"Unfortunately, the spy managed to escape,
and so the two brothers were forced to return
after capturing the baker and blacksmiths."
・ ・ ・
"What do you think you are doing?"
Storm's eyelids fluttered as he struggled to look up at the sudden figure towering in front of him. Who was it? Who had just spoken? It was a familiar voice, one that was deep and clear and tinged with scornful bitterness.
Dust kicked up around him, tickling his nose. He coughed, fighting to wrench his consciousness from the darkness that shrouded his mind and vision. There was the ground, and a pair of dirt-smeared shoes. A blur of red and brown and white and black.
The crushing weight on Storm's back disappeared, and he gasped, choking and wheezing. Shuffling footsteps, a grunt of disbelief. "Sir—" came Slayen's voice, trembling.
"Silence."
Someone grabbed the back of his collar, and Storm found himself being hauled to the side, tumbling right next to a still figure of white. The sudden action snapped him back to jarring reality, and with it a striking pain as he landed on his wounded shoulder. A plaintive cry escaped his lips. He pressed his palm against the injury, pursing his lips as he forced himself not to sob.
"What do you think you are doing?" The question again, and Storm tried to focus on the silhouette standing over him, pushing down the agony thrumming through his veins.
An impassive frown. Unruly black-white hair. Narrowed lime green eyes, vibrant yet dark.
It was Xenor. It was his brother.
"Brother... where...?" Storm puffed out, the tightness in his chest that he hadn't been aware of uncoiling.
"I leave for a short while," his brother growled, gaze gleaming with murderous tension, "and this is the sort of trouble you get into."
Storm winced, hanging his head as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Guilt sank in his chest, a massive stone in the pits of his guts that made him want to puke. It was his own fault for not being careful enough. He had allowed himself to be recognised by Slayen. He had allowed himself to get wounded, to lose focus, to let the fear overwhelm him. He had even accepted the idea of death. The only reason why he was still alive was because Xenor had arrived and saved him.
Useless. Worthless. He truly was nothing but a burden.
"I'm sorry, Brother..." he murmured, biting his lower lip as he struggled to push down the wet burn behind his eyes.
"Is that going to solve anything?" Xenor spat. Before Storm could speak, he continued, "Why, yes, of course it will. After all, spouting ludicrous nonsense is the only thing you are capable of doing to cover up your messes."
"Brother—"
"I really ought to award you for your stupidity." Smouldering green, a forest on fire. "It is such an overwhelming feat. This should serve as your greatest achievement, showing everyone how insufferably incapable you are."
Storm remained silent, shifting his gaze away. The words whirled in his mind, and he clenched his teeth, eyes watering despite his best efforts to suppress the feeling. A throb in his chest, a breath of anguish. And quietly, he accepted his brother's statements.
They were all true, after all.
He caught sight of Slayen. The murderer was fidgety, expression tense, skin pale. A bead of sweat dripped down his face, and when Xenor clicked his tongue, he flinched, arms raised in front of him like a shield. Wide, wary crimson eyes, pupils dilated. Legs shivering, hands trembling, barely holding on to his daggers. Like a cornered animal, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger.
A flash of surprise. Storm had never seen Slayen look so... afraid.
"Get out of my sight," Xenor suddenly snapped, lips curling into a disgusted scowl. His brother had turned his head, glowering down at him. "You are being a nuisance."
Heart clenching, Storm made a soft noise of agreement and struggled to push himself to his feet. Using his hands as supports, he heaved himself up... until his fingers got tangled in strands of white. He stopped, and like a bolt of lightning, the realisation came that Tesarah was lying next to him, motionless.
Oh no.
He scrambled to her, kneeling at her side. Her wounds were not bleeding as much as they were in the beginning, but still an angry raw red— with how she was lying on the dirt ground, unable to get up, there was a terrible risk of them getting infected. She was clutching his hoodie, barely breathing, eyelids fluttering, gaze faraway. Clinging on to a single thread of life.
Storm tugged her to him, careful not to touch her wounds and aggravate them. She whimpered at the movement, and he pursed his lips. Ran a hand through his hair. It tore him apart to see his dear friend in such a state.
Why had he given up so easily? Why had he given up on her? She did nothing to deserve death at such a young age.
Pathetic. He was pathetic. Incapable, like Xenor said he was. A mere nuisance. He wasn't worthy of her friendship at all.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, swallowing the lump in his dry throat. "Please hold on for a while longer."
