PREVIOUSLY-
"Good," Gorvax smirked.
"Because you're gonna need that axe swinging. A lot."
WHAM!
Something heavy struck the ground ahead—wooden shields clashing, feet stomping through wet muck. Reeds parted as figures emerged from the mist.
Eyes gleamed. Scales hissed.
Lizardmen.
Theobald drew his axe.
--x—
"Five lizardmen…"
Theobald's eyes narrowed as he crouched low in the tall grass. Their scaled bodies shimmered faintly under the swamp's filtered sunlight, each warrior armored in bone-plated scraps and brandishing crude spears. But what drew his eye wasn't their formation—it was what they stood in front of.
A half-sunken stone altar, wrapped in overgrowth. Something sacred.
"They're guarding something,"
Theo muttered.
He turned toward Rook, who perched on a crooked branch nearby, talons flexing in anticipation.
"Mate, mind taking a look from above?"
With a low krr, Rook launched into the air, wings slicing through the humidity as he vanished into the canopy.
"Theo."
Gorvax's voice cut through the tension. The spectral wolf stood with arms folded, looking down at the chipped axe still clutched in Theobald's grip.
"I want you to end this without that lump of junk."
Theo blinked.
"Without my axe?"
Gorvax smirked, eyes gleaming.
"You'll find better ones on the battlefield. Use your enemies' tools. Adapt."
The boy hesitated, then slowly relaxed his fingers. The axe dropped to the mud with a wet thud.
'He looks like a shaggy old mutt half the time…'
Theobald watched as Gorvax nonchalantly poked his nose with a claw, sniffed, then scratched his ear with his hind foot.
'But he's still my mentor. I… I'll trust him.'
SWISH!
A wooden spear sliced through the air—fast, precise.
Theo's body moved on instinct.
CLENCH!
His hand shot up and caught the shaft mid-flight, the tip only inches from his throat. He stared at it for a heartbeat—roughly carved, swamp-stained, but sturdy.
Then—
THROW!
His arm snapped forward.
SPLURT!
The spear spun through the air and impaled the lizardman who had thrown it, stabbing clean through his chest. The reptile stumbled back, claws flailing before he collapsed in the marshwater, twitching once—then still.
The other four turned sharply toward Theobald, hissing, spears lowering.
The boy cracked his knuckles.
"…Guess we're doing this."
Gorvax grinned, his translucent form beginning to flicker with ghostly excitement.
"Good. Now go unalive the rest."
Theobald surged forward, feet slicing through the muck.
"SRAAK!"
A lizardman lunged, its jagged spear aimed straight for his chest.
Theobald twisted—just enough to let the blade slide past—then pivoted into a brutal side-kick.
CRACK!
His boot slammed into the creature's skull. It yelped, claws flailing, before stumbling back, clutching its face in agony.
"Krakh!"
Another came from the flank, teeth bared.
WHAM!
Theobald stepped in and drove a jab straight into its snout. Bone cracked. The lizard reeled.
Gorvax's voice purred into his mind, gravel and glee.
"Kid, time for the first lesson—how to use elbows and knees like a proper gladiator."
Behind him—
Splash. Step. Hiss.
"Third one's flanking. Spin and bury your boot in that lizard's ribs."
Theobald twisted his hips, momentum flowing into his heel.
THUMP!
His right foot collided with the reptile's chest. The creature flew backward with a guttural splash, vanishing beneath the swamp.
SWISH!
A fourth one came low, knife gripped backward in a hunter's crouch.
Gorvax growled.
"Lean in. Pop his snout with a jab."
WHACK!
Theo's left fist smashed across the lizardman's jaw. A wet pop echoed as the bone gave way. The creature staggered, growling through broken fangs.
"Now regain stance," Gorvax barked.
"He'll come in with a stab—left hand, heartline."
The lizard darted in, blade flashing.
"Parry with your right. Clamp that wrist under your arm!"
Theobald moved in a blur—right palm catching the strike mid-air, tucking the wrist tight beneath his armpit.
"Now jerk his skull sideways. Then knee the bastard."
Theo's left hand yanked the creature's head down.
THUD!
His right knee rose like a piston, slamming into its ribs. Crack-crack-crack. The creature screeched, its body shuddering from the blow.
