A sharp whistle cut through the night air.
Then—steel.
A flash of silver, a glint of death.
Kastor barely had time to react before the blade whistled past him, forcing him off Harland. He rolled, coming up in a crouch, sword drawn, eyes darting to the shadows. His instincts flared—this wasn't just any interruption. Whoever had joined the fray was dangerous.
Ivara hissed, the roots retreating as she turned toward the threat. The magic in her hands pulsed, curling like embers in the air, flickering with growing intensity.
Then the man stepped into the dim torchlight.
He moved with a deliberate ease, the weight of experience in every motion. A longsword rested lazily against his shoulder, but the casual stance was a lie. His coat, lined with reinforced stitching, was worn in places that saw the most use—shoulders, forearms, chest. A fighter's coat. His kind were prepared for battle in ways most men weren't.
And then there were his eyes.
Dark, gleaming—not with fear, nor hesitation, but a sharp, assessing coldness.
A predator's gaze.
"Now, now," the man drawled, tilting his head. "Two against one? Hardly sporting."
Harland groaned from where he lay, barely conscious, his body weak with pain. But through the haze, he saw his would-be savior clearly.
Tall. Lean. But controlled. Every inch of him spoke of a man who could kill without hesitation.
A trained fighter.
Kastor's grip on his sword tightened. "Stay out of this."
The stranger exhaled, almost disappointed. "See, I would, but you're making a mess of my investigation."
Ivara's eyes narrowed. A slow realization dawned.
"You're one of them."
The man gave an exaggerated bow. "Guilty as charged."
Then—he moved.
It was like watching lightning strike.
One moment, he stood idle. The next, his sword glowed.
A pulse of light ran along the blade as it slashed through the air, leaving behind a shimmering arc. Kastor barely managed to parry the first strike before another came—a feint left, then a brutal downward cut that carried an unnatural force behind it.
Fast. Too fast.
Kastor twisted away at the last moment, but the sheer pressure of the swing forced him back.
He landed hard, eyes widening. That strike wasn't normal.
Then he saw it—faint runes along the blade's edge, flickering with residual energy.
Magic.
Kastor's breath came sharp. A magic swordsman.
Ivara reacted instantly.
Dark roots burst from the ground, thick as a man's wrist, aiming to impale the newcomer through the chest.
But Wren was already moving.
With a flick of his free hand, he carved a glowing sigil into the air.
A pulse of energy erupted from his fingertips—an invisible force slammed into the incoming roots, scattering them before they could reach him.
The sheer precision of the spell made Ivara hesitate.
Wren smirked. "Try harder."
Kastor surged forward, his sword a brutal arc of steel. Wren met the blow with a flourish, the impact sending sparks flying. But instead of locking blades, he twisted, redirecting Kastor's force with an effortless motion.
Kastor stumbled. Wren raised his free hand—his fingers traced another quick sigil.
A burst of concussive magic exploded point-blank.
Kastor barely managed to roll with the impact, but the force still sent him skidding backward, boots scraping against the dirt.
"Annoying," Kastor spat, shaking off the impact.
Ivara didn't wait. She slammed both hands to the ground.
A shudder. A deep, rumbling groan from the earth.
Then—the ground split open.
A massive, jagged root as thick as a tree trunk burst upward beneath Wren, attempting to crush him in a single blow.
For a fraction of a second, Wren didn't move.
Then—his sword flared bright.
He raised it, tracing a symbol mid-swing.
A sweeping crescent of pure energy erupted from the blade, cutting through the air.
The root split in two.
The halves collapsed, hitting the ground with a resounding thud.
Wren exhaled, letting his blade rest against his shoulder again. "Alright," he mused. "That was slightly impressive."
Ivara's lips curled in frustration.
Kastor's mind raced. Wren wasn't just a swordsman—he was integrating magic seamlessly into his movements, using runes and reinforcement magic without breaking stride. His strikes weren't just fast—they were augmented. And the precision of his spellwork was too efficient. No wasted energy.
This wasn't an ordinary warrior.
This was someone trained for this kind of combat.
Kastor and Ivara had fought skilled opponents before. But this? This was different.
Dayne, who had been watching from the shadows, gritted his teeth. He had planned to intervene, but the sheer difference in strength was obvious. If he rushed in now, he'd only be a liability.
Stay out of it, he told himself. Don't get in the way.
Kastor's fingers tightened around his sword hilt. He could see the way Wren moved, the fluidity between his strikes and spells. This was not an opponent they could easily beat.
Ivara came to the same conclusion.
Her lips pressed together before she made her choice.
A black mist coiled around her fingertips.
Wren's gaze sharpened. "Oh, no you don't."
A flick of his wrist—another throwing knife, this time aimed directly at her hand.
Ivara barely dodged, the blade slicing past her wrist. But the moment of hesitation was all Wren needed.
He lunged.
His sword flared with another sigil, this one crackling with barely-contained force.
Kastor moved to intercept, but Wren shifted again, disappearing in a flicker of movement—a teleport spell.
By the time Kastor turned, Wren was already behind him.
The flat of the blade slammed into Kastor's side, sending him stumbling forward.
Too fast. Too damn fast.
Ivara clenched her teeth. If they stayed any longer, this fight would turn lethal.
Kastor knew it, too.
"We're leaving," he snapped.
Ivara scowled but didn't argue.
With a final pulse of her magic, the roots withered into the ground.
And just like that, they vanished into the night.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Harland groaned, his body aching, but alive.
Wren exhaled, rolling his shoulders before sheathing his sword in a smooth motion.
"You still alive?" he asked, stepping toward the injured blacksmith.
Harland coughed weakly. "Who… the hell… are you?"
The man smirked.
"Just a concerned citizen."
Then, as if remembering something, he extended a hand.
"Call me Wren Everhart."