The forest was alive with whispers of movement, the thick canopy overhead swallowing sound, stretching its gnarled branches like skeletal fingers over the uneven ground. The moon, barely visible through the tangled lattice of leaves, cast faint patches of silver light upon the warriors concealed in the underbrush. Every breath was measured, every muscle coiled, waiting. The Raven's forces were near—close enough for their torches to flicker like restless spirits through the mist.
Arkanis crouched low, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, his breath steady despite the tension crackling in the air. The relic pulsed against his chest, not demanding, not overwhelming—only waiting. He could feel its energy stirring beneath his skin, a silent promise of power should he call upon it. But he knew better. He had learned to wield it without yielding to its temptation, without becoming something unrecognizable.
To his right, Zyre scanned the terrain with sharp, calculating eyes. His mind worked faster than most, analyzing possible escape routes, noting the density of the surrounding trees, predicting enemy movement before they even took their first step forward. "If we hold position until they're close enough," he whispered, barely audible over the rustling leaves. "We'll have the advantage for only a few moments. Once we strike, we must commit fully."
Elara adjusted her grip on her daggers, the silver blades catching the dim glow of moonlight. She had always been swift, precise, unrelenting—but tonight, she felt the weight of something heavier than just the battle ahead. It was the knowledge that the Raven had adapted. He had studied them, their weaknesses, their tendencies. This was no ordinary patrol. This was a calculated hunt.
She steadied her breath. "Then let's make every moment count."
The enemy moved through the trees with disciplined efficiency, their steps careful, their torches swaying like ghosts caught in the wind. They were not wandering. They were seeking.
Arkanis raised his hand, the silent signal passing through the ranks of hidden rebels like lightning through a storm.
The night held its breath.
Then—
The first blade cut through the darkness.
An enemy soldier barely had time to scream before an arrow pierced his throat. His torch dropped, rolling across the dirt, its flames licking at the damp earth.
The forest erupted into chaos.
Steel clashed, arrows whistled, the sharp scent of blood mixed with the dampness of moss and bark. The rebels moved with lethal precision, emerging from the shadows like vengeful spirits, cutting down their foes before they had time to regroup.
Arkanis surged forward, his sword colliding with an enemy blade mid-strike. He twisted, stepping into the attack, forcing his opponent back with sheer force. The relic burned beneath his armor, lending him an almost unnatural agility, his movements sharper, faster than they should have been.
But he controlled it.
He had to control it.
Elara danced through the fray, a blur of motion, slipping between enemy ranks, her daggers striking true with every step she took. She fought like the wind—impossible to catch, impossible to stop.
Zyre, positioned at the edges of the battlefield, shouted orders to keep their forces moving, ensuring their attack remained coordinated despite the growing chaos. "Do not let them regroup!" his voice cut through the din. "Force them into disarray!"
The enemy, though startled, did not falter. They adjusted swiftly, shifting formation, pressing forward with disciplined coordination. These soldiers were different from the ones they had fought before—trained specifically for counteracting guerrilla tactics, for dismantling ambushes, for adapting mid-battle.
The advantage of surprise was slipping away.
Arkanis knew it.
Then, through the haze of combat, he felt a familiar presence.
A cold, calculated presence that sent a ripple of tension through his spine.
The Raven.
He emerged from the mist like a specter, his dark armor reflecting the distant flicker of fire, his sword held casually in his grasp. There was no rush in his movements, no urgency—only a measured patience, as if he had expected this exact scenario to unfold.
Arkanis met his gaze, and the world seemed to shrink around them.
The duel was inevitable.
The Raven moved first.
Arkanis barely had time to brace before their blades collided in a thunderous clash. Sparks burst from the force of the impact, illuminating the space between them for a brief, fleeting moment.
Their movements blurred. Strike, parry, counter, evade. The world around them became inconsequential—there was only the battle, the dance of swords, the test of wills.
Arkanis fought with precision, with tempered strength, wielding the relic's power without succumbing to it.
But the Raven was relentless.
His strikes were faster, heavier, calculated to wear down his opponent, to force him into a mistake. "You hesitate," he murmured between clashes. "That is why you will fall."
Arkanis clenched his jaw, deflecting another brutal strike. "I do not hesitate—I choose."
Their blades locked.
The relic burned against his skin.
The Raven pressed harder.
And then—
A shift.
An opening.
Small. Barely noticeable.
But Arkanis saw it.
He seized the moment, pivoting sharply, using the relic's energy without losing control.
Steel met steel.
The Raven stumbled back, his footing disrupted, his guard broken just enough to expose a vulnerability.
The battlefield felt the shift. The rebels, watching, knew what it meant.
Elara saw it, her breath catching in her throat.
Zyre, still directing forces, paused for only a fraction of a second.
The Raven steadied himself, exhaling slowly. He rolled his shoulder, testing the weight of his sword. His gaze flickered, not in anger—but in recognition.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured.
Then—
He withdrew.
His forces followed, disappearing into the fog.
The rebels remained still, absorbing the weight of the moment. They had won—but only barely.
Elara reached Arkanis's side, gripping his arm. "You did it," she whispered.
Zyre studied the retreating enemy before speaking. "For now."
Arkanis exhaled, adjusting his stance, feeling the ache in his body, the sharp sting of exhaustion.
The Raven would return.
But next time, Arkanis would be ready.