The vibrant hum of the village felt jarringly normal against the tension coiling between Jet and Eirlys.
They walked side-by-side, Jet scanning the quaint timber-framed shops and bustling market stalls with restless energy, Eirlys moving with precise, measured steps, her silver gaze subtly sweeping their surroundings.
"Bet that baker's sketchy as hell," Jet muttered, nodding towards a plump man pulling fragrant loaves from an oven. "Way too much flour on his apron. Dead giveaway."
Eirlys sighed, a sound like wind through frost-laden branches. "Flour. On a baker. Absolutely shocking. Your detective skills are truly mind-blowing, Jet. I'll definitely hit you up next time I lose my keys."
Jet grinned, unfazed. "Hey, just staying alert. Unlike someone who walks like the ground's gonna collapse under her."
"My posture," Eirlys shot back, "is called 'not slouching like a lazy ass'. You should try it sometime. Might actually help with your nonexistent game." She subtly tilted her head, a fraction of an inch. "He's getting closer. Two turns back."
Jet didn't look, cracking his knuckles with a loud pop. "Good. My knuckles are feeling neglected. Let's give him a warm welcome."
"Don't be stupid," Eirlys hissed, her voice low and sharp. "We don't know what he's planning. He's matching our pace, getting closer on purpose. He wants us panicked."
Indeed, Gareth stalked them like a shadow given form. He moved with the unhurried certainty of a predator herding prey, his dark leathers blending with the deepening twilight. His hand never strayed far from the long sword at his hip, fingers occasionally drumming a silent, impatient rhythm on the worn leather of the scabbard. The villagers flowed around him instinctively, giving him a wide berth, their eyes respectful. Heat radiated from his form.
'Patience,' he growled inwardly, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Vathyls' decree: No disturbance. No panic. But these interlopers… still have to get rid of them
His eyes, burning coals locked onto Jet's broad back, tracked every shift in the man's posture, every careless gesture.
He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod towards a narrow alleyway they were approaching.
A cloaked figure – small, slight – stumbled out of the alley directly into Eirlys's path. The collision was gentle, but deliberate. Eirlys staggered half a step, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it smoothed into icy neutrality. "Apologies," she began, her voice carefully neutral.
Jet, reflexes honed by countless brawls, reacted instantly. His hand shot out, clamping onto the cloaked figure's shoulder.
"Hey! Watch where you're—" His words died as a strange, chilling pulse shot up his arm from the contact, like touching dry ice. Before Eirlys could interject – "Jet, don't!" – his other hand yanked the hood back.
A boy, no older than twelve, stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes, his face pale beneath a smattering of freckles. He struggled weakly in Jet's grip, a whimper escaping his lips. "L-Let go! Please!"
The effect was instantaneous. A woman shrieked. A man dropped his basket of apples. The peaceful hum shattered into shocked murmurs that quickly crescendoed into angry shouts.
"Tomas!"
"By the Great One's grace!"
"They attacked Tomas!"
"Wretches! How dare they break the Peace!"
"Disgusting! Violating the Almighty's decree!"
Fingers pointed, accusations flew like stones. Jet recoiled, releasing the boy, who scrambled back into the crowd, sobbing.
"He bumped into her." Jet roared, trying to be heard over the rising tide of outrage. "I was just—"
"Enough, Jet!" Eirlys snapped, grabbing his arm. Her voice cut through the noise, cold and commanding. "We're leaving. Now." She tried to pull him away, her eyes scanning for an escape route through the rapidly closing circle of furious villagers.
A burly man, face red with anger, lunged forward. His calloused hand clamped down on Eirlys's wrist hard enough to bruise. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" he snarled. "You don't just walk away after beating up one of ours!"
Eirlys flinched, genuine shock widening her eyes at the sudden, violent contact. "G-Get your hands off me!" she demanded, her voice tight with barely controlled fury. But the man's grip only tightened.
Jet saw red. A guttural roar ripped from his throat. He pivoted, muscles coiling, and drove a piston-like fist straight into the villager's solar plexus.