FWISP!
Another lizard dropped from above, leaping down like a coiled spring.
"Use the knee's recoil. Back-kick, now."
Theobald didn't even look. His leg snapped back in a perfect arc—
WHAM!
The airborne lizard hit the ground wheezing, all air stolen from its lungs.
"Careful—first one's not dead."
The lizardman Theo still held growled, swinging a clawed hand toward his face.
"Push his wrist. Pivot to your open side. Then right elbow to the temple—make it count."
Theo shoved the trapped arm forward, spun to the side, and—
CRACK!
His elbow slammed home into the creature's skull with a meaty crunch.
The lizardman collapsed, limbs twitching, face buried in moss.
Silence.
Only the buzzing of swampflies and the heavy rasp of Theobald's breathing filled the clearing. His chest rose and fell, limbs tensed, heart still hammering from the whirlwind brawl.
Gorvax's smoky voice floated in again, smug.
"Not bad for a brat who used to squeal when stepping on snails."
Theobald shook his hands out; blood spattered across his forearms.
He glanced down at the fallen.
Four dead. One still crawling, barely breathing.
"Lesson one…"
Theo muttered, wiping his knuckles on a leaf.
"…completed."
Theobald stepped toward the last surviving lizardman—a bloodied thing dragging itself through the muck, hissing with broken breath.
"Hey, mate."
He crouched beside it with a lopsided grin.
"Got a second? I'm looking for your boss. Big guy? Probably smells worse than you?"
The lizardman snarled. Then, with a final surge of desperate hatred, it lunged.
WHAM!
Before it could reach him, the creature's body slammed into the earth like a sack of bricks. Dust and mud exploded outward, forming a shallow crater beneath its twitching limbs.
Theobald blinked, then turned to Rook hovering above.
"Cheers, partner. He's all yours now."
Rook's amber eyes narrowed, a devilish smile creeping across his curved beak.
He flapped once.
FWISH!
The lizardman floated upward, claws flailing.
WHAM!
Rook slammed it into the earth.
FWISH!
Up it went again.
WHAM!
Down, harder this time.
FWISH!
WHAM!
FWISH!
WHAM!
By the fourth impact, the creature was half-conscious, jaw slack, limbs limp, breath rattling.
"Hey! Hey—cut it out!"
Theobald ran over, cradling a bundle of mottled eggs in his arms like precious loot.
"You always beat them until their bones are soup, I get it. Helps the digestion or whatever."
He waved a hand, nose wrinkled.
"But now you're spraying lizard juice everywhere."
Rook gave a lazy nod, then dug his beak under the corpse's skin with a surgeon's focus. With a satisfied rip, he tore into the base of the skull, slurping whatever was inside like a connoisseur tasting fine wine.
"Right…"
Theobald coughed, looking away.
He turned his attention to the eggs—each one the size of his palm, some with light speckling, others smooth and pale. Carefully, he held one up to the sun.
"Now," he muttered,
"Which of these poor bastards can I eat without guilt?"
Rook craned his head over, scanning the clutch.
TAP.
He gently tapped one with the edge of his wing.
"Krr—no embryo. All yolk."
Theobald nodded seriously.
"Good. I'd rather not be a baby killer before lunch."
He knelt beside a flat stone slab, clearing off moss and grime.
With practiced ease, he snapped a low-hanging branch, stripped the bark, and arranged kindling beneath the slab. Sparks flared as he struck flint.
Within moments, fire crackled beneath the stone, and the warmth of sizzling heat rose.
Theobald cracked the chosen egg. A stream of golden yolk poured onto the hot slab, hissing as it spread.
He sniffed.
"Huh… smells like guilt-free breakfast."
Rook squawked in approval, already busy plucking ligaments from the lizardman's severed arm.
CHOMP!
Theobald took a mouthful—then froze.
"Blergh!"
He spat onto the dirt, face twisted in betrayal.
"I forgot the salt!"
BONK!
A paw slammed into the back of his head.
Gorvax loomed over him, muzzle wrinkled in disapproval.
"Kid! Let me make something absolutely clear."
His voice dropped, all the more terrifying for its calm.
