Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
“Elara! Bran! Guard Gran Hesta!” Fenn yelled through the trees.
Rynna barely had time to register his order before three figures dropped down from the canopy, their movements heavy, the dull thud of their boots on the soft forest floor echoing in the quiet.
They wore dark, mismatched fabric pulled tight across their faces and arms, the ragged layers of their clothing hanging loosely, patched and frayed.
The gleam of blades peeked from their belts, a haphazard collection of weapons that suggested scavenging rather than skill.
“Looks like a babysitter with a couple of children,” one of them sneered. “I’d have thought Ember Reach would have at least sent real Hollow-born.”
Rynna and Taren moved into position, flanking Fenn on either side, their feet digging into the dark forest soil.
Behind them, she knew Bran and Elara would already be scanning the trees, watching for any movement in their blind spots.
It was a standard protection formation they’d drilled on hundreds of times since becoming a unit.
These poor idiots, Rynna thought as she sized them up.
Their stances were sloppy, and their weapons were held carelessly. They weren’t Hollow-born, just thugs playing dress-up in scraps of gear. Even Elara could probably take one of them without much trouble.
Fenn seemed to come to the same conclusion. With an almost bored expression, he pulled out one of his small notebooks, flipping it open as he leaped to a high branch. “You have three minutes. No Source power,” he said simply, not bothering to look up.
The leader of the group snarled. “Coward! Hiding in the trees while your children fight for you?”
One of the others laughed, cracking his knuckles. “Three minutes? We’ll finish you in one.”
Without warning, the first man lunged, a blade flashing from his belt. He moved fast, but not fast enough. Rynna sidestepped, feeling the wind of his strike brush past her shoulder. She twisted, her foot hooking around his ankle, and sent him sprawling into the dirt with a crack.
Taren was already in motion, spinning to deflect the second attacker’s punch with a block of his forearm.
Then, without missing a beat, he slipped low to the ground, his body coiling before striking out with a swift, controlled swipe to the man’s legs.
The thug staggered, off-balance, just as Taren pounced, delivering a side kick that landed squarely on the man’s head with a sickening thud.
The attacker crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even hit the dirt.
Rynna couldn’t help but smile. He combined the cat’s nimble movements with a brutal traditional attack.
But her focus quickly turned to the third thug as he charged at her.
His short sword cut through the air in an arc, but his movements were sloppy, too eager.
Rynna ducked under the swing, and before he could adjust, she stepped forward and drove her elbow hard into his gut.
His eyes bulged as he doubled over as she sent a quick, firm strike to the back of his head, leaving him sprawled and unconscious on the forest floor.
“I’ll kill you all!” The leader staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth.
“Come and get it!” Bran yelled, stepping forward, before Elara hissed toward a fourth man approaching from behind.
From the trees, she could hear Fenn flipping another page in his notebook, unbothered.
Taren moved, easily disarming the leader with a sharp twist of his wrist that sent the man’s blade clattering to the ground. And before the man could react, the boy spun him around and slammed him face-first into the dirt, tying his hands behind his back, even as he continued to thrash.
Rynna finished tying up the other two attackers, her fingers working efficiently as she looped and pulled the rope tight around their wrists.
Satisfied, she turned toward the others just as the clash of steel rang out behind her, followed by the grunts and yells of Bran and Elara locked in combat with a fourth attacker.
She looked up just in time to see Bran drop their opponent to the ground, the man landing hard on his back.
“Take that!” The boy jumped up and down, pumping his fist in the air.
But Rynna’s stomach dropped as she saw the man’s hand slip to the knife in his belt.
“Bran!” she shouted, but her voice wasn’t fast enough.
Time slowed as the blade flew, spinning toward Bran’s chest. He staggered back, bracing for the impact, his face twisted in fear, expecting a hit that never came.
Two throwing knives sliced through the air in perfect harmony.
The first met the flying knife with a sharp metallic clink, deflecting it off course.
The second followed almost immediately, a blur of steel embedding itself deep in the attacker’s throat.
The man’s eyes went wide in shock, his hands clawing at the weapon lodged in his neck as he crumpled back to the ground.
