I hear it again, definitely not footsteps. It sounds like someone pounding a club into the dirt every few seconds, only it's not a club, and it's sure as hell not footsteps either. The rhythm is harder, sharper, like something heavy and impatient is stomping straight toward us.
Hooves.
Before I can even guess who, the forest explodes.
A blur of movement tears through the treeline: deer, fast and frantic, launching themselves into the clearing with wide, panicked eyes and zero dignity. One practically skids on the grass before regaining traction and vanishing down the slope.
The group jumps to attention, but then... nothing.
The air holds its breath. Even the trees look unsure. One of the farmers chuckles nervously.
"Guess we scared 'em" someone mutters. Yeah. That's what prey does when it sees a cart full of sweaty villagers armed with spears and bad backs.
Lorin bends down to retrieve his spear from the ground, his movements awkward and hesitant, cheeks coloring with embarrassment as if the simple act had suddenly become a public performance.
But not Varric.
The hunter stands perfectly still, arrow still nocked, his gaze fixed on the treeline.
"If prey runs," he mutters, barely louder than the breeze, "it's because something worse is chasing it."
My spine straightens and my breath tightens as the realization hits me: something is definitely wrong.
Then I see them, shapes stepping through the trees.
Wolves.
Not strays. Wolves, massive, fur dark with silver, bodies built for killing. Their eyes catch mine, sharp, cold; pupils a touch too wide, a whisper of red at the edges.
Three become four. Then five. A full pack.
They don't charge immediately. They pause, sizing us up. Then their ears flick. Their eyes shift. And their intent changes.
They growl. They sprint toward us.
"Formation!" someone shouts. Shields come up, clumsy and overlapping, forming a dented half-circle of resolve.
The villagers are not soldiers. Their grips on the weapons are uneven, knuckles white from panic, arms trembling under the weight of shields that had seen more harvest festivals than battlefields. A few whisper curses, others whisper prayers. One man is visibly shaking, his spear wobbling as if it might slip from his hand at any second. Another stares too long at the charging beasts, frozen until the neighbor beside him elbows him back to reality.
I step forward, grip tightening on the sword. Normally, facing danger for the first time, people tremble, choke on fear, maybe even freeze. But me? Nothing. No panic, no dread, just a strange clarity. After all the training, the endless grind to survive in this backwater, I find myself in front of real danger feeling... alive, energized, and, yeah, excited.
Weird thing is, I've never seen myself as brave, but right now, the usual weight of what could go wrong just isn't there, like my brain forgot to panic and left me running on raw instinct.
And I kind of like it.
I'm just about to draw when... bam ...collar-grab. "Back, kid."
Some guy, maybe forty, arms like bruised fruit and smelling like he lost a bet with a pigsty, yanks me back like I'm a sack of potatoes. "You stay here and don't do anything stupid."
I land hard, elbows scraping the dirt.
Seriously?
Okay, now I'm seriously offended.
-POV: Third Person
The wolves charge.
The first wolf smashes against Erob's shield with a thunderous crack. His boots grind into the soil, arms trembling under the impact. He staggers but doesn't fall. Varric's arrow buries itself in the beast's shoulder, blood spraying, but the wolf keeps pushing, jaws snapping inches from Erob's throat.
Lorin jabs his spear forward, but his thrust is too shallow, lacking confidence. Another villager swings a heavy iron-tipped staff, but his timing is clumsy, the blow glancing off fur instead of bone. Still, the wolf yelps, twisting, and scrambles away, wounded but mobile.
The second wolf darts in low. An arrow grazes its flank. A young man panics, stabbing wildly, nearly skewering his own ally. The wolf snaps, scoring a shallow cut across a shield arm before retreating. The formation wavers, men gasping, shields trembling.
The third circles wide, testing the formation, snapping its jaws in short feints. One man flinches, lowering his shield, and it nearly costs him until another shouts, dragging him back into place.
The fourth rushes forward recklessly and is met with a clash of spears, one piercing its shoulder. Yet even then, the villager wielding the weapon cries out in pain as the shaft vibrates in his untrained grip, numbing his hands. He almost lets go before forcing himself to hold.
The fifth waits. Watches.
Then... it strikes.
It leaps through a gap, too fast to block.