THUD!
The sound was sickeningly solid. The man's eyes bulged, all air driven from his lungs. He flew backwards, crashing into two other onlookers, sending them sprawling in a tangle of limbs and curses.
"JET, NO!" Eirlys screamed, genuine horror mixing with fury. "You idiot! You just made it worse!"
The crowd's fury exploded into a frenzy. "They struck Dom!"
"Capture them!"
"Purify the blasphemers!"
"For the Great One!"
Through the surging mob, Jet caught sight of Gareth. The Eight Knight stood slightly apart, a grim smile of satisfaction twisting his lips. Their eyes met across the chaos. Gareth gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Checkmate.
"Time to go!" Jet bellowed. Before Eirlys could protest further, he swept her off her feet, throwing her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
She shrieked – a sound of pure, unadulterated outrage – pounding futilely on his back. "PUT ME DOWN, YOU FILTHY, SMELLING BRUTE!"
Jet ignored her, already moving. He exploded forward, not with finesse, but with raw, regenerative-powered strength. He shouldered through the densest part of the crowd like a battering ram, sending villagers stumbling. He ducked under a swinging rake, vaulted over a low cart laden with turnips, and plunged into the first open alley he saw, leaving the cacophony of pursuit behind.
As Jet vanished with Eirlys, the mob's fury turned towards Gareth. Recognition dawned, replacing anger with fervent relief.
"The Ember Blade!"
"Sir Gareth!"
"Thank the Benefactor!"
"They attacked Tomas and Dom! They broke the Peace!"
Gareth raised a hand, the gesture instantly commanding silence. Heat radiated visibly from him now, the air around his form shimmering.
"Peace," his voice boomed, calm yet carrying the weight of absolute authority.
"I witnessed their transgression. By the Decree of the Great One, I shall bring these stray sparks to heel. Return to your homes and labors. Justice will be served."
His tone brooked no argument. The crowd, soothed by his presence and promise, began to disperse, muttering prayers and blessings for the Knight.
Gareth watched them go, his burning gaze fixed on the alley Jet had taken. The grim satisfaction hardened into cold purpose. He began to walk, each step deliberate, the cobblestones faintly scorching beneath his boots. The hunt was officially sanctioned.
From a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the square, a lean man in dark, practical attire watched Gareth stride away. He shook his head slowly, a look of profound disdain on his face. "That dullard," he vanished back into the shadows of his post.
Jet skidded to a halt deep within the maze of alleys, finally setting Eirlys down with a grunt. They stood in a narrow cul-de-sac, high stone walls blocking any further escape. The air smelled of damp stone and rotting vegetables.
Eirlys instantly shoved him hard, staggering him back a step. "YOU ABSOLUTE FOL!" she shrieked, her composure completely gone.
She frantically brushed at her clothes, her elegant tunic and trousers now smudged with dirt and Jet's sweat. "Look at this mess! You smell like stale bread and stupidity! You've completely ruined this outfit with your nasty, sweaty hands!"
Jet rubbed his shoulder where she'd shoved him, a smirk playing on his lips despite the situation. "Chill out, princess. It's not like you've got much going on anyway. Pretty flat up there if you ask me—"
"Impotent!" Eirlys spat the words like poison. "That explains everything! One of the many reasons you're forever alone! No game AND no equipment!"
Jet's smirk vanished, replaced by genuine offense. "Whoa, hey! That's a low blow—"
"SHUT UP!" Eirlys cut him off, her hand snapping up. Her eyes, wide and suddenly alert, darted towards the alley entrance. Her voice dropped to a tense whisper.
"We don't have time for your fragile ego, Jet! You moron! You didn't just run blind, you ran us straight into a dead end!" She gestured violently at the walls around them. "What the hell? Why didn't you stick to the straight line to the palace? Are straight lines too complicated for your brain?"
Jet crossed his arms, defiant. "I needed a break! And maybe..." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, his old grin returning. "...didn't you feel that rush? Being held close, wind in your hair... adrenaline, danger... kinda hot, right?"
