"Can you see, little one? Look closely at the sky. It's filled with birds. They cut through the air like arrows shot by divine hands, following paths that not even the winds dare to defy. Every flap of their wings seems laden with purpose. When I was younger, I thought I could bring down two, maybe three of them with a single arrow. I didn't just think it — I was certain. I felt it in every muscle, in every heartbeat. Confidence was an old companion, like a flame that never went out. In my mind, I could already hear the sound of feathers tearing and bodies crashing to the earth, felled by my relentless aim.
But reality was in no hurry to teach me I was wrong. The arrow flew... and missed. And with it, something more was lost — something that weighed heavier than the wood and steel that never hit the target. Do you know what's worse? It wasn't just the failure that crushed me. It was the moment between the shot and the void, when I realized, too late, that I would never have another chance. That kind of mistake carries a burden. One you can't lay down, because it fuses with your skin and begins to live inside you, like a shadow that never sleeps.
Now everything is getting dark. But it's not the kind of darkness that comes with fucking alcohol, that damn stupor that drags you into a hole where pain and memory mix until there's no respite. No. This time is different. It feels like the damn world is falling apart. It slips through my fingers like water from a leaky canteen, and no matter how hard I try to hold on... I can't. I just watch, helpless, as it all slips away. The funny thing? Still, I feel... complete. As if, for the first time in a long time, the pieces finally found their place. Maybe that's what she meant. I never quite understood this warning: "Don't forget, or you will lose everything." Now, here, on the brink of this inevitable end, I begin to understand.
If it's you... If it's not a cruel illusion sent to mock me one last time... Maybe you arrived at the wrong moment. Or the right one. I don't know anymore. I just know I have one thing to ask of you, and it has to be now: do what I couldn't. Take the flame to them and burn everything. Show those bastards what true hell is. Use everything you have. The strength you hide in your fists, the anger or hope you hold in your chest — or the possible magic that is around you — doesn't matter. Just leave your mark on them. Let them feel you even after you are gone, like a scar on their soul, if there is still something human in them.
Eigan...
That name weighs on my lips. I don't know if it was a prayer, a plea, or a farewell. Maybe it was all three. It was the last thing I could say. Maybe it's the only thing that truly matters now."
...
Eigan clenched his lips tightly, biting them until he nearly tore the skin. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the hatred boiling in his veins. That hatred, visceral and relentless, spread through his body like poison, and he felt the mana burning inside him, seeping through his pores in scorching waves. A brutal, raw, and uncontrolled aura took shape around him, vibrating as if the air itself was about to explode. Unfortunately, no one there could see his hatred through the mana escaping from him.
In front of him, a group of men in leather garb watched him with twisted smiles. Their appearances were wild, like creatures that lived to kill. "Savages..." Eigan thought, with his jaw clenched. He knew. These were the ones responsible for it all. Murderers, ruthless and soulless.
The biggest one, Zerek, his hand filthy with his own blood, with his arakh hanging at his waist... As he walked away from Kaled, leaving his men to deal with the boy. His gaze met Eigan's for a brief moment, carrying something between rage and disdain, like one who faces an insignificant obstacle. The other dothraki followed him with hungry eyes, assessing the boy as a fragile prey, just another animal to be slaughtered. Malicious laughter escaped their throats, each sound filled with mockery.
Then, one of the men, rougher and bulkier than the others, stepped forward. He snapped his fingers, pointing at Eigan with a short, determined motion. Without saying a word, he indicated to his companions that he would take care of the boy personally. The crooked smile on his face showed that he expected little more than a scream or a final desperate gasp. He began to walk, each step resonating like a death sentence.
Eigan took a deep breath, emptying his lungs as if preparing for a unique performance.. In front of him, one of the twelve men advanced with a twisted, malicious grin. Eigan's eyes, however, briefly wandered to Kaled and Rella again, observing with tension the position of his friend and his unclothed companion. Worry cast a brief shadow on his face, but he quickly dispelled it. He couldn't afford to lose focus. Now, danger was just a step away: the enemy came with a curved blade, muscles taut, and the desire for blood in his eyes.
Eigan cleared his mind. Doubts and anxieties evaporated like mist, and he began to channel the mana flowing through his body. His muscles filled with energy, his senses sharpened like blades. The new core inside him throbbed, giving him confidence. There wouldn't be devastating consequences like the first time he burned mana to kill the two slave traders. This time, he would control the flow perfectly.
