Shattered Line

Chapter 1: The Beginning or the End?

She shrugged. "Yeah, I'm a failure. But I doubt that explains your constant need to chase me." Isla curled her fingers then unfurled them, repeating the action. "So then explain to this poor fool, why you're here?"

Skye remained silent, instead, he raised his arm and exposed his palm. The spot before him glowed a faint white. The glare strengthened, illuminating the woods.

Isla watched, steadfast and unflinching at the surge of light. One mistake, and she forfeited her life to Skye.

The eye-numbing radiance faded. Her eyes adjusted, outlining Skye's creation against the black backdrop, an unsheathed short sword filling his grasp.

She lowered her body, training her gaze. Yet, her instincts screamed retreat. But how could she? Skye would skewer her in two, leaving her corpse for a stray Demon's feast.

Isla clenched her teeth and reached beneath her cloak. She caressed the cold dagger's hilt, awaiting Skye's attack.

But instead, he rotated the blade and pierced the ground with it. For a second, Skye stared, his mask spotless. He afforded no clue in interpreting his purpose. What was his plan?

Finally, a yellow hue exuded from his skin, enveloping him. The intensity grew before Skye disappeared, leaving her and the sword behind.

He posted a bounty for her head, but now he helps? Again, his confusing methods stumped her. One day he kills her; the next, he saves her.

She ignored furthering her thoughts, instead, Isla rushed the weapon, yanking the blade from its earthen tomb. The leather entwined hilt and the blade's heft yielded comfort. A grin crept to her face at the polished and clean surface. Armed and ready, now the counter begins.

The trudging behind her ceased. Turning, Isla counted the two former comrades accompanying the dead man and four add-ons. The new interlopers wore a similar styled black cloak, however, masks concealed their faces, offering either a receding hairline or bald top to pair. Torchlight highlighted their protective light armor covering their chests with their legs bared free. Yet, all other observations lacked luster when compared to the obvious scratch and rust marks marring their trade's tool.

Isla sighed, more amateurs.

"You'll be payin' for what ya did. Put that weapon down and we won't take our time slaughter' ye," growled the traitorous knave while his comrades inched forward, their formation split.

"Ganging up on a single girl, you do call yourselves men, right?" She weakened her grip, the sword teetering on her fingertips.

"Shut ye mouth. This yer last chance, put it down," he roared.

She switched sword arms, the heft invoking a throb. "You know what? You're right. I'll make this easy." Isla stooped and planted the weapon. Her attention flickered from one man to the next, from their postures to their minute reactions.

Still hunched, her free hand slipped into her cloak and she paused.

Her nearest enemy swatted air and rubbed his face, both eyes closed. Isla grasped the dagger's hilt and flicked the dagger from her inner pocket.

The projectile swooped headlong, piercing the throat of the distracted foe. His knees crumpled and his face kissed the ground.

Without hesitation, she lifted herself and her weapon. Isla pivoted, swapping weapon hands and returned to the woods.

"Kill her!"

Their stomping morphed into softened steps, and she spared a glance. Only two men followed, their hulking bodies swerving around the tree trunks.