The sun dipped low, painting the sky with streaks of orange and violet as the caravan trundled along the dirt road. Dust clung to the hem of Arin's cloak, and his boots ached from ten hours of steady marching. Ten months. It had been ten months since he and Lyra first signed into the Ravenhollow guild as fresh-faced Rank 2 adventurers.
In those ten months, he had learned to gut goblins, light a campfire with trembling hands, stitch wounds with thread that broke more often than it held, and even laugh in the face of exhaustion.
But he had never killed a human.
Not yet.
The guildmaster's warning echoed in his head as the caravan wound deeper into the valley: "You'll attract rivals. Not just monsters. People."
And now, as twilight settled, Arin felt the weight of that warning pressing against his chest.
The guards shifted uneasily, hands never straying far from their weapons. Lyra walked ahead as always, posture calm but alert, her silver hair catching the last rays of sunlight like a banner. She looked as if nothing could rattle her.
Arin wished he could say the same.
The Ambush
It happened quickly. Too quickly.
A whistle cut through the air. A moment later, arrows rained down from the cliffs on either side of the road.
"Bandits!" someone screamed.
Chaos erupted. Horses shrieked. Merchants dove under wagons. Guards raised shields, deflecting arrows as the first wave of attackers charged down the slope—men in ragged leather armor, faces covered with cloth, weapons gleaming in the half-light.
Arin's heart stuttered. His body screamed to freeze, to hide, to vanish into the earth. But Lyra had already drawn her blade, her movements swift and sure.
"Arin!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "With me!"
Her command jolted him into motion. He drew his short sword, the steel trembling in his hands, and rushed to her side as the first bandit swung a rusted axe at them.
Lyra stepped forward, parried, and countered in one fluid motion. The man fell before Arin could even breathe.
The second came for Arin. A lean figure with a jagged dagger, eyes glinting with hunger.
Arin blocked clumsily, the force jarring his arm. The bandit snarled, pressed harder, and for a moment, Arin saw his own reflection in those wild eyes—not a monster, not a faceless creature, but a man.
A man with a family? With dreams?
I can't… I can't kill him.
The thought froze him. His blade faltered.
The dagger lunged toward his chest—
—and was knocked aside by a flash of silver. Lyra's sword punched through the bandit's throat, hot blood spraying across Arin's cheek. The man gurgled, collapsed, twitched, then stilled.
Arin staggered back, bile rising in his throat.
"You hesitate, you die," Lyra said flatly, yanking her blade free. Her eyes, hard as tempered steel, flicked to him. "Remember that."
Blood on His Hands
The battle raged. Bandits screamed, guards shouted, steel clashed. Arin fought because he had to—because the world left no space for hesitation. He parried one strike, ducked another, and drove his blade into a bandit's gut.
The man gasped, coughed blood, and crumpled.
Arin froze, staring down at the body. His first kill. His stomach heaved, his chest burned. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to throw his sword away.
But another bandit was already rushing him, sword raised.
Survival instinct took over. Arin slashed desperately, meeting steel with steel. Sparks flew. Their blades locked, faces inches apart. The bandit's breath reeked of rot and ale.
"I don't want to die," Arin choked out—not sure if he was speaking to the man, or himself.
And then, with a ragged cry, he drove his sword upward.
The bandit fell.
Arin stumbled back, chest heaving, vision swimming. His hands trembled, slick with blood. He looked at them—at the crimson staining his skin, dripping from his blade—and felt the world tilt sideways.
I killed him. I killed them.
Aftermath
The ambush ended as quickly as it began. The surviving bandits fled into the night, leaving bodies strewn across the road. The caravan guards cheered weakly, relief flooding their voices, but the joy felt hollow to Arin.
He sat on a rock at the edge of the road, sword still in hand, unable to let go. His body shook. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Lyra approached, her boots crunching over gravel. She stood over him for a long moment, silent, before kneeling down.
"You're shaking," she said quietly.
Arin laughed bitterly. "I just killed people, Lyra. Real people. Not goblins. Not monsters. Men. They had… lives."
"They chose their path," Lyra replied. Her voice wasn't harsh this time. Softer. Almost gentle. "They preyed on the weak. If not you, they would've killed the merchants. The guards. Me."
Arin swallowed hard. "Does that… justify it?"
Lyra didn't answer immediately. She gazed out at the dark horizon, where the bandits had vanished.
"This world isn't kind enough to care about justification. Only survival. You'll learn that, or you'll break."
Arin stared at her, searching her face for something—doubt, regret, anything. But her silver eyes were unreadable.
"I don't want to break," he whispered.
Lyra finally met his gaze. For a moment, just a heartbeat, there was warmth in her eyes.
"Then don't."
She rose, offering him her hand.
Arin hesitated, then took it. Her grip was firm, steady, anchoring him when the world felt like it was spinning apart.
A Step Forward
That night, the caravan camped under the stars. The merchants murmured prayers of thanks, the guards patched wounds, and the dead were buried shallow beneath the dirt.
Arin lay awake beside the fire, staring at the blood still crusted under his nails. He knew sleep wouldn't come easy. Not after today.
But as he turned his head, he saw Lyra sitting a few feet away, sharpening her blade in silence. The firelight danced across her face, casting shadows that made her look older, harder, and yet… not alone.
For the first time since the fight, Arin breathed deeply. His chest still ached, but there was something new in the ache.
Resolve.
He had killed. He would kill again, if this world demanded it. But he wouldn't let it twist him into a monster. He would fight, not just for survival—but to become strong enough that one day, he could choose.
Choose his battles.Choose his path.Choose who he wanted to be.
And with that thought, Arin closed his eyes.
The road was long. Two years still stretched ahead before the Academy. But tonight, beneath the foreign stars of the Great Wilderness, he had taken his first true step into what it meant to be an adventurer.