A slight smile formed on his face, but there was no sweetness in it. It was the predatory smile of someone who doesn't see men, but prey. He looked at his opponents as if already envisioning each of their deaths. It wouldn't be difficult. Seven, maybe eight of them, would fall before realizing the mistake they made in facing him. And as a cruel touch to the battle, he planned to use their own weapons to take their lives. In his old world, there was no more humiliating death than being killed by your own blade.
The first man attacked without hesitation. A wild roar escaped his throat as he charged with a wide, clumsy punch, as if fighting a weak boy. He didn't know he was dealing with a predator. Eigan silently thanked the enemy's stupidity.
With cold precision, he ducked swiftly like a feline and launched himself into the air, spinning mid-air. The movement was fluid, almost a dance, and before the opponent could react, Eigan's right foot found his face with brutal impact. The dry crack of the jaw breaking echoed through the clearing like muffled thunder.
The enemy's body twisted grotesquely with the blow, spitting blood and teeth, while a grunt of pain escaped his cracked lips. The man's eyes glazed over for an eternal second before his legs gave out, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The dull thud of his body hitting the ground was followed by silence – a heavy, sharp silence.
Eigan landed softly, as if he had floated to the ground. He raised his eyes to the rest of the group – the other dothraki – some surprised, others slightly frightened. The wind whispered between the trees, but the air felt thicker, almost solid, carrying the tension of impending death. His eyes now glowed with a reddish hue, like embers burning in the ashes.
Eigan's lips moved gently, almost in a murmur. The words were as cold as a blade sliding across a throat:
— Next...
The men around froze for an instant, as if an invisible hand squeezed their hearts and the heavy air foretold an impending disaster. The sound of their ragged breaths was muffled by the restless whisper of leaves in the wind. Zerek, with his predatory gaze on the boy, clenched his fists, the knuckles cracking like stones under pressure. Something in him had already understood what the others had not yet realized. The aura surrounding Eigan was not that of a helpless prey. It was a latent, subtle, and powerful threat, like the silence before a storm.
Zerek couldn't explain it, but his instincts screamed: "Danger." It wasn't a rational warning. It was the very essence of nature, whispering through every fiber of his being, telling him that this boy was not what he seemed to be. A true wolf in sheep's clothing.
The other dothraki exchanged quick glances, their brows furrowed in silent understanding. This was no ordinary enemy, after all. They drew their arakhs, the curved blades gleaming under the trembling moonlight, ready to reap lives. With a fluid movement, Eigan bent down and pulled the arakh from the still-warm body of the fallen dothraki. The metal weighed in his hand like a promise of vengeance.
He spun the blade with his fingertips, feeling the weapon's balance. A brief wrist movement, agile and discreet, as if testing a new toy. The blade twirled twice in the air, hissing like a snake, before Eigan gripped the handle. His gaze narrowed. A barely audible sigh escaped his lips. He positioned himself with the arakh in his left hand, feet slightly apart, ready to move like water between rocks.
"Not ideal," he thought. He didn't like this type of weapon. A sword, yes, that would be his natural choice—a straight blade that could channel magic. As a sword mage, he had always fused magic into his blades, turning every strike into an explosion of mana. But this weapon… it wouldn't hold. One or two strikes infused with magic would be enough to break it. No. First, he would bring them down with raw skill alone, leaving magic as an ace up his sleeve.
The dothraki felt the weight of Eigan's gaze on them—red eyes, deep and relentless, like those of a demon lurking in the shadows. A shiver ran down the spine of every man present. The air in the forest became dense, heavy, as if even the trees had paused to watch the imminent confrontation. Silence fell, absolute and sharp.
Then, in a flash, Eigan moved.
He didn't run. He exploded. His body seemed like a red and black blur, lightning cutting through the air with impossible speed. The arakh spun in his hand like an extension of his arm. The first dothraki didn't even have time to raise his blade; Eigan's strike was precise, slashing him from clavicle to torso in a wide arc. Blood sprayed, painting the grass in bright crimson.