Eirlys stared at him like he'd grown a second head. She opened her mouth, probably to roast him alive, then froze. Her silver eyes narrowed, focusing on the alley entrance. "Quiet," she breathed, all anger replaced by icy focus. "He's here."
Jet tensed, fists clenching. "Who? Our stalker?"
"Yeah."
"Who's he by the way."
"How the hell should I know his name, you idiot?" Eirlys hissed, stepping back, putting space between herself and Jet, her body coiling like a spring. "Just... try not to die in the first five seconds. That would really mess up my day."
"Relax, Ice Queen," Jet muttered, rolling his shoulders. "I got this covered."
Gareth stepped into the mouth of the dead end, his silhouette framed by the fading twilight from the main alley. He didn't rush. He walked with measured, deliberate steps, the heat radiating from him intensifying, causing the damp air to hiss faintly. His hand rested on the ornate pommel of his long sword. His eyes, burning coals in the gloom, fixed on them with unnerving intensity.
"Assaulting a citizen," he stated, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, echoing slightly in the confined space. "In the City of Peace. That's blasphemy. A violation of the Great One's Decree." He stopped.
Eirlys met his gaze, her voice cold and clear. "You engineered that."
A muscle twitched in Gareth's jaw.
"Doesn't matter." His knuckles whitened on the sword hilt.
"You broke the rules. You made the first move." He slowly, deliberately, drew his blade. The rasp of steel was loud in the sudden silence. The metal didn't gleam; it seemed to drink the light, a deep, smoky grey, but as it cleared the scabbard, faint orange lines, like glowing cracks in volcanic rock, began to pulse along its length. Heat washed over them, palpable and dry.
"Now," Gareth growled, the air shimmering violently around him now, "I, the Ember Blade shall ensure you fall. By Vathyls' Order."
Eirlys leaned slightly towards Jet, her whisper barely audible. "Think you can take him?"
Jet cracked his neck, a feral grin spreading across his face. "Of course. What do you take me for?"
Eirlys's lips twitched in a ghost of a smirk. "Just asking. Considering your recent… *performance*." She snickered softly.
Jet's grin faltered. "Performance? What's *that* supposed to—"
"Are you MOCKING ME?" Gareth's roar ripped through the alley, shattering the tense quiet. His control slipped; a lick of actual flame, white-hot, flickered along the edge of his blade for an instant. The heat radiating from him spiked, making the stone walls groan.
Jet turned fully to face him, spreading his arms wide in a blatant taunt. "Yeah! What are you gonna do about it, Sparky? Gonna cry? Gonna write a sad poem about it?"
Eirlys elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Stop provoking unnecessarily. Just fight him." She stepped back swiftly, giving them room. "Try not to wreck the scenery too much."
Gareth moved.
'Ignition Step.'
He rupted beneath his boots with a sharp crack-hiss, fire bursting from the cobblestones as he launched forward in a blazing streak. He covered the ten paces in a heartbeat, the heat preceding him like a physical wall.
Cinder Slash
His blade came down in a blinding arc of superheated steel as he unleashed aiming to cleave Jet from shoulder to hip.
Jet didn't try to block the enchanted blade.
He slipped inside the arc, his movements surprisingly fast and economical. He ducked under the whistling steel, feeling the searing heat singe the hair on his head. As the blade passed harmlessly overhead, Jet drove a vicious uppercut into Gareth's exposed ribs.
CRUNCH!
The impact was solid, bone snapping under the force. Gareth grunted, staggering back a step, pain flashing across his face, but his burning eyes held only fury.
Jet pressed, throwing a rapid flurry of jabs and crosses.
Gareth parried with his armored forearm, the impacts ringing with dull thuds, or deflected blows with short, sharp movements of his sword hilt. Each block sent showers of sparks flying where Jet's knuckles met the heated metal of Gareth's vambrace. Jet felt the skin on his knuckles sizzle and split, the smell of burning flesh sharp in the air. He ignored it, the wounds visibly knitting closed even as he threw the next punch through regeneration, leaving faint pink scars that faded within seconds as his cellular repair worked in overdrive.
