William crouches low in the brush, heart pounding in his ears. Eight brigands already lie dead, his arrows in their backs, their stomachs, their heads. All because they hadn’t seen him coming. Hadn’t known where to look. But now they do.

  Now they hunt.

  Five left by his count. They're moving carefully, spreading out, sweeping the woods. Getting closer with every heartbeat.

  He shifts his weight slowly, barely breathing. If he moves now, if he fires... they’ll see him. Then it’s over. But so long as he hides, they waste time. So long as they search for him, they’re not raining arrows on the sellswords.

  So he waits.

  Every creak of a branch, every crunch of snow under a boot tightens his grip on the bowstring. He listens, counts the footfalls. His fingers are numb from cold, but he dares not move. Not yet.

  He forces himself to stay still.

  Just a little longer...

  But then, one draws too close. William’s breath catches. He grimaces and draws his bowstring back slowly, every muscle taut. The brigand steps into range... one step too many. William lets the arrow fly. It punches through the man's throat. No scream. Just a shocked gasp before he crumples silently into the brush.

  William sighs in relief....... too soon.

  “Shit! Marlan’s down!” another voice yells. A shout, sharp and cutting. They saw him fall.

  They don’t see William yet. But they will, the second he moves.

  So he knocks another arrow and looses it from the bushes. He aims it at the nearest brigand, and hits the man in the thigh, his shot thrown off by the awkward position kneeling on the ground.

  The wounded brigand groans, then shouts hoarsely, pointing directly at William. "He's there! Get him!"

  Panic floods William. He's been seen.

  He bolts.

  Arrows zip past him as the remaining three brigands fire, but their aim is rushed, wild and not the best to begin with. William zigzags through the trees, heart thundering, legs pumping. One arrow clips a branch near his head. He ducks and rounds a thick trunk, breath burning in his throat.

  They’re closing in.

  He skids to a stop, nocks an arrow mid-step, and looses it fast.

  Too fast.

  The shot goes wide as the brigand dives aside.

  "Fuck!" William curses and dashes for new cover, ducking behind a twisted tree just as another volley thuds into bark around him.

  Only two arrows left.

  He scrambles from trunk to trunk, bark splintering behind him. They’re faster, closing the gap. He pivots, rising from behind cover and snapping off another shot... it sails wide again, the awkward angle and sheer pressure throwing off his aim.

  He ducks just in time to avoid another arrow. His breathing is ragged, pulse thunderous. He’s running out of time. And space.

  One arrow left.

  Three men.

  Impossible.

  William flees, crashing through the underbrush, but pain lances through him as an arrow slices into his calf. He stumbles, falls hard, and groans, clutching at his leg. The snow stains red. He rolls onto his back, hands trembling as he fumbles for his last arrow.

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  He draws... fires... misses. The pain clouding his vision and his aim.

  Four brigands close in, looming over his prone form. One limps behind them, thigh wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. He spits toward William.

  “Fucking little traitor,” he growls. “You think you get to die clean? Nah. We’re gonna carve you up slow.”

  Another sneers. “Should give ‘im to Maldor. See how he likes the inside of a spider.”

  The third nudges William’s bow aside with his boot. “Better cut off that hand first. Can’t have him causing more trouble.”

  William panics, scrabbling for the knife at his belt, but a boot slams down on his wrist, while another kicks the blade aside, sneering down at him. “Try that again, and I’ll cut more than yer hand,” he growls.

  “Enough,” the last brigand snaps. “Just kill him already. Battle’s not done, we’ve no time for games.”

  The wounded one scoffs, limping forward with his bow. “Fine. I'll do it. Least that's owed to me after what this fucker did to me leg.”

  He draws his bow, aiming directly at William’s face.

  William squeezes his eyes shut, heart pounding, breath shallow. A whimper escapes him, soft, unbidden.

  Ma... please, help me-

  Then, a thundercrack splits the air, deafening and sudden. William flinches as the brigands around him scream, stumbling backward in shock. He opens his eyes, blinking through the haze of snow and smoke.