The second tried to retreat, but Eigan was already upon him. He ducked swiftly, spinning on his heel, and delivered a short stab to the man's side, as if sinking a knife into butter. The Dothraki let out a muffled scream, stumbling backward, but Eigan didn't stop. With an agile turn, he raised the arakh in an upward slash, slicing open his opponent's throat. Blood gushed like a restless river as the body fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Zerek roared, his voice tearing through the air like thunder, rallying his men into action. Four dothraki advanced in sync, attempting to surround Eigan like predators closing in on prey. But the boy was already ahead of them. His eyes sparked with determination, and every muscle in his body seemed like a taut string, ready to snap.
One of the warriors hurled his arakh in a brutal strike toward Eigan's head. He dove forward, letting himself fall close to the ground, and the blade whistled through the air, cutting only the wind above him. Like a shadow, Eigan slid beneath the attack and, in one motion, rose behind the enemy. The arakh's blade glimmered for an instant before mercilessly penetrating the base of the dothraki's spine.
The man froze, his body trembling in agony, and before he could fall, Eigan slid the blade downward, opening a deep gash in the dothraki's spine, and pulled it back with a quick and precise twist. He tore through flesh, the blade grazing the face of another dothraki, who writhed as he fell to the ground, flailing his hands at his face in agony.
Two other warriors advanced together, seeking to crush him between them. Eigan jumped to the side, the arakh in his hand describing a deadly arc that found the exposed throat of one of the dothraki. The blade tore through flesh and trachea, leaving a scarlet trail as the man silently choked, his gaze already glazed with death.
The other did not hesitate. With a furious roar, he tried to drive his weapon into Eigan's back. The blade scraped against the flesh, opening a thin cut that burned like fire. Eigan grunted but did not lose his rhythm. He spun on his heels in response, driving the arakh into the side of the attacker's neck. The strike was deep and precise. The dothraki halted in place, his whole body stiffening. His lips trembled, but no words could escape. In a matter of seconds, he dropped to his knees, his eyes lifeless.
Eigan took a deep breath, feeling the burn of exhaustion beginning to weigh on his arms and legs. Each strike, each dodge, exacted a toll, and the cut on his back throbbed. He pulled the blade from the lifeless body with a firm tug and felt cold sweat trickle down his forehead. But there was no time to rest.
Before he could catch his breath, four more dothraki charged at him, their blades shining in the light like predators ready to kill. The sound of their footsteps blended with the rustling of arakhs slicing through the air, creating a sound of death.
Eigan narrowly dodged the first blow, which passed mere millimeters from his face in a horizontal arc. He retreated, rolling to avoid the blade descending vertically. Hardly back on his feet, a new blade came toward his chest. He raised his own weapon to parry the strike, the blades clinking with a metallic, shrill sound.
The force of the impact nearly knocked him off balance, but he planted his feet and seized the minimal opening the enemy left while retracting his weapon. With a sharp and decisive strike, Eigan opened a deep gash from the thigh to the groin of the warrior, who roared in pain and fell to his knees, his hands moving to his lower body as blood flowed incessantly. His death was inevitable.
Another enemy came from behind, but Eigan heard the rustling footsteps on the ground and spun his body. His blade sliced through the air faster than the dothraki could react, opening a red fissure in the man's abdomen. He staggered back, holding his intestines that were spilling through his fingers.
The third adversary tried to catch Eigan off guard, advancing with a high arcing strike. But Eigan, with sharpened reflexes, dove to the side and struck from below, hitting the attacker's arm and forcing him to drop his weapon with a scream, and then drove the tip of the arakh into his chin. With an disproportionate strength for his size, he yanked the arakh, ripping the savage's jaw off.
The last warrior hesitated for a second — a second longer than he should have. Eigan lunged forward like a shot, the blade in his hand slicing through the air and finding the man's neck. The dothraki tried to retreat, but it was too late. Blood gushed in an arc as he fell lifeless at Eigan's feet.
Eigan's breathing became heavy, each gasp sounding like the wheeze of a poorly tuned forge. His arms trembled under the weight of exhaustion. Before he could react, Zerek's blade descended like a lightning bolt. Eigan raised the arakh reflexively, steel against steel, sparks dancing in the air. The impact made him stagger back, nearly losing his balance again. But there was no time to think — Zerek was upon him like a flash of steel and death, his strikes carrying an ancient fury and an unrelenting desire to kill.
