Rowan staggered back into the line, sword trembling in his grip. His breath came fast, his arms heavy — and then he felt it again.
The water.
It wasn't just in the river now. A thin film clung to his blade, running along the edge as though alive. Droplets gathered, glimmering in the torchlight, refusing to fall away. When he shifted his stance, they slid with him, as if listening.
He tightened his grip, and the water responded. It wrapped the sword more fully, a soft silver-blue glow tracing the steel. When he swung, the blade cut the air faster, smoother — almost weightless. Power flowed up his arms, steadying his hands and clearing his head. For the first time since the wolves appeared, he wasn't afraid of dropping the weapon.
He set his feet, shoulders square, like the river was settling inside his bones.
Brennar glanced sideways in the chaos, brow rising. "By the Hollow…" he muttered, then broke into a fierce grin. "Looks like you're finally awake!"
Other villagers noticed too. A few cheered, their voices bright with sudden hope. Others faltered mid-step, staring in shock, fear flickering in their eyes. Whispers slipped through the line like wind: blessed… cursed… marked… Rowan barely heard them. The fight pressed close.
A wolf lunged. Rowan swung on instinct. His blade moved like flowing water, the strike curving fast and sure. Steel and liquid cut across the beast's snout; blood sprayed dark across the dirt. The wolf yelped and stumbled back.
Rowan's heart thundered — not with fear now, but with a fierce, surprising joy. The rhythm in his chest matched the pull of the river.
Another wolf came low, jaws wide. Rowan twisted and raised his sword. The water along the edge surged, hardening for a heartbeat. Fangs scraped against a sudden sheen of ice and skittered away. Rowan gasped — and Brennar was already there, his axe crashing down, ending the beast in a single blow.
"Keep at it!" Brennar bellowed. "You're doing fine!"
Rowan swallowed and nodded. His arms no longer shook. His breath evened. The river felt like a partner now, not a stranger. It moved with him, not against him.
He tested it. A tight cut. A quick feint. A step back, then a sharp thrust. The water answered each movement, turning clumsy swings into clean arcs. Wolves that had seemed unstoppable only moments ago flinched from the glowing blade. Each strike sent a small shock through Rowan's palm, like the river reminding him: I am here.
But with that strength came a warning. The power made him bold — too bold. He slashed wide at a retreating shape; the water burst from his blade in a bright spray. The arc went wild, hissing past a villager's shoulder and splattering the palisade.
The man stumbled back, eyes wide. "Watch it!"
Heat climbed Rowan's neck. "I— I didn't mean—"
"Eyes forward!" Brennar snapped, dragging Rowan's focus back. "The wolves don't care what you mean."
Rowan forced a breath in. Then another. He lifted his sword again. Control. Don't let it carry you. Guide it. The thought felt like his own and not his own, like a riverbed teaching the water where to run.
Bit by bit, the line held. Spears jabbed. Shields braced. The ground near the gate turned into churned mud and dark stains. A boy sobbed somewhere behind the wall; a mother shushed him, voice breaking. Torches crackled. The air stank of wet fur and iron.
Rowan's blade carved a bright path through the chaos. With every clean hit, the glow along the steel deepened, as if trust itself fed the bond. He wondered — for one wild second — if the water belonged to him now, or if he was only borrowing it. What if it was choosing him, and not the other way around? The thought filled him with a quiet, steady pride… and a small, sharp fear.
Another wolf snapped at his legs. He slid back, angled the blade, and clipped its jaw. The beast recoiled. Rowan felt the river settle again inside his chest. He could do this. He could—
The growls deepened.
More wolves padded from the treeline, larger and meaner than the first wave. Their yellow eyes glowed like coals, low and steady. They did not rush. They circled, spreading wide, measuring the line.
Behind them, the soldiers finally moved.
Rowan's gaze snapped to the trees. Four figures stepped forward in a slow, steady rhythm, boots sinking into the mud. Their armor was dark and dull, not polished to shine but beaten smooth by use. Each wore a helm that shadowed the face, turning them into shapes without eyes. Cloaks hung heavy, mottled with damp and dirt. They carried long blades, edges blackened like old iron.
They did not shout. They did not run. Their silence was worse than a roar.
The villagers felt it too. A man near Rowan muttered a prayer under his breath. Another's shield trembled in his hands, wood rattling softly against the boss. Somewhere along the wall, a torch popped and went out, and no one moved to relight it. These weren't bandits. They weren't hunters from a rival village. Whatever they were, they felt wrong — like shadows given steel.
Rowan tried to swallow; his mouth was dry again. He felt the river tighten around his blade as if bracing, and a cold question slid through him: Did they come for Verdant Hollow… or for me?
One soldier raised his weapon — a long, jagged blade — and leveled it across the trampled field. The point found Rowan as cleanly as an arrow finds its mark. No words. No signal. Just the weight of being chosen.
The Elder's voice rang down from the wall, sharp and steady. "Shields up!"
The line obeyed. Shields lifted with a rush and a clatter. Rowan stepped in close, shoulder brushing a guard's, Brennar on his other side like a wall of heat and breath. The wolves pressed lower, growls rumbling through the dirt. The soldiers came on, armor whispering with each step.
Rowan lifted his water-wrapped sword, breath quick but steady. The glow along the edge pooled at the tip and slid back again like a tide. He could feel the river's pull under the surface, patient and strong, waiting for him to choose how to use it.
The first attack had been to test our weakness
The next one will test our strength