"I do not tolerate disrespecting food."
He ran a thick paw through his fur with a sigh, as if steadying himself from erupting into full-blown culinary violence.
"Out of life's three greatest pleasures," he intoned,
"Food is the highest. Followed by love. And war. In that order."
He cast a sharp glance toward the boy, only to find… the omelette gone.
Theobald wiped his mouth with a satisfied nod.
"Mr. Gorvax—no. Master."
He stood straight, spine proud, face sincere.
"I was raised better than that. Grew up in kitchens. Cleaned fish till my fingers stank for days. Scrubbed pans till my arms gave out. And if I ever wasted food—"
He raised a hand solemnly,
"—my mother would chase me with a ladle like a berserker. And she is a master assassin I tell you."
He flashed a thumbs-up.
"So don't worry. That omelette has been honoured."
"Hahahaha!"
Gorvax barked with laughter, tail twitching in approval.
"I like you, kid."
"Krr—so much drama over bird eggs,"
Rook sighed from above, polishing blood from his talons.
"Next time, just eat the damn thing."
A FEW MOMENTS LATER-
Theobald crouched low behind a tangle of swamp brush, peering through the dense undergrowth at the lizardman village beyond.
Mud huts clustered around a central bonfire where faint drums thudded in rhythm, and the scent of roasted meat wafted through the humid air.
He whispered, eyes narrowing,
"Master… How about we skip the whole bloodbath, sneak in, unalive the chieftain, and head straight to the next stage?"
Gorvax, arms crossed and fur bristling slightly, closed his eyes like a war-priest consulting inner omens. After a long exhale through his fangs, he murmured,
"As much as I'd enjoy carving my way through the whole lot of them…"
He opened one eye, a gleam of reluctant agreement flickering in it.
"Fine. We'll go quiet. For once."
Theobald gave a toothy grin.
"Brilliant. Mate—"
He turned to Rook, crouched beside a gnarled root.
"Scout the perimeter. Find the softest spot in their defences."
Rook blinked once before launching into the air, a streak of orange feathers against the green-black canopy.
Minutes later, the vulture reappeared, silent as duskfall.
"Krr."
He landed with a ruffle of wings.
"Krr—East gate's unguarded. Most of the lizards are gathering near the fire pit. Celebration, maybe."
Theobald nodded, lips twisting into a lopsided smirk.
"Then east we go. Let's carve through their plans, not their spines—yet."
Gorvax cracked his knuckles.
"No promises."
Theobald emerged from the thickets, brushing a leaf from his shoulder.
"Time to demonstrate the espionage techniques of our Umbra family,"
He muttered, more to the wind than to his companions.
Gorvax watched with narrowed eyes as the boy exhaled once, twice—then began regulating his breath. His pulse slowed. Heat signatures dulled. The boy had learned well.
'He's bleeding off his body heat. Dulling scent. Good…'
Theobald moved like a shadow made flesh. He advanced with surgical precision, each step layered with practiced intent—rolling the foot toe-first, then outer edge, then heel.
His gait adjusted seamlessly to the terrain: soft moss, brittle gravel, sun-bleached bone piles, and half-sunken wood planks.
Nothing betrayed his passing.
He paused every few strides, syncing his movement with the rustle of wind through the trees, the croak of frogs, the distant rhythm of tribal drums.
Nature's white noise masked his presence.
He didn't just avoid detection—he read the monsters. Knew the subtle anatomy of their perception.
How their pupils contracted before a blink. When their nictitating membranes dulled vision. When their shallow, reptilian breathing fogged their view in humid air. He passed between blind spots like water slipping between fingers.
From the brush, Gorvax's voice was no more than a rumble.
"Knows their rhythms. Predicts blinks. Times breath. Matches environmental sound cover. Uses blind spots and scent crosswinds… Excellent."
Theobald came to a halt before a massive hut, its roof spiked with sun-dried bones and dyed feathers.
It loomed thrice the height of the others, stinking of incense and blood. Carvings of fang-shaped totems decorated the doorway, and two guards lay passed out near a firepit beside it.
"This has to be the chief's den," he whispered.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel and took one silent step forward, his hand already brushing the lip of the stone axe holstered behind his back.