The sound of arakhs clashing was a metallic echo among the trees. Eigan blocked sideways, his movements quick, but each defense took a little more of his strength. His legs trembled, threatening to give out. With each new clash, his body revealed his youth — if he were just a bit older, stronger, perhaps he could withstand Zerek's brutality.
He swung the arakh with the grace of a brute and the strength of a predator, each cut seeking an opening to end the fight. He knew the boy was losing ground. Still, a doubt nagged at him: where did that tremendous strength come from? How could such a young boy possess skills that bordered on the impossible?
Eigan leaped back with a short jump, trying to create space, but Zerek showed no mercy. The dothraki's eyes shone with malice and curiosity — a warrior begrudgingly recognizing the quality of his enemy. The boy was on the edge, and Zerek sensed it. But there was something there, something in Eigan's aura that intrigued him, like a turbulent river about to overflow.
Then, with a strangled scream of effort, Eigan threw all his weight onto his left arm. Pain tore through his body like an invisible blade, and blood flowed from his nose, but he didn't care. In a desperate strike, his arakh sliced through the air in a fierce arc, forcing Zerek to retreat. The hulking warrior stumbled back two steps, surprised. His lips curled into a crooked smile, a mix of irritation and excitement. He leaned slightly forward, breathing more intensely, as if warming up his muscles for the final phase of a hunt.
Eigan fell to his knees, his chest rising and falling too quickly, as if the air was insufficient. Each breath was a struggle of its own. Even so, he tightened his grip on the arakh, ignoring the weakened body that screamed for rest.
Zerek smiled, almost amused. It was hard not to admire the boy, even though he had killed eleven of his companions as if they were nothing more than grass. He was a worthy opponent, something rare to find in the midst of a forest.
— You are strong... boy. If you were one of ours, you would be our Khal. — Zerek's voice came out low, hoarse, yet strangely calm, carrying a disguised respect behind the threat.
Eigan didn't understand the words, but he felt the shift in the atmosphere. The weight of Zerek's murderous intent eased for a moment – a brief but precious moment. The boy took the opportunity to gather what was left of his mana, forcing it to flow through his veins like lava, even though he knew the corrupted energy would mix in his body as a consequence. It didn't matter. He would kill the last savage there, even if it cost him his soul. He had to kill the man in front of him.
Far from the battle, almost unnoticed among the shadows of the trees, Xhalor watched the scene, paralyzed by fear. The merchant barely dared to breathe, as if any movement could attract the dothraki's wrath. His mind was in chaos—if he had intervened earlier, he might already be dead, and his family left to fend for themselves in Qohor. Now, the situation had taken an even crazier turn: the boy whom Kaled treated like a son had appeared out of nowhere and had single-handedly killed eleven dothraki warriors as if they were toys.
"Damn you, Kaled... Did you call this a boy? This is no child!! It's a demon dressed as a child."
Now, all that was left was to hope the demon would win. Because if he didn't, the nightmare that would follow would be much worse.
The world around Eigan seemed to silence. Each breath was painful, his muscles cried out for rest, but there was no choice. This was his first real fight since he had been reincarnated, the first in which a mistake would mean his death. Eigan blinked, trying to push away the weight of memories from another life, from a world where death had never stalked him at such a young age. Now, in this young body, every second was a battle between surviving and succumbing.
Zerek charged with a deep roar, arakh spinning in a wide arc. Eigan barely dodged, but not enough. The blade bit into his abdomen, opening a shallow but long cut. The warmth of blood flowed down, and he gritted his teeth, stifling a scream. There was no time to feel pain. Zerek was a predator, and any hesitation would be fatal.
Another blow came from above, quick and cruel. Eigan raised his arakh, deflecting the cut by a hair's breadth, but Zerek twisted his body with the fluidity of an experienced warrior and struck from the side. The blade sliced deep into his right arm, tearing through flesh and muscle. Blood flowed from the wound, but Eigan, in a quick exchange, held the arakh tightly with his other hand, refusing to let go of the weapon.
He staggered to the side, trying to maintain distance. Zerek didn't give him that chance. With an unexpected feint, the dothraki slid low, the arakh tracing a precise low semicircle. Eigan felt the blade open his thigh, and a scream escaped his lips. His leg wavered, but he forced his body to stay upright, refusing to fall. If he fell, he would die.