"Take her with you," his brother said then. That scowl was still there. "I do not want her repulsive corpse at my back"— green eyes flashed to Slayen, who stiffened up— "while dealing with this dog."
Storm could only nod, heaving Tesarah up as he stood. A stumble, a ripple of pain. He was aching everywhere, and suddenly his friend's body became as heavy as a massive boulder. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to run, only for his insides to flood with agony, ribs straining. Fitful coughs. He barely managed to stop himself from collapsing.
Xenor growled, eyes narrowing. "Hurry up and leave." A violent shove, and Storm grunted, staggering back. "I am being kind enough to help you clean up this ridiculous mess that you so foolishly made. Do not make me repeat myself.
"You are not needed here."
Again, that heart-rending pang. Storm forced it down. With a final glance at Slayen, he turned away, pushing every single thought out of his mind except the thought of getting Tesarah to a cleric. Shook out the pain, the shame, the crippling feeling of helplessness that resided deep within him. They no longer mattered. Everything else no longer mattered.
All that mattered was saving his friend.
And he ran.
Something felt odd.
A rush in his blood. A spark in his vision which gave everything a vague sheen of red. His fingers kept twitching, like they were itching to grasp hold of something. Crush something. Destroy something. It wasn't a feeling he often experienced, but there it was, pounding at the bars of the little cage at the back of his mind.
The little cage where all his dark, malicious intentions were kept— better off locked away if only to preserve his image. His dignity.
Xenor gazed at Slayen. The redhead's movements were jittery, anxious. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Cold sweat rolled down his scarred face. Pale skin. Pursed lips. Nervous hand postures, palms slick.
A step forward. Slayen flinched and stumbled back, breaths raspy, arms up and on guard.
Xenor allowed a brief smile.
That was good.
"Did you enjoy tormenting my dear little brother? I recall hearing your obnoxious laughter." He crossed his arms over his chest. "What was it that you said? Something about annihilating my entire family?"
"Stop fucking playing with me, prince," the redhead hissed. A tremor in his voice. "What do you want?"
"I believe it is quite obvious." Xenor rolled his eyes, and went to check his nails. "Do try using that witless brain of yours for once."
Slayen scowled at him, but said nothing. Face scrunching together, he seemed to be in deep thought, arms lowering. "That shitty brother of yours came to capture me." A crooked smile. "So you must be here to help me."
"Help?" Xenor wanted to laugh. Of all the things that he could have thought of, it had to be the most nonsensical answer. "Is that so?"
The smile fell. The redhead inched back, eyes widening, uncertainty written all over his face. Then the realisation struck, and his skin paled further. "You've gotta be..."
Xenor slipped his daggers out from his sleeves. Another step forward. "Well done, you managed to use your brain. Shall I reward you for the good dog you are?"
Slayen staggered back. "But you said— That time, you—"
"I said I would help you escape from your execution." Twirling the daggers in his hands, Xenor admired their polished surfaces and finely sharpened edges. A pair of true, cutthroat beauties. "That was it." He pointed one at the redhead.
"I never said you would be free from me."
A momentary pause as the words sank in.
Slayen turned and ran.
Xenor gave chase, feeling the corners of his lips curve upwards. Not so long ago, Slayen had been chasing after his brother. He had been the hunter. But now, he was the prey.
And he would never be able to get away.
Remembering Storm made something in Xenor's chest stir. He remembered the wounds littered all over his little brother's trembling body. The dull, haunted look in his teary blue eyes. The air of fear, of defeat. Such an unnatural expression that had been on his face.
Like the one he wore after their mother died in front of him.
The odd feeling returned, roiling, convulsing. A terrible burning sensation. It spurred him on, and he ran faster, brandishing his daggers, focusing solely on Slayen's fleeting figure zigzagging around.
Feints to the right, to the left. Quick turns, dodging into smaller alleyways. A game of cat and mouse, of predator and prey.
They rounded a bend. A flick of the wrist, sending a dagger flying towards the redhead's shoulder. It connected, biting into flesh and spurting blood. Slayen jerked and stumbled, and Xenor used that brief pause in his movements to leap forward.
His feet slammed against the redhead's back. With a cry, Slayen fell, and Xenor ripped his dagger out of his shoulder. A strained hiss. Rolling, the redhead jumped to his feet, only to stumble back when Xenor continued his assault.
Blades spinning.
Sparks flying.
Weapons glinting in the warm afternoon light.
