The wolves pressed forward again, their growls deeper, sharper, as though something unseen drove them into formation. Rowan's arms ached, his blade heavy, but the water still clung to the steel, glowing faintly. Every strike flowed smoother than his strength alone could manage. He cut one beast across the muzzle, sending it yelping back, but another lunged immediately to take its place.
Then Rowan felt it—an unnatural rhythm in their attacks. They weren't wild anymore. They moved like soldiers, striking and retreating in perfect order. His eyes snapped past the beasts, into the treeline.
One of the armored soldiers hung back. Unlike the others, he didn't raise his sword. Instead, he gestured sharply, a low whistle carrying through the night. The wolves snapped to his command. A pelt hung from his shoulders, wolf bones tied into his armor. The sight chilled Rowan's blood.
"Their master," he whispered.
The Beast Master pointed, and three wolves surged toward Rowan at once. He raised his sword to block, but they slammed into him, forcing him down to one knee. Teeth flashed, fur brushed his face, jaws snapping shut inches from his throat. Panic rose sharp and bitter.
"No!" Rowan shouted, thrusting his blade up with every shred of will.
The river answered.
Water exploded from his sword in a sudden burst, a crashing wave that hurled the wolves back in a spray of foam and blood. They yelped, tumbling across the mud. The force staggered Rowan too, nearly knocking him off his feet, but the line cheered at the sight.
Brennar laughed like thunder. "Ha! That's more like it!"
Then a wolf crashed into him. Its teeth sank deep into his shoulder, blood spilling freely. Rowan shouted in horror, but Brennar didn't falter. He looked down at the wolf latched onto him, and instead of pain, a wild grin spread across his face.
A terrible laugh tore from his throat. With one arm, he seized the beast by the scruff, wrenching it free. Bone cracked under his grip as he hurled it aside like a rag doll. His eyes burned faintly red, veins standing out along his arms, steam rising from his skin despite the cold.
He roared, and something inside him snapped loose. The villagers fell silent as he charged, axe swinging in brutal arcs. One wolf was split nearly in two, another caught mid-leap and smashed into the dirt with a sickening thud. Brennar didn't fight like a man—he fought like fury given flesh.
Rowan froze, awe and unease twisting inside him. This wasn't bravery. This was frenzy. Every wound only seemed to drive him harder, every drop of blood stoking the fire.
A woman in the crowd gasped and pulled her child back. A man muttered, voice shaking, "Berserker…" The word carried down the line like a chill wind.
Still Brennar laughed, each swing heavier, each step surer. The wolves seemed to falter before him, yet Rowan's stomach twisted. Was this what power did—turn men into monsters?
But even Brennar's wild strength couldn't break the enemy's control. The Beast Master raised his hand, and the wolves regrouped. They circled tighter, waiting for his signal, yellow eyes locked on Rowan.
The whistle came again. The wolves leapt. Rowan raised his sword—
—and an arrow split the night.
It struck the lead wolf clean through the skull. The beast collapsed mid-air, crashing to the ground at Rowan's feet. Another arrow followed, whistling past his cheek to pierce a wolf's throat.
Rowan blinked, stunned.
From the treeline, a figure stepped into the torchlight. A woman in a dark cloak, bow already drawn, her face calm, her movements sharp and sure. She loosed again, and another wolf fell, twitching in the dirt.
There was something unsettling about her silence. No shout, no war cry, not even the thrill of the fight. Only the smooth draw, release, and death. Rowan thought of the river again—calm on the surface, merciless in its current.
Brennar barked a laugh of pure relief. "It's about time you got here!"
The woman's cold eyes flicked to him. She lowered her bow just long enough to say, voice flat, "Oh. You're alive… Good."
Rowan almost dropped his sword. Her tone wasn't warm relief. It was simple fact, stated without a hint of joy. She turned away from Brennar without another word, drawing again.
Three arrows flew in quick succession, each one faster than Rowan could follow. The first forced the Beast Master to raise his blade. The second clipped his shoulder, staggering him.
The third struck cleanly through the slit of his visor, driving deep into his eye. He didn't cry out. He didn't even stumble. His body simply went still, then crumpled into the mud like a puppet with its strings cut.
The wolves froze. For one breath, the field went silent. Then, without their master's command, they broke, scattering into the night with panicked howls.
The remaining shadow soldiers moved at once. They stepped around the Beast Master's fallen body, lifting him with eerie care, then retreated into the trees without a word. Their silence was worse than battle cries.
For a long moment, no one moved. The battlefield stank of blood and wet fur. Torches hissed where they had fallen into the mud.
Rowan sat heavily on a broken cart, sword across his lap. His hands trembled, though whether from the fight or the memory of the river flowing through him, he couldn't tell. He glanced at Brennar, who was laughing as villagers tried to bind his wound. Blood seeped through the wrappings, yet he looked more alive than ever.
When Brennar finally limped over, Rowan's voice came out low and tight. "You don't seem surprised."
Brennar cocked his head. "About what?"
"About any of it!" Rowan snapped. "The water—it followed me, it fought for me. And you—your eyes, your strength. That wasn't normal. You knew. You expected it."
Brennar's grin faded into something harder, though his tone stayed light. "Expected? Aye. You've got power in you, same as me. Some men crack in battle. Others catch fire. You just… woke up, is all."
Rowan's chest tightened. "Then what am I? What's happening to me?"
Brennar studied him for a moment, then clapped a bloody hand on his shoulder. "You'll find out soon enough. But listen, Rowan—it's not a curse. It's a choice. Remember that."
Before Rowan could press further, the woman stepped closer. She pulled back her hood, revealing sharp features and dark hair damp with mist. Her eyes flicked over Rowan, weighing him in silence.
"Name's Ari," she said simply, as though the battlefield was nothing more than an introduction hall.
The villagers moved uneasily around them, dragging wolf carcasses to the edge of the square, piling broken weapons, and tending to the wounded. Whispers spread—some glancing at Brennar's red-tinged eyes, others at Rowan's still-damp sword.
"Did you see it?" one woman hissed. "The river followed him."
"A Berserker… gods help us," another muttered.
"Two of them. In the same village."
Rowan shifted under their stares, his throat dry. He wanted to protest, to tell them he was no monster—but he couldn't even convince himself.
The Elder's staff struck the stones once, silencing the noise. His lined face was grim as he stepped into the square, eyes lingering on Rowan longer than on Brennar or Ari.
"This was no raid," he said, his voice carrying. "They weren't hunting the Hollow."
The Elder's gaze sharpened.
"They were hunting you."