But the pain did something else. It awakened something within him. It was as if an ancient and dark current stirred inside him, a hungry energy he had never felt before, not in this life. The corrupted mana spread through his veins, warming his body, clearing his mind amidst the chaos.
Zerek smiled, his eyes glinting with malice as he saw the boy's blood pooling on the ground. But then Eigan moved.
It was fast, faster than Zerek had expected. The boy's arakh rose in a precise arc, aiming for the exposed flank of the dothraki. Zerek twisted at the last moment, but it wasn't quick enough—the blade of Eigan tore into his skin, a deep strike that made him grunt and stumble back.
Eigan advanced. Each step was torture, the pain in his body threatening to consume him, but he ignored it. Pain was just another obstacle, and he would not lose. With every strike he delivered, he felt the corrupted mana digging deeper into his being, like a necessary poison. His defenses were faster, his attacks more precise.
Zerek attempted another low strike, but Eigan read the movement, dodging by a hair's breadth. His blade countered, sliding precisely against Zerek's forearm. Blood sprayed from the cut, and for the first time, the dothraki stepped back with a look of caution.
— You're not just a boy, — Zerek murmured, licking the blood dripping from his lips as if savoring the taste of danger. — Different!!
Eigan gave no expression in return. He was beyond words and expressions now. Every cell in his body burned, but he forced his muscles to continue. One more strike. One more dodge. One more step toward victory.
Zerek roared and lunged again, this time with the full weight of his body, trying to crush the boy with brute force. Eigan ducked at the last second, the arakh spinning in a low, precise cut, opening a red line on the side of the warrior. Zerek staggered, breathless, and for a moment, the gleam of triumph in his eyes gave way to fear.
Eigan panted, but there was a new fire burning within him. He had never felt so alive since arriving in this world. Even as his body ached, even as blood spilled, the feeling was crystal clear: he would survive this battle or die fighting.
The two warriors stared at each other, both bleeding, both close to their limits. The world around them had vanished—there was no more forest, no more Xhalor watching from a distance, nothing but the battle. Zerek slowly spun his arakh, measuring his next attack, and Eigan tightened his grip on the weapon, feeling the weight of life and death in his hands.
Zerek charged with a wild roar, the arakh held with both hands, as if that strike would be the final verdict. Eigan didn't hesitate. He too lunged forward, ignoring the searing pain in every muscle and the blood trickling from his open wounds. The arakhs clashed with a metallic bang, the impact reverberating through the blades and the arms of both warriors.
For a moment, they were locked in that exchange, both pushing with all their strength, the blades screeching. One of them would give way first. Eigan growled, pushing with renewed ferocity, his red eyes sparkling like embers. On the other side, Zerek narrowed his eyes, biting his lip as he tasted the metallic flavor of blood. "Sorcery," the dothraki thought, feeling the boy's superhuman strength pressing against his blade.
Blood dripped from their wounds, drops lazily trickling into the earth, staining the battlefield. Zerek's black eyes locked onto Eigan's reds, and in that brief moment of silent tension, both knew they were at their limits. And then, with a sharp crack, Eigan's blade broke.
Zerek delivered a precise cut to the boy's chest. The steel penetrated skin and flesh, and a trickle of warm blood flowed down Eigan's torso. With a leap back, he narrowly escaped having his chest opened completely; the pain burned like fire in every nerve. He looked at the broken arakh in his hands and bit his lip, cursing the quality of the weapon.
Xhalor, from a distance, watched in growing panic, his hands clenched so tightly that his fingers turned pale. Kaled's boy was losing. His heart raced violently, and he fought against the paralysis of fear. Could he watch the boy die without acting? Every fiber of his mind screamed to flee, to preserve his own life, but his conscience roared that he could not abandon the boy.
Meanwhile, Eigan gasped, his body on the brink of collapse. The corrupted mana writhed within him like a hungry, uncontrollable viper, devouring his newly formed core. He screamed in agony, a sound echoing through the forest, blood streaming from his mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. His body trembled, kneeling on the blood-soaked ground, as more black fluid spilled from his mouth, mixed with cries of anguish.
Zerek narrowed his eyes, tilting his head as if studying the boy. He knew. The boy had reached his limit. A half-smile formed on his lips. He would win again, as always. But there was something in him that lamented—a bitter frustration that the fight hadn't lasted longer.
