They moved.
Not all at once.
Not in a clean line.
But enough.
Steel scraped. Boots dug in. Shields lifted. Swords angled.
The hesitation broke.
The First Captain barked, "**Advance!**"
And the line surged.
Draven's breath hitched.
For half a second—just half—something like disappointment crossed his face.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Figures."
His knees screamed as he shifted his weight.
Pain flared up his spine, white and blinding, nearly dropping him to one knee.
*Damn it… damn it…*
So much for threats.
So much for fear.
They came anyway.
"SHIELDS—!"
The first rank charged, shields forward, blades stabbing over the top.
Draven moved.
Not back.
**Forward.**
He ducked under the first thrust, shoulder slamming into the knight's midsection. The impact knocked the wind out of him. Draven's dagger punched up into the soft gap beneath the helmet.
The knight jerked.
Draven ripped the blade free and shoved the body sideways into the next man, using him as a moving wall.
A sword slashed across Draven's back.
He grunted.
Didn't scream. Didn't stop.
He spun, drove his elbow into the attacker's face, felt cartilage crunch, then buried the dagger into his thigh and **yanked down**.
The knight collapsed with a howl.
A shield slammed into Draven's chest, throwing him back.
He staggered, boots sliding in blood and dirt, nearly falling.
A blade came down.
He raised his arm.
Too slow.
Steel bit into his forearm. Deep.
He hissed, teeth bared, and **headbutted** the knight. The helmet rang. The knight reeled.
Draven grabbed his gorget and drove the dagger up into his throat.
Hot blood sprayed across his face.
He shoved the body away.
Another knight lunged.
Then another.
Then another.
*Too many…*
Draven's breathing was ragged now, chest heaving, vision starting to blur at the edges.
Pain was everywhere.
Ribs.
Leg.
Arm.
Back.
Inside.
Every movement felt like tearing.
Like something inside him was shredding.
*So this is it…*
His jaw clenched.
*Fine.*
A knight came in low.
Draven kicked him in the knee.
Bone popped.
The knight went down screaming.
Draven didn't look.
A shield tried to ram him.
He twisted, let it pass, then slammed his dagger into the knight's armpit and dragged it out in a line of red.
The knight fell.
Another blade cut across his side.
Draven staggered.
Nearly dropped.
Caught himself on one knee.
A shadow fell over him.
A knight raised his sword.
Draven looked up.
Blood in his eyes.
Smile on his face.
And then he lunged from his knee, driving his dagger straight up into the man's groin, ripping through armor and flesh.
The knight screamed.
Draven shoved him backward into the others.
Bodies collided.
The formation broke.
Shouts erupted.
"Hold the line—!"
"He's in the middle—!"
"Get him down—!"
Draven was panting now, chest burning, saliva mixed with blood at the corner of his mouth.
His hands were shaking.
His legs were shaking.
Everything was shaking.
But he was still standing.
Barely.
Behind him—
Elliana coughed again.
A weak, broken sound.
Draven heard it.
His head snapped back.
Fear flashed across his face.
Raw. Uncontrolled.
"Mom—" he breathed.
She was slumped, barely upright, blood soaking through her clothes.
His chest tightened.
Something ugly rose in his throat.
He turned back to the knights.
And whatever was in his eyes made them hesitate.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
Draven straightened.
Slowly.
Painfully.
His posture wasn't strong.
It was **stubborn**.
"Guess…" he rasped, voice hoarse, "…the talking part's over."
He lifted the dagger again.
It was slick with blood.
Dripping.
His smile was gone.
There was nothing on his face but exhaustion and hate.
"Come on then," he said quietly.
"Let's get this done."
And he stepped forward to meet them.
The First Captain stepped forward, blade angled low, shield braced.
The Second followed, wider stance, eyes cold, every movement measured, deliberate—**two predators moving as one**.
They didn't hesitate.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Their charge was calculated. Brutal. Designed to **crush him**.
Draven took the first step back, knees burning, every joint screaming. Pain lanced through his side where a blade had cut earlier. His legs trembled. His chest heaved like it was going to collapse. Every fiber of his body begged him to fall.
He didn't.
Not because he thought he could win.
Not because he thought it would matter.
He didn't relent because **Elliana was behind him**.
Weak. Broken. Bloodied. Still alive. Still trusting him.
A heavy swing from the First Captain came, aimed to cleave him in half.
Draven rolled.
A wet, scraping sound—steel on stone.
Pain flared in his arm where he caught the edge of the swing just enough to redirect it.
The Second Captain lunged low.
Feet skidded, boots kicking dirt.
