Rumors had teeth. By dusk, the whole village buzzed with them.
"Bandits spotted near the river."
"They cut down a caravan."
"They'll come here next, mark my words."
Farmers hammered extra planks across doors, wives hid jewelry in flour jars, children peeked out from behind skirts with wide, frightened eyes. Smoke from cookfires mixed with the smell of fear.
And in the middle of it all, sitting cross-legged on a fencepost, grinning like a lunatic, was Orin Capillet.
"Bandits, huh? Finally."
Yira snapped her head toward him, braid whipping like a whip. "Finally what? You sound like you've been waiting for them."
"I have," Orin said with all the sincerity of a priest. "They're perfect training dummies. Human-sized, and they scream."
Her jaw dropped. "You—" She stomped closer and jabbed him in the chest. "You'll stay inside tonight. If I have to tie you to the bedpost, I will."
Orin leaned forward with a grin far too wide for a child. "Promise?"
Her face went red. She shoved him off the fencepost. He hit the dirt, rolled, and came up laughing. "See? You hit harder than those farmers I fought this morning!"
"Not funny!" Yira barked. "Stay put, Orin. Do you hear me?"
He saluted like a soldier. "Yes, ma'am."
Hours later, when the first torch flared at the treeline, Yira rushed to check his bed. Empty.
"ORIN!"
---
The raid cracked the night open.
Dozens of men burst from the forest with blades and fire. Roofs caught like dry grass. Screams scattered across the square. Chickens flapped wild, dogs snapped their leashes, horses screamed in panic.
Yira shoved two toddlers toward the root cellar. "Stay there. Don't come out." She turned, heart thundering.
And froze.
There he was. Orin, seven years old, charging straight into the firelit chaos like it was a game.
His grin was savage. His little fists clenched. His eyes shone like stars gone wrong.
"Finally!" he shouted.
---
Three bandits noticed him first, gathering near the well.
"Oi, rat!" one sneered, hefting a chipped axe. "Lost your mama?"
The others laughed. One cracked his knuckles. "Let's make him squeal."
Orin licked his lips. "Perfect. Three of you. Don't disappoint me."
The axe swung down. Orin ducked under, teeth snapping onto the man's forearm. Blood spurted, the scream splitting the night.
The second lunged. Orin twisted, drove his fist into the man's groin. The bandit collapsed with a whimper.
The third raised his sword. Orin leapt, clung to his shoulders, and rained fists on his nose until cartilage shattered. The man toppled backward, Orin riding him down, laughing in his face.
The square froze.
A child. Seven years old. Tearing grown men apart like playthings.
---
Yira's stomach knotted. He was grinning through blood.
Orin spat red, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and barked a laugh. "Boring! My sister hits harder than you lot!"
The remaining bandits faltered. Fear crept into their eyes.
From the shadows, villagers whispered.
"Monster."
"Not human."
"Cursed."
---
"ORIN!" Yira screamed, throat raw.
He turned, dripping crimson, and waved at her like they were at a fair. "Look, Sis! They fall like sacks of potatoes!"
"Come back!" she cried. "You'll get yourself killed!"
"Why run when it's fun?!" He darted into another cluster of raiders, fists swinging, cackling like a devil.
Yira's knees shook. She gripped her knife until her knuckles bled. Was she more terrified of the bandits… or of her little brother?
---
Orin threw himself into four more men. One swung a blade—he ducked, bit the man's calf, and yanked him down. Another tried to stomp him—Orin rolled, grabbed a rock, and smashed it into the man's temple.
The third swung wildly. Orin leapt onto his back, heel-kicked the base of his skull, and sent him sprawling.
The last bandit dropped his weapon, stumbling away. "This… this ain't a child."
Orin stood in the glow of flames, shirt torn, blood streaked across his face, laughing like a mad king.
"This is the best night of my life!" he shouted.
---
The ground shook.
A shadow rose through the firelit smoke. The bandit leader.
He was a mountain of scars, bare chest smeared with ash markings that looked like crude wings. Muscles corded like steel cables. His cleaver was an iron slab, heavy enough to cleave a horse in half.
Every step was a drumbeat. Every breath reeked of iron and rot.
His men fell silent, parting like reeds. Villagers dropped their weapons, trembling. A woman sobbed, clutching her child.
"Gods save us," someone whispered.
---
Orin's grin stretched wider. He bounced on his toes like a starving wolf spotting meat. "Finally. Someone who might actually make me sweat."
The leader's voice rumbled like breaking stone. "Brat. You'll be the first to die."
The cleaver swung.
Orin raised both arms to block—but the impact hurled him across the square. Splinters flew as he crashed through a cart. Blood burst from his mouth.
Gasps ripped the air.
"He's dead—" a villager cried.
But slowly… laughter rose.
"Ha… ha… Hahaha!" Orin dragged himself from the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes wild, grin splitting his bloody face.
"Yes! That's it!" He wiped his mouth, spitting red into the dirt. "That's what I wanted!"
He staggered forward, fists clenched, shoulders squared like a warrior twice his size.
The villagers stared, pale and shaking. Yira's lips parted in horror. Her heart screamed stop—but her body refused to move.
And for the first time that night… the bandit leader frowned.