially run dry. Finally free of his black-feathered aggressor, Yuma knew it too. A sardonic smile crept across his face as he gestured for someone to toss Hunter a length of chain and a pair of old, rusty manacles.
“It’s over, Transient. Put those on, and I might consider sparing you.”
“Do you honestly think these things can hold me?” Hunter shot back, voice sharp with fake bravado as he played for time. “Are you that stupid? What’s stopping me from vanishing into thin air?”
“I don’t know, Transient,” Yuma said, unfazed. “You tell me. Maybe it’s the fact that if you do, I’ll set every huntsman among the folken after that beast fo yours. I’ve been thinking about it, you know. That russet fur would make a fine mantle. So you better—”
He was cut short as Hallara Besk cut through the small crowd gathering around them, her snow-white hair and garb gleaming like a beacon in the overcast light, her jade eyes burning with fury.
“Stop!” she shouted, her voice preternaturally loud, and there was enough power woven in that single word to still even the wind.
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