Draven met the strike, dagger thrusting upward into the gap between armor plates.
The knight didn't die. Not yet.
But the wind of the impact knocked him off balance.
He staggered, chest burning.
He coughed blood.
A sharp twinge shot through his ribs, every inhale stabbing like knives.
The captains adjusted instantly.
They were relentless—closing the distance with **surgical precision**, cutting off space, pushing him to the edge.
Every strike they made was meant to end him.
Draven blinked past the pain.
*Doesn't matter.*
He could barely move.
Every motion tore him open from the inside.
Every breath felt like molten iron through his lungs.
His legs wobbled, threatening to buckle.
And yet… he took another step forward.
Another.
The dagger in his hand shook.
Blood dripped down the blade.
His knuckles were white, muscles quivering from exhaustion and pain.
The First Captain swung high.
Draven blocked with the flat of the dagger, shoving back with his shoulder.
Pain exploded through him, but he forced his stance.
The Second Captain stabbed low.
He twisted, sidestepped, let the blade scrape past him, ripping his side.
He hissed, ignoring it.
And then he lunged—not forward, not back.
**Into the gap between them**, even as their weapons screamed in close coordination.
His body screamed too.
Every joint, every rib, every torn muscle and sinew begged him to collapse.
But he didn't.
Elliana coughed behind him, weak, but he could feel her there.
His mother.
And that was enough.
Draven's eyes narrowed.
He didn't strike fast.
He didn't strike hard.
He simply **held his ground**.
The captains realized it immediately.
He wasn't trying to flee.
He wasn't panicking.
He wasn't begging for mercy.
He was **a wall of pain and intent**, and as long as Elliana remained behind him, **he wouldn't fall**.
The First Captain's sword came down, meeting the dagger again. Sparks flew. Steel clanged.
The Second Captain pressed with a low sweep, catching his legs—he staggered, nearly dropped.
Draven's bloodied lips curled into a thin, ragged smile.
"You think this is enough?" he rasped.
The captains didn't answer.
They only pressed harder.
Draven's teeth clenched.
Pain flared again.
His legs shook.
Every inch of him wanted to collapse.
*Doesn't matter.*
He lifted himself, dagger poised, breathing ragged, every movement agony.
"I… won't… fall," he growled.
And with that, the captains realized—they hadn't suppressed him.
**They hadn't broken him.**
They had simply **angered a man with nothing left to lose and something to protect**.
A jagged spark of lightning tore through the sky.
Cedric had launched himself from the shadows, eyes blazing, blade aimed straight for Draven's heart.
One strike. One fatal, clean strike.
Draven didn't notice—finally he did.
The blade descended.
And then it **stopped.**
A splash of crimson erupted. A wet, metallic *thunk*.
Draven's head snapped toward the sound.
His eyes widened.
Elliana.
The blade had pierced straight through her chest.
Through her body. Through everything.
Draven's mouth went dry.
He choked on his own breath.
"Mom—!" he gasped, his voice cracking like a whip.
But he didn't take a step. Couldn't.
The world narrowed.
All sound, all motion, all thought **stopped** except for the image of her, blood pouring down her armor, blade protruding from her chest.
And then—he realized too late.
Blades of condensed, blinding light **erupted from the ground** around him.
Knights were everywhere. Hundreds of them.
Each blade streaking upward, aimed to pierce, to cleave, to end him.
He didn't see them. Couldn't.
His mind was trapped—locked—on Elliana.
And the blades **cut closer**, slicing through stone, wood, dirt.
A sudden movement behind him.
Elliana.
She threw herself across his body, barely upright, barely alive.
Her hands gripped him tight..
Blood soaked both of them.
The first blade **impaled her**.
It passed through her chest, through her shoulder, through her side.
Draven froze.
Eyes wider than he had ever seen them.
He turned fully.
His mother.
Pinned. Blood streaming.
Her face pale, twisted, and still somehow defiant.
"Mom…!"
His voice broke completely this time.
Every muscle screamed. Every nerve screamed.
Pain, rage, fear, panic—**all of it** surged into him at once.
The remaining blades were still coming.
Draven didn't move yet. Couldn't.
All he could do was stare.
All he could do was **watch her**.
Elliana's eyes flicked to him, blood seeping from the corners, her lips trembling but still managing a faint, desperate whisper:
"I… I've got you… stay… safe…"
Draven's jaw clenched.
His teeth ground together so hard it hurt.
A soundless scream built in his chest.
Everything around him—the knights, the blades, the forest, the air—faded.
There was only her.
And him.