Chapter 8: Echoes and Ash
The collision was not fire, but a detonation of pure, warring mana. Auron's gold-white light, fueled by the wolf's desperate roar, slammed into the red-hot, crumbling silver of Asher's failsafe.
The explosion tore the night in half.
Lucian, already on the ground, felt the impact as a massive, invisible hand that shoved the air from his lungs. His vision went white, then warped the world a vibrating smear of light and sound. The ringing in his ears swallowed all other noise.
When the pressure released, the air rushed back in, smelling of ozone, scorched earth, and blood. Tents lay shredded, posts snapped, and the nearest horses screamed in blind terror.
Auron remained standing, his greatsword, Vowkeeper, buried hilt-deep in the mud where he had diverted the blast's core.
The spectral wolf had vanished, leaving only a few shimmering gold motes that faded into the darkness. His body was a wreck of trembling muscle, the bracelet a dull, cold band against his wrist.
He turned toward Asher. The knight's armor was fused to the ground, molten and useless, but the man was not there. Only a ragged trail of blood and shattered fabric led into the trees toward the frozen river.
"Gone," Auron whispered, his voice raw. He had been faster, stronger, but not complete. "He's not dead. He used the chaos."
Lucian finally broke through his shock, scrambling toward Auron, his face pale and streaked with mud. "We have to follow him! He'll alert the beast-born, he'll—"
"Quiet." Auron's attention was elsewhere. The fight was over, but the camp was still watching. "He won't make it far."
*****
Deep within the frost-bitten woods, Asher stumbled. He clutched his left shoulder, useless beneath the melted steel
His legs were moving on sheer, animal instinct. He had saved his life, but he had lost his honor, his fortune, and his cause.
He collapsed against a wet mossy trunk, hand shaking as he fumbled inside his tattered cloak. He pulled out the Whisperstone a shard of black obsidian veined with sickly green light. It was his final key, his ultimate fail-safe.
He pressed it to his lips and choked out a single, wet code word.
The air above the stone shimmered, cold and heavy. A figure coalesced tall, cloaked in living shadow, with eyes that burned with predatory amber. It was Asad Al, the royal bastard of the Stonefang Horde.
"Report," Asad said, his voice deep and silken, the sound vibrating the very air.
Asher swallowed blood. "The mission failed. The boy is guarded by a demon, a creature of light. I couldn't hold him. I need reinforcement. I can still deliver the Arvel heir, my lord, I—"
"You failed," Asad interrupted. The tone was level, devoid of passion, yet utterly final. "You endangered the asset with your rage. A slave of anger cannot hold a leash."
Asher's pleading collapsed into ragged breaths. "Please, I only need—"
"A sloppy tool," Asad concluded, soft as a lullaby, "is a broken one."
The Whisperstone's light flared into a focused, brilliant gold. It didn't burn; it simply snuffed. Asher convulsed once, his body stiffening.
The internal pressure of the Beast-born magic he had once sought to harness ripped through his core. He slid down the trunk, silent and still. The Whisperstone, its power expended, shattered into worthless black dust.
When the image faded, Asad Al turned to the figures gathered behind him warriors forged from shadow and iron.
"The whelp travels with a wolf of his own," he said. "Good. A true hunt deserves teeth."
A low, unified growl rippled through the horde. The forest fell silent as the warband began to move.
******
Back at the ruined camp, the remaining two dozen guards and servants were stirring. Two knights, bearing the same twin-griffin crest as Asher, pushed through the wreckage, swords drawn.
"There!" one shouted, pointing at Auron. "That creature attacked Sir Asher and tried to murder Lord Lucian!"
Auron stood over the wreckage, his clothes scorched, gold motes still clinging to the mud. His power was spent, but his stillness was unnerving.
The guards wavered, fear turning to collective anger. The second knight pointed his blade at Auron. "He summoned a monster of light! He murdered our commander! Kill the assassin!"
The crowd tightened. Then, from the edge of the circle, a small voice rang out.
"That's a lie!"
The boy, Finn, the thin sixteen-year-old in armor too large, stepped forward. His voice trembled, but his stance was defiant.
"I saw them take coin from Asher! You two met with him near the river two nights ago!" He swallowed hard. "You're the traitors, not him!"
The older knight turned, his face curdling with sudden danger. "You're delirious, boy. Silence yourself before—"
The knight's threat was cut short. Auron moved without warning.
No flash of aura. No spectral wolf. Only pure, devastating precision honed by the past weeks of survival.
The first strike from Vowkeeper was fast and low, shattering the knight's sword arm. The second opened his throat before he could scream.
Before the other could react, Auron drove his boot into the man's knee and thrust Vowkeeper through his chest.
Silence. Only the heavy sound of blood dripping into mud.
Auron stood over the corpses, chest heaving. The light around him was gone. He looked down at his hands human again, trembling and for the first time, felt true fear not of death, but of himself.
He had become a killer.
Vowkeeper slipped from his grasp, sinking into the mud with a soft, final sound.
Lucian stepped forward, pale in the firelight. He looked at the bodies, then at Auron. No gratitude. No anger. Just hollow quiet.
Then he laughed.
It was a broken sound, sharp and uneven, born of a mind frayed by too much truth. He laughed at the traitors, the carnage, the stranger who had saved him by killing three men in a breath.
Auron didn't stop him. When the laughter faded into shuddering breaths, he placed a steady hand on Lucian's shoulder.
"Breathe," he said quietly. "It's over. For now."
Lucian's body trembled once more, then stilled. He looked around the ruined camp at the survivors guards, servants, and Finn, all waiting.
"What… what do we do now?" Lucian whispered.
Auron followed his gaze toward the treeline where Asher had vanished, and where his master now waited.
"We can't run anymore," Auron said. "He's gone. But his master knows you live, and he wants to have you for whatever possible reasons. He'll send some form of reinforcements"
Auron looked around the ruined camp, a terrible resolve settling in his eyes. "Then we make this a fortress. Every guard, every servant, we turn them into weapons. Walls from wreckage. Weapons from ruin. Fire from fear."
Lucian turned to the burning horizon. The first, cold light of dawn was breaking through the trees. "And if they come?"
Auron's answer was quiet but final.
"Then we hunt them first."
The two stood amid the wreckage a trembling heir and a haunted killer. Between them, in the ash and smoke, a fragile new bond was forged.