The wind blew softly across the forest canopy, rustling leaves as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Derek's fingers tightened around the hilts of his daggers.
His heartbeat slowed, breathing steadied.
He stepped forward.
And then....
He dashed forward.
The horde lunged simultaneously — dire wolves and other mutated creatures with elongated claws and extra joints, their small frames brimming with strength.
Derek's daggers moved.
One, two, three slashes — fluid arcs of steel that carved through flesh like soft fruit.
His footwork shifted from one stance to another without conscious thought. He dodged a leap on the right, slid beneath a claw swipe on the left, and twisted his torso just enough to avoid the bite of a rat lunging for his throat.
Each movement flowed into the next.
Each strike landed exactly where it needed to.
And beneath it all, a strange certainty took root inside him.
His dagger technique… was improving.
Not gradually.
Not slowly.