He charged, closing the new distance, and with a powerful kick, Zerek launched Eigan into the air. The boy's body spun like a rag doll and violently crashed against a tree, falling headfirst. The silence that followed was deadly.
— As a reward... your head... — Zerek's voice was deep, weighed down by exhaustion. His body was worn, the burden of the battle etched in every muscle and breath. He had won, but there was no glory in victory. Something inside him whispered that this triumph had been a matter of chance, not skill. If the boy before him had a good weapon, more strength, and endurance... the dothraki knew it would be he, and not Eigan, fallen against that tree.
Even so, the respect was there. It was hard not to acknowledge the worth of someone who, with such a young body, had fought him equally and almost defeated him. A tired smile danced across Zerek's cracked lips, who knew how to recognize warriors, regardless of their age or origin.
— State your name! — he demanded, his voice sharp as the desert wind. There was a strange desire to know who the boy was that had almost brought him to the brink of defeat. Yet, he also knew the answer would not come, not because the boy didn't understand what he was saying, but because he didn't owe an explanation to anyone.
Zerek shook his head in resignation, his ponytail whipping through the air. The bone and metal ornaments shimmered with the movement, softly echoing like sinister bells announcing the end. The battle was over. Now, all that remained was to fulfill the death ritual.
Raising his arakh, he positioned it horizontally, the blade gleaming under the filtered light of the tree canopies. His aim was clear: to behead the boy.
Xhalor trembled, an internal battle consuming him. Cowardice or courage? Save his life or honor Kaled's memory and fight for that boy? He swallowed hard, fear making his knees weak, but something finally broke inside him. He moved.
A stone flew through the air, hitting Zerek in the back. The impact was small, but enough to irritate the dothraki. He spun around, his face now filled with fury. He noticed the merchant as if for the first time.
— I'll deal with you later! — Zerek roared, pointing the arakh at Xhalor, who took a step back, pale.
Zerek turned to Eigan, certain it would be the final blow. But as soon as he faced him, a devastating punch hit him in the stomach. Air exploded from his lungs in a choked roar, and he staggered, coughing up blood. The impact, combined with the pain, made him drop the arakh, which spun through the air.
Eigan, with cold precision, caught the weapon mid-spin.
Xhalor saw the chance and ran, tripping over one of the fallen bodies on the ground. With trembling hands, he grabbed an abandoned arakh and threw it into the sky. Eigan needed no words. A slight nod was all Xhalor received, but it was enough.
Eigan exploded with the force of all the mana still flowing in his body. The energies fused—pure and corrupted—into a chaotic wave, fueling his muscles. He shot forward like an arrow, almost flying, and at the exact moment, he caught the arakh falling from the sky with his left hand.
With both blades wielded and his arms in an X shape, he descended upon Zerek.
The dothraki's eyes widened, a flash of understanding crossing his face. For the first time, he saw his own death approaching, and the boy smiled maliciously, the two blades ready for the final strike.
— Eigan. — he whispered. — That is my name. Goodbye...
With a fluid movement, both blades ignited, fueled by mana in a frenzy of power. It was magic, but no one but Xhalor and Zerek was there to witness it. Eigan sliced in sync, both blades pressing against Zerek's neck with relentless precision.
The Dothraki's head was severed in a single movement.
Zerek's body stood for a moment, as if still resisting the inevitable. Then, with a final sigh, he toppled heavily, his head rolling across the ground like a grim trophy as his body stained the earth with blood.
Eigan stood on the ground, panting, blood still dripping from his wounds. The two arakhs melted away as he freed them from his hands. His muscles screamed for rest, but he would not allow himself to fall. He had won.
Xhalor ran to him but stopped, hesitant and speechless, only a look of respect, relief, and genuine fear on his face. The boy had done the impossible. And that, before his eyes... He had seen magic. In a way so beautiful and dreadful.
Eigan took a deep breath, feeling the mana finally dissipate from his exhausted body. He stared at Zerek's head on the ground, the dothraki's empty eyes still open but lifeless.
Eigan had brought justice, but the way he faced the eleven dothraki—moving with supernatural agility, like a predator in the shadows—made Xhalor tremble. His gaze, piercing and red like blood itself, pierced like sharp knives. There was something in the boy's eyes that Xhalor had never seen, a color that pulsed like embers of rage, radiating a primal fury, almost beyond humanity.