It crashes into Tomer, a woodcutter in his thirties. His face, weathered and lined, tightens instinctively as he raises his shield, a round, dented thing worn by time but dependable. He manages to intercept part of the wolf's mass, the shield taking the brunt of the initial slam, yet it isn't enough.
The force of the beast sends a shudder through his entire frame, buckling his knees. The breath flees from his lungs in an audible grunt, and the impact drags him to the ground. His axe slips from his grip and rolls a few feet away. Tomer lies exposed beneath the snarling predator, limbs sluggish, vision narrowing. He blinks up at the sky, and in that suspended heartbeat, he understands his time has simply run out.
Before anyone can reach him-
In his fading eyes, the gleam of ivory-white blades is reflected, sharp and deadly.
The wolf sinks its teeth into Tomer's throat and, with a slight twist, tears it apart.
A terrible sound of flesh tearing echoes through the clearing.
The wolf lifts its head, muzzle dripping red.
And it sees him.
A human... no, a child, or at least someone small, approaches, carrying one of those gleaming blades.
The wolf hears a whisper.
[True Slash]
A horizontal line flashes through the wolf's vision, then pain.
Its front leg hits the dirt.
Lucien doesn't slow. He closes in, and while the beast is still realizing it has lost a leg, he strikes again. Before it can even howl, Flame Fang drives deep into its chest. The beast collapses beside Tomer's body.
Lucien exhales slowly.
"So that's what it feels like," he mutters under his breath. Shaken, but steady.
Around him, silence.
Even Erob stares, his mouth slightly open.
Lucien doesn't stop.
He sidesteps out of formation. Then chaos returns.
The second wolf hurls itself against the line, scattering shields. One villager takes a slash across his thigh, blood soaking his trousers, but he stays upright, teeth clenched. Varric fires again; the arrow drives into the beast's chest. It falters. Lucien finishes it, blade plunging through the skull in a swift, merciless strike.
The fourth circles back, trying to slip through. A cluster of villagers breaks rank: one drives a spear into its flank, another smashes a shield edge-first into its jaw. A third, voice breaking, slams down an axe meant for logs, burying it into the beast's shoulder. The wolf thrashes, snapping wildly, but the group screams together, hacking and stabbing until the beast collapses under sheer desperation. Their breathing is ragged, eyes wide with terror and disbelief, but the wolf doesn't rise again.
The lead wolf rushes again, slamming into shields, but this time the formation holds. Spears jab, shallow, but enough to slow it. Lucien steps in, blade arcing once more, slashing across its muzzle and forcing it back. As it recoils, Erob seizes the chance, swinging his war pick in a brutal arc that slams into the wolf's hip. Bone cracks. The beast crumbles.
Lucien walks forward, blade low.
One swing into the skull. The wolf jerks, dazed.
Then a shift in grip. A smooth transition to thrust.
The blade drives through the mouth, past the tongue, through the palate, into the brainstem.
It dies instantly.
Lucien pulls his sword free.
The last wolf hesitates. Alone now. It growls low, ears flat, torn between fight and flight. It turns to run, and Varric's arrow catches its flank.
The beast stumbles. Not dead, but slowed. The villagers close in, spears jabbing from all sides, driving it back step by step. Its snarls turn to whines until, with a final cry, it falls beneath their combined strikes.
For a moment, no one breathes.
The clearing reeks of blood and sweat. The villagers sag against their shields, arms trembling, breathing ragged. One kneels by Tomer, head bowed.
Lucien stands blood-splattered.
Erob steps closer, eyes narrowing. His thoughts blur between pride, fear, and awe.
Finally, he finds his voice, rough and unsteady, the sound of a father caught between pride and dread. He lowers his tone, as if shielding the others from hearing.
"Lucy... I knew you were strong, but watching you just now... it scared me."
Lucien wipes the blade on his sleeve, not looking up.
"Sorry, Dad... but when I saw Tomer on the ground, bleeding out, I just couldn't stand there. If I'd waited, maybe you'd be the one lying there instead. All I could think about was the hours I've spent training, and in that moment I just poured everything I had into the strike."
Silence follows, heavy. Relief is written on their faces: they survived. Some shake with pain, others touch shallow wounds, grateful to still be standing.
All eyes drift to Tomer's body. A few fight back tears, some clasp shoulders in quiet comfort, while others sink to the ground, gasping for breath and trying to steady themselves.