Gareth snarled, recovering his footing. He twisted, avoiding a hook, and countered.
'Sear Chain.'
A horizontal slash aimed at Jet's neck whistled through the air. Jet leaned back, the superheated blade passing millimeters from his throat, the heat blistering his skin. The second slash came low, aiming for the knees.
Jet jumped, tucking his legs. The third slash ended in a blinding cone of searing embers erupting from the blade tip. Jet threw up an arm to protect his face. The embers peppered his forearm and chest, burning tiny, painful holes in his tunic and skin. He hissed, shaking his arm, the burns already fading, replaced by pink, healthy skin.
"You hit like a baker kneading dough!" Jet taunted, dancing back, shaking the lingering sting from his arm. "Where's the fire, Sparky? Literally?"
Gareth's eyes narrowed, the orange cracks on his blade glowing brighter.
"Branding Spiral!"
He planted his feet and spun, blade extended, heat erupting outwards in a vortex that pulled at Jet's clothes and hair. The intense radiance forced Eirlys to shield her eyes. Gareth became a whirling dervish of flame and steel, drawing Jet in.
Jet gritted his teeth, planting his feet against the pull. He couldn't dodge the closing spiral. Instead, he charged into it, ducking low under the sweeping blade. He took a glancing blow on his shoulder – a deep gash that instantly welled with blood before the edges sizzled and began sealing shut.
Ignoring the flash of pain, he drove a brutal knee into Gareth's thigh.
THUD!
Gareth's spin faltered. Jet followed with a hammer blow to the side of Gareth's head.
CLANG!
The vortex collapsed. Gareth stumbled, disoriented, shaking his head. Jet didn't let up. He unleashed a barrage of punches – ribs, solar plexus, jaw. Gareth blocked some, absorbed others on his armor, grunting with each impact. Jet felt ribs crack under his fists, saw Gareth's lip split. But the Knight's burning eyes never lost focus. He weathered the storm, the heat radiating from him intensifying, the air crackling.
Suddenly, Gareth dropped low, avoiding a wild haymaker. He slammed the tip of his sword into the cobblestones at Jet's feet.
"Eruption Fang!"
The ground heaved as the technique activated. A jagged fissure ripped open directly beneath Jet, spewing gouts of molten stone and roaring flame.
Jet roared, caught mid-stride. He was engulfed. Molten rock splashed against his legs, searing agony shooting through him. Flames licked his torso. He smelled burning hair and fabric. For a terrifying second, he was lost in fire and pain.
Then he surged upwards, bursting out of the miniature volcano like a vengeful spirit.
His clothes were charred rags, his skin was a horrifying tapestry of blackened, blistered flesh and raw, weeping muscle. Molten rock clung to his legs, still burning. He landed heavily on the edge of the fissure, staggering, breathing in ragged, smoke-tinged gasps.
His Regeneration worked overtime, the blackened skin sloughing off like ash, revealing angry red new skin beneath. Blisters popped and vanished. Melted rock cooled and cracked, falling away from rapidly healing flesh. The raw muscle knitted together, covered over by smooth, unblemished skin in a matter of seconds. It was grotesque, mesmerizing – a body rebuilding itself from catastrophic damage at impossible speed. Only the charred remnants of his clothing and the lingering smell of burnt meat testified to the hit he'd taken.
He raised his head, his eyes blazing not with fire, but with furious defiance. He spat a glob of blackened phlegm onto the smoldering cobblestones. The worst of the damage was already gone, replaced by smooth, pink scar tissue fading rapidly to normal.
"Aren't you supposed to make me fall, Mister Ember Blade?" Jet rasped, his voice hoarse from smoke but thick with mockery.
He spread his arms again, showcasing his rapidly healing body. "That tickled! Bring it on, Sparky!" He slammed a fist into his newly healed chest. "I can do this all damn day!"