"Like blood..." Thought the cowardly merchant, his wavering mind whispering words of fear. He wondered if the boy was truly what he appeared to be. Of course not! The scene around him was steeped in death—bodies fallen in grotesque positions, the metallic smell of fresh blood filling the air, mingling with the damp aroma of the forest. In the center of all this destruction, Eigan stood, serene, almost ethereal. His footsteps made the blood-soaked ground crack under his feet, and the light filtering through the treetops briefly illuminated the dothraki arakhs, now melted, twisted like remnants of a recent hell.
Xhalor felt torn between admiration for the boy's bravery and the overwhelming fear of what he truly was. The echo of death screams, once deafening, now seemed a distant noise, muffled by Eigan's presence, which even suppressed the natural sounds of the forest.
The boy sighed deeply, not even glancing at Xhalor, as if the merchant were an unimportant shadow. Weariness was etched on his young shoulders, already so burdened by the weight of the battles he fought. He walked over to Kaled, whose lifeless eyes were still open, reflecting the horror of his last vision. Kneeling beside his friend, Eigan gently closed Kaled's eyes, his touch soft, almost reverent.
— I'm sorry... I came too late...— he murmured, his voice trembling but filled with an emotion that threatened to break his composure. He hoped, wherever Kaled was, that he could hear these words, which were both an apology and a bitter farewell. Beside him, Rella, still alive but unconscious, was a rare relief amid the devastation. A silent thank you escaped Eigan's lips, grateful that she still breathed.
He remained like that for a moment, absorbing the scene around him: the bloodstained ground, the tall trees that now seemed silent witnesses to the carnage. The wind rustled the leaves with a low, haunting sound, as if the very air feared to disturb the battlefield. Then Eigan's eyes, burning and red, turned to Xhalor. The merchant from Qohor, with his short breaths and tense posture, watched the boy with a mix of sadness and growing admiration.
— Who are you? — Eigan's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade, interrupting the oppressive silence that hung between them.
Xhalor flinched hesitantly. The strength radiating from that boy, even in the face of such tragedy, was something that defied explanation. Eigan, so young, yet capable of defeating twelve fierce warriors. He could barely formulate his words. Carefully, he finally responded:
— I am... Xhalor... and... Kaled's friend.. — his voice was heavy, the words falling like stones. — I saw what you did. Your bravery... it is not common, not even among the strongest. You are... a sorcerer? — the word slipped out like a whisper, filled with dread. But even in the face of an inexplicable being, Xhalor did not let his curiosity die.
Eigan tilted his head slightly, his piercing eyes assessing the man before him with an intensity that made Xhalor shudder again. That boy carried a burden that went beyond physical strength; there was a power there, something ancient and dark.
— A friend...? — the word escaped Eigan's lips with a veiled emotional weight.
Xhalor nodded, recalling how he had met Kaled, how their friendship had formed. The merchant was eager to understand more about the boy but knew that, despite his youth, the boy carried a dangerous and incomprehensible power.
— Tell me something… — he looked around — What are these guys? — he asked again, his gaze now fixed on the bodies of the dothraki, a mix of disdain and curiosity in his eyes. His voice was an order, making it clear that he would not accept evasions.
Xhalor swallowed hard, surprised by the ferocity in the boy's voice. He couldn't refuse.
— They are dothraki. — he began, his voice low.— Nomads, warriors. They are known for their brutality and the way they dominate the battlefield... They live for the honor of combat. — he paused, feeling the pressure of Eigan's words and the gaze that fixed on him.
Eigan did not avert his eyes, his gaze shining with a terrifying intensity.
— And where can I find their true leader?! — he demanded, even with a young voice, it was as strong as the power he demonstrated minutes ago. It was more than a question; it was a vow of revenge, a cry for justice.
The merchant trembled under the weight of the demand.
Trying to contain the tide of pain that overwhelmed him, Eigan felt his eyes burn. The blood, previously contained, began to trickle slowly, mixing with the invisible tears he would not allow to fall. "My core..." the growl echoed in his mind. The pressure of sorrow and fatigue was pushing him to his limit. The red droplets from his eyes dripped onto the ground like a macabre rain, and the world around him began to fade.
Then, strong arms held him firmly before he fell onto the blood-soaked ground. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was Xhalor's worried look. Darkness enveloped him, and he fainted, surrendering to the relief of the merchant's arms.