Then everything snapped back into motion.
Bran scratched at his shirt, patting himself down frantically, searching for the wound that wasn’t there.
Elara bent over, heaving, her eyes unable to look away from the thug as he gurgled helplessly.
Taren turned back to the leader, finishing his bindings, before sprinting over to join them as Fenn landed lightly beside her, his eyes flicking to the fallen man.
All the while, blood poured from the man’s wound.
Only a couple more seconds, she thought, transfixed. It was dark and relentless, seeping between his fingers as his thrashing slowed with each struggling pump of his heart until, finally, his body went still.
“Oh, oh my god,” Elara gasped, collapsing to her knees. “He’s...he’s dead.”
Gran Hesta shook herself and knelt beside her, rubbing slow circles on Elara’s back. “You saved me, girl. Thank you.”
Fenn stepped forward, crouching over the fallen man, where he pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse. When he clearly found none, he rose without a word and moved off to check the ropes binding the remaining three attackers.
Rynna approached the body, her eyes hard as she reached for her blade. The handle was slick with blood, and she had to brace her foot on the man’s shoulder to wrench it free. A thick stream of crimson followed, coating her fingers and pooling in the grass.
Taren watched her in silence, his face pale.
“You killed him,” Bran whispered.
Rynna glanced at the bloodied blade before sliding it back into her sleeve. Then, she walked over to retrieve the blade Fenn had thrown to save Bran, pulling it from where it was embedded in a tree trunk. Gripping the weapon, a single thought pulsed through her mind.
And so it begins. This was the first man she’d killed in this life. She knew it wouldn’t be the last.
“He’s dead!” Bran's voice rose, louder this time, tears welling in his eyes. “Why? Guide Fenn had our back. I was fine!”
“He almost killed you. I responded to the threat.” Rynna’s voice was cold, detached. Better they see this part of her now. Better they understand.
“He didn’t have to die,” Bran sobbed, his shoulders shaking as he stared at the body.
“No, he didn’t.” Fenn’s tone was low and hard. He gripped the boy’s shoulder, and Rynna flinched, surprised at how much it hurt to hear that edge in his voice.
She tossed his throwing knife to him with a quick flick of her wrist. He caught it easily and slid it back into his belt.
“You were foolish and arrogant,” the man growled, pulling Bran to his feet, his grip tightening as he spoke. “You were almost killed, and you forced your teammate to take a life to protect you. What if that knife had been thrown at Gran Hesta?”
Bran closed his eyes, his chest heaving. “Oh…oh....” His face crumbled. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice was flat, drawing Fenn’s attention.
“It’s not.” Curiosity danced in his eyes before he turned back to the other Novices. “The life of a Hollow-born is often violent and full of blood.”
Elara, still pale, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, her fingers trembling as she tried to compose herself.
“But life is precious,” Guide Fenn continued, his voice quieter now. “We can’t just waste it, or we become the very monsters we often fight.” He waved a hand toward the lifeless body of the thug. “Men like him who would harm an innocent old woman or kidnap children to control their parents.”
Bran swallowed hard, his head hanging low. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice small. “I understand.”
No one spoke for a long moment; the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and a faint trickle of a nearby stream.
Fenn finally broke the silence, his gaze lifting to the sky.
“We should leave now. We can make it to the Waygate before night falls.” His voice was steady, but his eyes scanned the tree line, wary.
“The fort around the gate is easily defendable and manned with Stone Reach soldiers. If there are more of the enemy, they won’t move on us there. ”
Gran Hesta nodded slowly, her frail hands reaching for her pack. “They must have followed me from the village.”
Before she could lift it, Bran stepped forward, gently taking it himself. He slipped it onto his back, the weight of it resting over his own gear as he offered a small, silent nod.
Taren glanced toward the tied-up assailants. “What about them?”
“We leave them,” Fenn said without hesitation, already turning his focus forward. “The guards at the Waygate can pick them up and send them back to Ember Reach for questioning tomorrow morning. They can keep for a night. Let’s go.”
The group moved through the forest in silence, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows through the dense canopy as they navigated around gnarled roots and low-hanging branches.
