Draven's wounds had already sealed. Muscles knitted, blood stopped, torn skin smoothing over like it had never been rent. His shirt hung in tatters across his broad chest, clinging damply to him as he crouched low in the shadows of the rain-soaked forest.
Without a second thought, he launched himself forward. Branches snapped beneath his boots, mud sprayed from each landing, and the canopy blurred overhead as he bounded from tree to tree with effortless speed.
> "Fucking… damn it," he muttered through clenched teeth, jaw tight, every syllable a hiss of frustration.
His entire body still burned as if he'd been bathed in pepper—muscles stiff, skin tingling, raw from exertion—but he didn't slow. Time was bleeding away. Every second wasted in that cursed mud, with those bastards still alive, gnawed at him. He had to move. Had to get back.
Rain slicked bark lashed against his palms as he swung himself over a fallen trunk. The forest blurred into streaks of green and brown, a tunnel of motion that matched the pulse in his veins.
> "Already wasted too much time…"
Teeth still clenched, he forced his thoughts forward, past the burn, past the sting, past the adrenaline scorching through him. Every fiber screamed, but the gnawing urgency kept him leaping, running, hunting the path that would carry him back.
Draven twisted mid-air, eyes widening as a streak of blue-white mana slashed through the trees where he had just been. The arc cut through wood like butter, splintering trunks and sending shards raining down.
He landed lightly on another branch, knees bending to absorb the impact, body coiled and ready. His gaze snapped toward the source of the attack, eyes narrowing against the storm. In the distance, barely visible through the sheets of rain and the tangle of forest, he saw them: the maid locked in combat with Kaela.
Her movements were swift, precise—each strike a flash of steel and mana. Kaela's figure twisted with deadly grace, parrying and countering, sparks and blue energy cascading in bursts where their blades met.
Draven's jaw clenched. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't planned to get pulled into any delay—not with the time he had already wasted. Yet now, his instincts screamed: he needed to assess, and fast.
The forest around him seemed to hold its breath. Every branch, every shadow, every flicker of motion was a potential threat. And in the middle of it all, the maid's defiance and Kaela's precision demanded his attention.
He flexed his fingers, still tasting the phantom burn of his earlier wounds, feeling the lingering pulse of mana flicker faintly in his veins.
> "Fucking… hell," he muttered under his breath, teeth still clenched, eyes locked on the scene.
Draven's eyes flicked between the maid and Kaela, taking in the clash of steel and mana. His brow furrowed, thoughts snapping into focus despite the burn in his muscles and the sting of the storm.
Huh… the maid? Wasn't she supposed to be with Ivan, fighting alongside those two? His gaze sharpened, scanning the chaos for any sign of Lyriana or Aldric. Where are they? Are they still fighting with him? What the hell happened…?
The questions came fast, but he shoved them aside as quickly as they appeared. The answers didn't matter—not now, not when every second wasted was a risk.
Fuck it.
Time was bleeding away, and nothing else mattered. Not the fights he wasn't part of, not the who's with who, not the past mistakes or missed chances.
I need to get back to Ma.
With that, the thought anchored him. The pain, the storm, the phantom burn across his body—all of it became background noise. He pushed off the branch, launching himself forward, eyes locked on the path that would take him back to her, and only her.
Draven sprinted down the trunk, boots skimming bark slick with rain. The forest flashed around him in streaks of gray and green—then a blinding surge of white split the sky.
A crack of thunder.
A flash of steel.
Out of nowhere, a blade crackling with lightning carved through the air straight toward his head. His eyes widened, the reflection of the weapon glinting across them—Cedric, wreathed in electric fury, bearing down.
Instinct took over.
Draven dropped low, the blade screaming past close enough to shear a lock of his hair. Before the strands had even hit the ground, his right hand was already moving—dagger flashing, stabbing upward in a perfect counter.
But the strike met nothing.
Cedric's figure flickered, vanishing in a burst of gold-white light—and reappeared behind him, lightning still dancing along his sword. The weapon came down in a brutal arc, thunder echoing through the trees as the forest itself seemed to recoil from the strike.