--A few hours earlier before Lucas entered the commander's tent--
The fire crackled softly in the quiet of the night, its warmth a welcome comfort against the cool forest breeze. Lucas and Finn sat beside it, the remains of their celebration scattered around them—a nearly empty flask of spiced cider and a shared loaf of bread from the camp's stores.
"Can you believe it?" Finn said, leaning back and gazing at the stars above. "We actually hit Astrid. It still feels unreal."
Lucas chuckled, poking at the fire with a stick. "I think she went easy on us in the end. But still, we did it. We're officially one step closer."
Finn nodded, his expression growing thoughtful. "This is just the beginning, though. The real challenge starts now. Magic, cultivation, techniques—it's going to be tough."
"Tougher than this?" Lucas grinned, flexing his arm exaggeratedly. "I don't think my body could take much more."
Finn laughed. "You're stronger than you think, Lucas. You've always been. You just don't see it yet."
The words caught Lucas off guard, and for a moment, he was silent. He looked into the fire, its flickering light casting shadows on his face. "Thanks, Finn. That means a lot."
Finn clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't get too sappy on me. I'm going to bed." He stood and stretched, his joints popping audibly. "You should rest too. Tomorrow's another long day."
Lucas nodded. "I will. Just want to enjoy the fire a little longer."
Finn gave him a parting smile and headed to their shared cot, leaving Lucas alone with his thoughts.
---
The night deepened, and the forest's usual symphony of sounds surrounded Lucas—the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the occasional hoot of an owl. He stared into the flames, his mind drifting to memories of Brighthaven, of his mother, and of the promises he had made to himself.
A faint rustling broke his reverie. He froze, his senses sharpening. The sound came again, from the edge of the forest just beyond the camp's perimeter. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably out of place.
Gripping his sword, Lucas rose quietly and moved toward the sound. His heart pounded in his chest as he stepped into the shadows of the trees.
"Hello?" he called softly, his voice steady despite the unease creeping up his spine.
There was no response. He searched the area, his eyes scanning the undergrowth and his ears straining for any further noise. After several tense moments, he found nothing.
Relieved but wary, Lucas turned to head back to the fire.
A sudden shift in the air—silent and deadly—was all the warning Lucas had.
The attack came swiftly, the gleam of a blade slicing through the darkness toward his neck. Lucas's instincts kicked in, and he raised his sword just in time, the clang of steel on steel echoing through the trees. The force of the blow jarred his arm, sending a shockwave through his body.
The enemy scout pulled back, his movements fluid and precise. He was dressed in dark leather armor that blended seamlessly with the shadows, his face obscured by a cloth mask. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Lucas with predatory intent.
Lucas didn't have time to think. The scout lunged again, his blade aiming for Lucas's side. Lucas sidestepped, his training taking over. He swung his sword in a wide arc, forcing the scout to back off.
But the scout was relentless. He moved like a shadow, circling Lucas with deadly grace. His strikes were quick and deliberate, probing for weaknesses in Lucas's defense.
Lucas gritted his teeth, his mind racing. Each clash of their blades sent vibrations up his arms. He blocked, parried, and countered, his movements fueled by adrenaline and the lessons drilled into him by Astrid.
The scout feinted left, then struck from the right. Lucas barely caught the movement in time, twisting his body to avoid the blade. He retaliated with a quick thrust, but the scout sidestepped effortlessly, his counterattack slicing a shallow line across Lucas's arm.
The pain was sharp, but it only fueled Lucas's determination. He adjusted his stance, his grip tightening on his sword.
Their duel raged on, the forest bearing witness to the deadly dance of steel. The scout was faster, his strikes precise and unrelenting, but Lucas had the advantage of raw strength and unwavering resolve. He began to notice patterns in the scout's movements—subtle shifts in his posture, the slight hesitation before certain attacks.
Seizing an opening, Lucas feigned a retreat, drawing the scout into a lunging strike. At the last moment, Lucas pivoted, his blade cutting upward in a powerful arc. The strike connected, slicing through the scout's guard and leaving a deep gash across his chest.
The scout staggered, blood staining his armor. But instead of retreating, he roared and launched a final, desperate assault.
Lucas met him head-on. Their blades clashed with a force that echoed through the forest. Lucas pushed forward, his strikes growing more aggressive. He channeled all his fear, anger, and determination into each swing, driving the scout back step by step.
Finally, with a swift, decisive blow, Lucas disarmed the scout. His sword found its mark, piercing through the man's chest.
The scout crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
But Lucas didn't stop. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he raised his sword again and again, the memories of Brighthaven consuming him. He saw his mother's lifeless form, the flames devouring his home, the laughter of the soldiers who had brought ruin to his village.
By the time he came to, his hands were trembling, and his clothes were soaked in blood. The lifeless body lay before him, unrecognizable from his frenzied attack.
Lucas stumbled back, his stomach churning. He dropped to his knees and vomited, the bitter taste of bile mixing with the acrid smell of blood.
He wiped his mouth with a shaky hand, his mind reeling. He had killed before, but never like this. Never with such fury.
When he finally gathered himself, he searched the scout's belongings, hoping for a clue to why he had been there. Among the scout's pouch and tools, he found a scroll tied with a crimson ribbon. He unrolled it, his eyes scanning the contents.
His blood ran cold.
The scroll detailed an attack planned on a neighboring camp—a camp housing civilians who had fled the conflict. The attack was imminent, and without intervention, it would be a massacre.
Lucas didn't hesitate. Gripping the scroll tightly, he sprinted back toward the command tent, his legs burning and his heart pounding.
---
The flap of the command tent burst open, startling the officers inside.
"Lucas?" Astrid stood abruptly, her hand moving instinctively to her sword.
Lucas stumbled in, his face pale and his body trembling. His clothes were drenched in blood, and his eyes were wide with urgency. Without a word, he thrust the scroll toward Astrid.
"This… this is important," he gasped, his voice strained.
Astrid took the scroll and unrolled it swiftly, her expression hardening as she read. The other officers leaned in, their faces growing grim as they took in the contents.
Astrid's jaw tightened, and she looked up at Lucas, who was swaying on his feet.
"You did the right thing," she said quietly, but her tone was grave. "Rest now. We'll handle this."
Lucas collapsed before she finished speaking, his body giving in to exhaustion.
"A horse," Astrid barked to one of the guards outside. "Now."
As the camp stirred into action, Astrid readied herself, her face set with determination. There was no time to waste. She would ride to the neighboring camp and do everything in her power to stop the attack.