"Silas! Wait! Take me with you!"
The scream tore through the forest—sharp, desperate, useless.
Charles slowed, listening. The mercenary camp lay empty, only a dying fire smoldering amid scattered tents. Smoke curled upward, carrying the acrid tang of spilled ale, sweat, and blood. The wind whispered through broken branches, rustling leaves like soft warnings.
Rik, the hyena, crumpled near the tents. His leg twisted, breaths shallow and rattling. He wouldn't last long.
Silas? Gone. No footprints. No sound. Just smoke fading into darkness.
"Slippery bastard," Charles muttered, moving through the remnants of the camp.
He knelt beside Rik. The creature shivered, eyes wide with fear. One thrust ended it—quick, clean. Necessary. Silence restored.
Charles rose, scanning the forest. Shadows stretched long beneath the moon, silvering leaves and mossy ground. Broken twigs, bent leaves, faint iron scent—all whispers of the tiger ahead.
Silas had a head start, moving with the precision of a predator. He wasn't a brute like the Bear Brothers—every step calculated, every shadow used, every movement measured. Charles weaved between trees, crouching behind low branches, listening to the subtle snap of twigs and the whisper of wind. Every detail mattered.
"Hey, kitty cat," he whispered, voice low and cold, almost a caress in the dark. "Don't run. I'll catch you either way."
Branches clawed at Silas's face, roots snagged his boots. His careful plans had never failed before. They had always chosen weak targets—drunks, outcasts, easy prey. Not this time. First the traps—pitfalls, tripwires, decoys—then silence, then death. One by one, his crew had fallen before realizing they were hunted. And now the voice again: "Hey, kitty cat… don't run. I'll catch you either way."
Silas spun, sword drawn, and froze. The man stepping from the shadows was familiar, yet changed. Eyes harder, calm, focused.
"You?" Silas whispered. "You're that pup we beat down last week…"
"You're dead," Charles said, voice steady. "And you're alone."
The moon filtered through the canopy, silvering the clearing. Silas coiled, blade hissing free. Charles crouched, daggers in hand, shadows clinging to him. Timing, precision—that was the fight now.
The first sweep came low. Charles sidestepped, silent as smoke. A second cut across the shoulders—he ducked, boots whispering over moss and leaves. Thrust, step, twist—he moved like water around the tiger. Pain flared in ribs and shoulder, but his mind remained sharp.
A feint with his left dagger drew Silas's attention. Too late. His right dagger slashed low, cutting above the knee. The tiger hissed, staggering back. Blood darkened his pants. Charles didn't press, just reset. First blood drawn.
A memory stabbed him mid-step: the narrow alley weeks ago, fists and boots raining down, laughter echoing off cobblestones. Gasps for air, ribs cracking, pride shredded. Helplessness. Humiliation. He had vowed then: never again. Never again would anyone reduce him to that. Now, each strike, each calculated dodge, each precise stab carried that vow. The boy who had been beaten and laughed at was gone. Only the hunter remained.
Silas faltered slightly, a limping gait beginning, breaths heavier. Eyes sharp, circling, forcing Charles to pivot. Silence thickened, broken only by distant creaks of trees and the wind through leaves.
High feint, stomp, low slash—Charles spun clear, blade grazing hip. Pain bloomed. Kick sent him skidding across mossy floor. Dirt and leaves clung to his sweat-soaked cloak.
Silas pressed, but Charles rolled, coming up on one knee, slashing upward blindly. Metal clanged. Bones rattled. Blood spattered the leaves. Jab. Shallow, but enough. Silas groaned, stepping back, stance weakening. Sword dipped with each breath.
Still, he smiled—thin, feral. "You're fast," he muttered.
Charles said nothing. Only focus. Calculated angles, watching for openings, noting Silas's shifting weight, minor tics, and patterns.
Silas's next lunge came with desperation. "Wait! Stop! Look at what we are—look at what you've done!"
"I see perfectly," Charles said, voice low and cutting. "Your crew is dead. You're alone. That's what I see."
Sweat and blood mixed on Silas's skin. "We beat you up last week! We humiliated you! Isn't that enough?"
"Even?" Charles's eyes narrowed. "You wanted to take my hands. You wanted to make me less than a man. Now… I've taken your life. That's the only way to make it even."
Silas's lip curled in fury, masking fear. "You think this makes you better? Stronger? It doesn't have to end like this!"
Charles tilted his head, deliberate, cold. "It does. And you're the one who didn't understand."
Silas lunged again, fury and panic in every strike. Charles met it with measured precision, flowing like water. Daggers sang through the night. Every word Silas spoke only sharpened Charles's resolve.
Another flashback flared: sneers, boots slamming on his back, the choking fear as no one would help. Shame burned, and anger became resolve. He would never again be powerless. Never again humiliated. That memory steeled his movements. Each strike was now not just revenge—it was justice.
Under moonlight, predator and tiger circled. Pride anchored Silas, though the fight was already decided. Feint left, twist, sprint—he ran. Desperation in every step. Sword clattered behind him.
Charles surged forward, daggers a blur. Roots, rocks, shadows—none slowed him. Stride precise. Breath measured.
Silas crashed through underbrush, ragged breaths, leg slowing. Coward. Always willing to run.
Charles closed the gap. Without pause, without hesitation, dagger plunged into the base of Silas's spine. The tiger screamed, clawing dirt, writhing inches. Charles drove the blade home again.
"You wanted to take my hands," he whispered, voice low and cold. "Now I've taken your life."
Silas stilled. Blood soaked the earth, lungs rattling. Charles knelt briefly over him, chest heaving, muscles humming with exhaustion. Forest silence returned. Only blood and broken pride remained.
Charles rose, scanning the trees. Shadows shifted, but no one remained. Only silence.
Flexing fingers, feeling every tendon ache, ribs throbbing, daggers slick with blood, he wiped the blades clean. He remembered the alley—the helplessness, humiliation, the echoing laughter. That boy was gone. Only Charles remained. Strong. Lethal. In control.
For a moment, he let the adrenaline fade. Felt the weight of the hunt, the precision of his strikes, the quiet satisfaction of revenge. No joy. Just clarity.
He pressed onward, deeper into the shadows, each step measured, silent, aware. Plans already forming. The hunt had ended, but the war was far from over.
Charles walked away, leaving blood, echoes, and the memory of the tiger behind. The coward's run had bought him seconds. No more.