On the Sengolio side, amid the confusion and the dying, something moved against the current of the battle.
Not with desperation.
But with control.
Aren spotted it first.
A lone man in tattered red robes, gliding through the smoke like it didn't touch him. No shield. No armor. His hands were bare, fingers curled slightly like talons at rest.
He didn't parry. Didn't brace.
He flowed.
And then he struck.
A single palm collapsed a soldier's chest, sending him flying like a rag doll. A sweep of his leg snapped another's ankle before driving his skull into stone. A third tried to block with a shield, too late. The red-robed man slipped behind him and crushed his throat with a casual elbow.
Five dead in less than ten seconds.
Aren's blood ran cold. What the hell is he?
Their eyes met across the battlefield.
The stranger smirked.
And vanished into the smoke.
"Bastard!" Aren growled, breaking into a sprint.
