Rain smothered Elloria, turning the streets to black glass and dragging banners into colorless rags. The storm blurred roofs, swallowed voices, and dulled even the clash of steel—until the city itself seemed to hold its breath.
Only the crows refused to be quiet. Their harsh cries cut through the rain, echoing from rooftops and ruined walls. Each caw carried a biting edge, mocking, as though the black birds gathered to watch the battle unravel like carrion-feast entertainment.
A single footstep broke the rhythm. Then another. Slow, deliberate. Each step struck the waterlogged street with unnatural weight, the splash echoing like thunder. The sound rolled across the mist, pressing heavy against the ears of those still standing.
Shadows shifted in the fog, silhouettes multiplying until the truth became clear: twice as many bandits as before marched forward, weapons gleaming with rain.
Every bootstep fell like a drumbeat of inevitability. The rhythm clawed into the defenders' chests, a pounding urgency that promised to devour them before blades even touched.
Morgan stood motionless at the front, a shadow stretched tall by the fog's haze. Rain carved dark trails through the grime on his scarred arms, each drop tracing battles long past. His men roared past him, blades flashing, but he didn't stir—his eyes were locked on Pim's body, crumpled in the mud. He sank to one knee, the splash of his boot sharp against the storm's drone.
His calloused fingers, steady through a hundred fights, trembled as they brushed wet hair from Pim's face. An arrow jutted from his friend's chest, its black fletching stark against pale skin. The battle's clamor faded; for Morgan, only this moment existed.
"Twenty years," he murmured, voice cracking, nearly drowned by the rain. "My right arm. My first mate. My best friend."
Water streamed down his face—rain, or something heavier. He leaned closer, his whisper fierce. "Rest in peace."
His hand tightened on his axe, the cursed veins in his arm flaring red, mirroring the glow of the crow on his shoulder. He rose, slow and deliberate, as if the weight of loss fueled his steps. The clash of steel surged closer—Elloria's knights, weary and bloodied from the first wave, buckled under the bandits' renewed assault. Shields splintered under axes. Screams pierced the storm.
* * *
Skele darted into the fray, bony paws splashing through puddles, his jaw clamping on a bandit's ankle and tossing him off balance. Lila's daggers flashed beside him, each strike precise, weaving through openings the knights failed to cover. Her braid stuck to her cheek, soaked through, but her eyes stayed sharp, movements driven by stubborn defiance.
"Arven!" she called over the storm, voice sharp as her blades. "This is looking worse by the minute!"
"Hold them just a little longer!" he shouted back. "We're not done yet."
Lila's dagger slipped past a bandit's ribs, and she pressed her back to his side for a heartbeat. "Tell me you've got something!"
Arven gave a quick grin without lifting his focus. "Keep them busy—I'm lining this up."
Lila scoffed, brushing rain from her lashes as she slipped back into motion. "Then… don't take too long, alright?"
Arven crouched over Darius, rain stinging his eyes, hands glowing as he traced the rune 'Berkano' across the knight's torn chest. The sigil of renewal flared pale green, its light pulsing like a heartbeat, stitching flesh with delicate threads of magic. Black veins writhed beneath, cursed tendrils born of 'Hagalaz,' the rune of ruin etched deep in Darius's blood.
For a moment, 'Berkano' held—the veins recoiled, hissing, as if scorched. Then 'Hagalaz' surged, its jagged sigil cracking through Arven's rune like frost shattering stone. Sparks scattered from his palms, useless.
"Damn it," Arven growled, wiping rain from his face. The curse was too deep.
He yanked a potion from his belt, teeth ripping the cork free. The golden liquid, rare as dragon's blood, shimmered with promise. He poured it over the wound—it fizzed, knitting veins for a fleeting second before the curse rebelled. The flesh split wider, spitting red froth and glowing shards, the stench of rot rising.
The wound would not close. Not here. Not now.
Arven leaned close, his whisper sharp and quick beneath the rain. "We'll lure Morgan to the woods. There, I'll handle it. I promise."