  A slender figure dives into their midst, shortsword in one hand, a silver rod in the other.

  Luna.

  One brigand already lies still, his body twitching, smoke rising from his scorched flesh.

  Her blade slices cleanly across the next brigand’s throat, a flash of silver and red. Without pause, she launches herself into the air, unnaturally high, impossibly graceful... and crashes down on the third with a bone-snapping impact. Her shortsword punches through his neck in a single, brutal thrust.

  She stands slowly, yanking the blade free. She lifts it to her face, eyes fixed on the blood cascading down its length, her expression cold as ice.

  The last brigand shouts, bow raised and drawn tight. William cries out-

  “Luna!”

  But the arrow is already loosed, fired from near point blank. There’s no way it could miss.

  But what happens next beggars belief.

  Without even glancing up from her blood-slick blade, her free hand snaps upward. The silver rod whips against the incoming arrow, and in an instant, a shockwave bursts outward with a sharp crack, splintering the shaft midair. The arrow explodes into harmless shards.

  Both the brigand and William stare in stunned disbelief.

  Luna finally lifts her eyes from her sword. Her gaze finds the last man, and she starts stalking toward him with quiet fury.

  He backpedals frantically, but she vanishes in a blur of motion, reappearing beside him. Her shortsword flashes once, clean and merciless.

  He collapses without a sound.

  William groans and pushes himself to his feet, wobbling slightly. “Goddess above, Luna! You saved my arse! I owe you my life, I do. I really thought I was....”

  Luna nods, wordless.

  William hesitates before continuing. “But... weren’t you off to Ravencroft?”

  “I was,” she says quietly. “Met a rider on the road. Sent him forward to Ravencroft with the news. He'd get there before me either way. Better Edwin can prepare sooner.”

  He blinks. “So... you came back? For us?”

  She just shrugs and turns away, her eyes already back on the battle raging down the road.

  "I.... wouldn't want any of you to die."

  William stares after her, then limps along behind, gathering arrows from the fallen. “Well... I owe you a drink, I reckon. If we live through this.”

  "More than a drink."

  The two watch from the treeline as the battle rages below. William scans the chaos, heart thudding, no sign of Hamza...

  Luna nudges him, pointing toward the center. Seven. Easy to spot, standing a head taller than most, locked in brutal combat with the towering brute Yurik.

  William’s breath catches as he sees Yurik knock away Seven’s spear and land a heavy blow. Seven stumbles, doubling over in pain.

  "Shit!"

  William swears under his breath, drawing back his bowstring despite the burning in his injured leg. It’s a long shot.

  Too far, and I'm barely standing...

  Seven draws his club in desperation, but Yurik bats it aside like a twig. The warhammer rises, poised to end it.

  William acts on instinct, releasing the arrow before the thought even registers.

  It strikes Yurik square in the back, but the brigandine holds, his hunting bow too weak to pierce the armor. Still, it draws Yurik’s attention for a moment.

  Luna glances at William, impressed. "That was a good shot."

  He shrugs, already turning back toward Seven.

  He and Yurik are locked in a brutal grapple, rolling through the snow. It's not going well. Yurik's sheer size and strength have Seven pinned, inch by inch, his thick arm locking around Seven's neck.

  "We have to help him!"

  Luna nods, rushing forward without hesitation.

  William limps after her, another arrow nocked, heart pounding.

  But both stop cold at what they see next.

  Flames, raw and searing, erupting from Seven’s outstretched hand, engulfing Yurik’s face in a blinding blaze.

  William stares, jaw slack. “W-What the hell is that?"

  Yurik staggers back, smoke curling from his charred face, before collapsing heavily into the snow. William watches, frozen in place, his mind struggling to process what he’s just seen...

  "W-Was that... magic?” he breathes.

  Luna doesn’t take her eyes off the fire. Her grip tightens around the silver rod. “It is.”