Approaching the Waygate, the trees gave way to a large, fortified structure looming ahead.
Massive wooden beams, weathered by years of exposure, formed the high walls, their slanted roofs covered in layers of shingles, sharp and menacing.
Stone foundations anchored the fortress, reminiscent of ancient outposts used by Hollow-born clans to guard their borders.
Fenn stepped ahead of the group, approaching the guards. Out of earshot, he spoke with them quietly, pulling a small set of papers from within his tunic. The guards scrutinized the documents, their eyes looking back to the rest of the unit with clear skepticism.
One of them laughed, tossing the papers back to the Unit Leader. “It’s your lives if you want to use the gate. Enjoy a painful death, for all I care.”
“Thank you,” Fenn replied with a slight bow. “And where can we spend the night? Are there any free rooms available?”
“Ha, rooms.” He exchanged a smirk with the other guard, who grinned. “Tell you what, since we’re feeling generous, you can use the barn. I hear the hay’s quite comfortable.”
“What?!” Bran started, but Rynna and Elara moved swiftly, covering his mouth with their hands before he could say more.
“That would be most amenable. Thank you.” Fenn bowed again. “This way.” He nodded to Fang Unit.
The barn was dusty, dimly lit by the fading sunlight that streamed through cracks in the wooden walls, the air thick with the scent of hay and earth. They set up their sleeping arrangements quietly, pulling their packs open and laying out bedrolls on the uneven floor.
Gran Hesta eased herself onto a bale of hay, her back hunched as she watched the group prepare. Passing around dried rations for dinner—hardtack and strips of cured meat, they ate in silence before lying down for the night.
As darkness settled over the barn, Rynna listened to the subtle sounds of her unit slipping into sleep.
Bran quieted, his body heavy as muscles softened in slow surrender.
Taren shifted once, and even Gran Hesta’s tired exhales soon faded into the background.
Hay rustled once as someone turned over, and soon, the barn was filled with the peaceful rhythm of sleep.
She was staring at the ceiling when a silent presence settled beside her.
Rynna didn’t need to look to know it was Fenn. He sighed softly before stretching out to lie on his side facing her. The fine hairs along her neck stood on end as his breath ghosted across her skin, threading through the cool air like a whisper she wasn’t ready to hear.
“That wasn’t the first life you’ve taken.” He spoke in a hushed tone as the others slept on, undisturbed.
“No,” she replied quietly.
In truth, she had long lost count. Hundreds, thousands?
She had no idea how many lives she’d ended over the countless years she’d spent on Missions for the Weaving.
She had stopped trying to keep track long ago.
It didn’t bother her. It hadn’t in a very long time, a fact she tried not to think about too much.
“He was right, though. You didn’t have to.” The callused pad of Fenn’s thumb dragged across her cheekbone, rough against her skin.
“I suppose not.” It was all she could say.
“Who are you, Rynna?” The words rolled out, deep and measured. “And why can’t I stop thinking about you? Seeing you in my dreams?”
His thumb brushed gently over her mouth.
“Sometimes, I wish I knew the full story.” Her eyes closed as she leaned into his touch. “But most times, I’m glad I don’t.”
His finger slipped past her lips, and she took him in with a soft hum, tongue curling around the rough pad as it pressed deeper. Her mouth moved without thought—slick, searching, tasting the salt of his skin, the bite of nail against the softness of her tongue.
Her lashes fluttered as her eyes opened, lungs locking when she found his gaze already locked to hers, dark and unmoving.
He held her jaw steady, fingers splayed warm along her cheek, guiding her as she sucked slow and deep, letting each swirl of her tongue linger, unbroken, like breath drawn between them.
Suddenly, Bran jolted upright. “It’s burning!” he cried out, voice piercing the quiet.
Rynna blinked, and the space beside her was empty once more. The Unit Leader was gone.
Her eyes darted to the far side of the barn, where a faint glint of moonlight caught the edge of a single glowing eye watching her from the shadows.
“Fuuuuuuck.” She licked her lips, savoring the lingering taste of him before rolling over with a frustrated groan. How the hell am I supposed to sleep now?