Beside him, Lila caught part of the words, her eyes narrowing. "The woods? What are you—"
"Later," Arven cut her off, jaw clenched. "Not here."
Even with all his meddling, the script still clung to its rails. Pim's death. Darius's injury. Morgan's rise. Different faces, different routes, the same damn outcome. He had bent the story, but not broken it. Not yet.
Darius groaned, pressing one hand into the mud. His knuckles sank deep as he forced his body upright, inch by inch. His chest heaved, blood and rain streaming freely, but his eyes sharpened, steady as he raised his blade.
The sword trembled at first, then steadied as he gripped it in both hands. Rain streaked down the steel until sparks hissed alive.
"In that case…" His voice rasped, torn from his lungs, but his shoulders squared beneath the storm. "Please take care of the rest later, Young Master of Elmwald."
Arven's breath hitched. Darius's lips curved into a grim smile as he lifted his sword higher, the runes etched into its steel glowing one by one.
"Kenaz!" Darius roared, his voice cutting through the storm.
Lightning erupted across the blade, racing from rune to rune until the steel blazed white-blue. The weapon crackled like a thunderhead made solid, every arc searing the air. Raindrops struck too close and vanished in bursts of steam, the storm itself recoiling.
"I'll bring him to half dead," Darius declared, thunder rolling in his wake.
Arven rose beside him, hand lifting in answer. The runes etched across his palm shimmered faintly, each stroke of light bending against the fog. His grin was thin, but real. "Let's do this together."
"Mist."
* * *
High on shattered rooftops, two harpies perched, feathers slicked flat by the rain. Their eyes, sharp as talons, locked on Morgan—and the red-eyed crow on his shoulder, its gaze burning like a cursed ember. Lila glanced up mid-strike, her dagger pausing as she caught their silhouettes against the storm.
"Red Eye," one harpy rasped, voice thin with grief. "Still chained to him."
The other's wings twitched, pity clouding her stare. "Once caged by iron. Now by choice."
Their talons scraped stone, restless, but they held back, gazes heavy with sorrow for the crow. Morgan's head snapped up, his eyes cutting through the fog to meet theirs.
"Cheeky birds," he called, voice steady over the storm's roar. "Hiding up there? I'll deal with you after this." The crow croaked, sharp and mocking, its red eye flaring brighter.
Lila cursed under her breath, daggers flashing faster. "Great. More trouble."
Then the mist rolled outward in a sudden wave, smothering torches, choking sightlines, and drowning the street in a white shroud. Bandits cursed, their shouts breaking into coughs as their world vanished.
Darius moved first. His blade carved a streak of lightning through the fog, each swing cracking like thunder. Sparks lit the haze in strobing flashes, silhouettes freezing before being torn apart. A bandit lunged—and was gone, body thrown smoking against a wall. Another raised a shield—the lightning melted it into slag, the smell of scorched iron searing through the rain.
Skele darted in the wake of the strikes, his skeletal frame a pale ghost in the mist. Every time a bandit stumbled from Darius's fury, bone-white jaws snapped to finish the job. Lila's daggers gleamed like twin comets, slipping through blind spots, each thrust ending in a gasp and collapse.
The knights, seeing light flare inside the fog, rallied. Their weary shields rose again, catching their breath against the impossible storm their commander had become.
But through the chaos, Morgan advanced.
He did not falter. He did not slow.
The mist coiled away from him as if refusing to touch his skin. The scarred lines on his arms burned faintly red, veins etched with the same cursed glow that spread from Darius's chest. The crow shifted on his shoulder, its eye glowing like a coal in the storm.
When Morgan finally moved, it was with a single swing of his axe. The weapon tore through fog and air alike, the pressure scattering the mist in a violent gust. The shockwave knocked men from their feet, slammed into shields with bone-rattling force, and even forced Darius back a single step.
Lightning met steel, thunder answering thunder.
The storm was no longer above Elloria. It was here, in its streets, locked between the cursed bandit king and the last wall standing in his way.