The summons came two days after my breakthrough in the yard. It wasn't to my father's study, but to Garrick's command tent. When I entered, the flap closing behind me and shutting out the morning sun, I found the captain hunched over the same large map of the County, flanked by Sergeant Pike and two other veteran guards. They all looked up as I entered, and for the first time, there was no awkwardness, no hesitation. They simply nodded, acknowledging my presence as one of their own.
"My lord," Garrick began, his voice its usual gravelly tone. "The scouting party confirmed your theory." He tapped a newly marked position on the map, not far from the patrol route I had advised against. "A sizable nest of Razor-backed Grocs, tucked into the base of the canyon. Too close to the new ridgeline path for comfort. The Count wants them exterminated before they can threaten the trade road."
Razor-backed Grocs. I remembered the entry on them from the novel. Vicious, boar-like beasts with thick, bony plates on their backs and a temperament like a lit fuse. They were a standard threat in the West, a rite of passage for new guards and a persistent nuisance for everyone else.
"What's our approach?" I asked, stepping closer to the map.
Garrick, a warrior who had achieved the rank of Master, looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. He was including me. "They're most aggressive at midday when the sun warms their hides. We could draw them out into the open, but their charge is difficult to break. Or, we could engage them in the canyon. Tighter quarters, but it negates their momentum."
I leaned in, my mind racing through descriptions of Groc behavior I'd read. "They're territorial, but lazy," I said, thinking aloud. "They won't chase a perceived threat too far from their nest. But they're also pack hunters. If we try to lure them out, we'll only get the most aggressive ones. The rest will stay back and wait." I traced a line on the map. "We go in. Hard and fast. The tight quarters will bunch them up and stop them from flanking. It's riskier, but it ensures we get them all."
Pike grunted in agreement. "The lad's right. A clean sweep is the only way to be sure."
Garrick stared at the map for a long moment, then gave a single, decisive nod. "Then that's the plan. We ride in one hour."
The journey to the northern canyons was tense and quiet. I rode beside Garrick, the comfortable camaraderie of the training yard replaced by a grim, professional focus. This was no longer a game of wooden swords. I could feel the low thrum of anxiety in my own chest, a cold counterpoint to the steady, powerful rhythm of my two hearts. This was my first real test. All the theories, all the practice—it all meant nothing if I couldn't perform when lives were on the line.
We dismounted at the mouth of the canyon, the air already thick with a foul, musky scent. The plan was simple: a shield wall of five guards at the front, with me and Pike just behind them as strikers, and Garrick commanding from the rear.
As we moved deeper into the narrow canyon, the grunts and snorts of the beasts echoed off the rock walls. Then, we rounded a sharp bend, and the nest came into view. It was a hellish scene. At least a dozen of the creatures, each the size of a pony with a wicked set of tusks and a back ridged with plates of sharp, dark bone, were lazing around a muddy, blood-soaked clearing.
One of them spotted us. It let out a piercing squeal, and in an instant, the entire pack was on its feet, their beady, malevolent eyes fixed on us.
"Shields!" Garrick roared.
The five guards in front slammed their heavy tower shields into the ground, creating a wall of steel and wood. I drew a breath, syncing my mind to the Two-Heart Cadence as the ground began to tremble under the force of the Groc charge.
They hit the shield wall with the force of a battering ram. The sound was a deafening crash of bone on steel. The guards grunted, their boots digging into the earth as they held the line.
"Pike! Lancelot! Now!"
We moved. Pike surged forward on the right, his heavy axe swinging in a brutal arc. I moved left, into the gap between two shields. A Groc, momentarily stunned from its impact, turned its head towards me, its mouth open in a furious snarl.
This was it. No time to think. Only instinct.
Thump-THUMP.
I flowed with the rhythm, my body coiling and uncoiling in a single, fluid motion. I didn't aim for the thick armor on its head. I aimed for the softer spot just behind its foreleg, a weak point the book had mentioned. My fist shot out, wrapped in the shimmering blue light of a Rhythmic Infusion.
The impact was nothing like hitting wood or stone. There was a wet, sickening crunch as the resonant pulse of my strike bypassed the thick hide and shattered the bone and organs beneath. The beast let out a choked, gurgling sound and collapsed sideways, dead before it hit the ground.
Adrenaline, hot and sharp, surged through me. It worked. It actually worked.
The battle devolved into a brutal, close-quarters melee. The guards held the line, their spears and swords finding gaps in the Groc's defenses, while Pike and I acted as shock troops, striking down any beast that lingered too long on the shield wall. I moved in a blur, my cadence a steady rhythm in the heart of the chaos, my infused strikes landing with a brutal, bone-shattering efficiency.
We were winning. But the Grocs were frenzied.
It happened in an instant. A massive, alpha Groc, larger than the rest, slammed into the shield wall with such force that it sent one of the guards stumbling back. It was Rolan, the young, eager soldier I'd sparred with. His shield arm was knocked wide, his footing lost on the slick, bloody ground. He fell backward, his eyes wide with terror as the alpha lowered its head, tusks gleaming, ready for the killing blow.
"Rolan!" Garrick bellowed.
There was no time. The alpha was too close. The other guards were locked in their own fights.
My body moved before my mind could even process the choice. I pushed off the canyon wall, my Adept-level power surging in time with the cadence for a burst of speed I didn't know I possessed. I crossed the ten feet in a heartbeat, placing myself between Rolan and the charging beast.
The alpha was a wall of muscle and bone, its tusks aimed straight at my chest. I didn't try to stop it. I dropped low, the world slowing down as the Two-Heart Cadence thrummed in my ears. As its head passed over me, I drove my fist upward in a perfect, desperate execution of Rhythmic Infusion, aiming for the unarmored throat.
Thump-THUMP.
The impact was like punching a mountain. The force of the blow traveled up my arm, but the resonant pulse did its work. I felt the creature's vertebrae shatter. Its charge stopped dead, and the massive beast collapsed in a heap, its head lolling at an unnatural angle, nearly crushing me beneath it.
The clearing fell silent. The remaining Grocs, seeing their alpha fall, broke and fled back into the deeper caves.
I stood there, panting, my fist dripping with blood—mine and the monster's. Rolan was on the ground behind me, staring up at me with wide, grateful eyes. The other guards were looking at me, not with the grudging respect of the training yard, but with the stunned, absolute reverence of men who have just been saved.
Garrick strode over, his gaze taking in the dead alpha, then me. His aura, the enhanced, steady pressure, was calm, but his eyes held a sharp, appraising light.
"Good instincts, my lord," he said.
I looked at the carnage around us, the adrenaline slowly beginning to fade. This was real. These were real lives. And I had just saved one. This was what it meant to change the story—not just winning spars for my own pride, but standing between the people I cared about and the bloody end that had been written for them. The weight of that was terrifying. And the satisfaction was deeper than anything I had ever known.