Slayen parried Xenor's daggers, grunting with the force of each blow. And Xenor persisted, tearing into the redhead, spinning, slashing, clashing. A block. Another parry. A counterstroke. Metal screeched as they battled, a furious war cry. There was a thrill, running through his veins, his blood, his bones.
Heart pumping.
Breaths falling.
Shadows dancing as they moved back and forth, a whirl of blades and hands and feet.
The redhead was tiring— Xenor could see it. He was getting overwhelmed. Random movements, aggressive but careless slashes, different from the calculated blows he dealt at the beginning. Trembling legs, barely holding him up as he tried dodging.
Slayen began to suffer multiple injuries, assailed by Xenor's blades. A cut to the face. A slash to the arm.
Cloth tearing. Blood oozing.
There was a sheen of sweat. The smell of salt, of sickly sweet iron. Then a furious bellow, a scream of warning, and a flurry of powerful attacks that would have shattered a normal human's defences.
A last-ditch frenzy? Perhaps.
Eyes glowing. Lips curving.
Futile.
Slash after slash after slash. Heavy gasps, frustrated growls. A block. A parry. A counterstroke.
Xenor ducked down when Slayen stabbed at him. Slapped his palms against the ground, shifted. He twisted his body around, pushed himself up. Foot out, lashing at his opponent. Past the stilled blades, the raised arms. Towards the widening eyes that glittered red.
Crack.
His foot smashed against Slayen's jaw, sending him flying with a pained roar. He landed, tried to get back on his feet once more. And Xenor moved forward, stepping on him, preventing him from getting away. A hefty wheeze elicited from the redhead's lips, which became a choked grunt when Xenor dug his heel into his back.
It was a reversal of roles. Slayen had Storm under his feet only a while ago. Quite the bold act, seeing how he was nothing but a common peasant. Now he was under Xenor's feet. Of course he would be. A smile. For a criminal who had committed the gravest of sins, he could only go lower and lower.
And there he would remain, to be punished, to be used, until the end of time itself.
"Is this all the resistance you can offer?" Xenor said. "Being an Eltros, I had expected you to be more belligerent. More renitent."
"Shut up! Get the fuck away from me!" came the response, vitriolic yet anxious.
Xenor pressed down harder. "Is that any way to treat the one who helped you?" He bent down, nearing Slayen's head. "Do not forget, I am the one who freed you from the chains of the Palace. I am the one who planned your escape. To think you would be so ungrateful.
"I let you off your leash for a brief moment, and you gain the audacity to dare to bite your owner."
The redhead froze. He tilted his head, crimson eyes rounding. Their gazes met, a clash of red and green. Xenor smiled at the flicker of fear in those fiery depths. Raw, cruel, frigid fear. That was the expression he wanted to see.
Fear.
I will make you learn to fear me.
"Y-you can't be fucking serious!" Slayen yelled. He began to struggle, clawing at the dirt, scrabbling to escape. Panic lit up in his eyes like tumultuous fire. "Our deal's already over, dammit! You can't—"
"It is precisely because our deal is over that I can do this." Xenor rolled his eyes. "I believe I told you that you are of great use to me. That is why I helped you escape death in the first place.
"Now, I have come to take you back. And this time, there will be no deal."
The redhead thrashed harder, yelling incoherent words and curses. The desperate fear and indignant fury that radiated from him made Xenor want to laugh once more.
It was such a comical sight, seeing the infamous killer of his parents writhe so hard in the face of a fate that wasn't even death.
"Be a good dog and return to the Palace with me quietly." He grabbed the back of Slayen's collar. Stabbed one of his daggers into the earth right next to the redhead's neck. A thin line, a bead of blood. "Otherwise, you will not be getting away with a few mere cuts."
Slayen stilled and swallowed, eyeing the blade that had been placed so perilously close to his throat. Xenor smirked.
Then footsteps. Loud, thudding, hurried footsteps.
And from the bend in front of them, a blur of yellow and red.
"Slayen!"
It was getting hard to breathe.
Storm gasped, his vision whirling, and he almost collided into a stack of crates. He balanced himself and continued running. Tesarah lay limp in his arms, her pained breathing barely detectable.
His whole body was screaming at him to stop, to calm down, to rest. The wound in his leg throbbed. His shoulder ached. The cuts on his arms stung. And there was something pressing against his lungs. Was it a broken rib? He didn't know.
Run! he told himself. Keep running, even though it hurts.
Tesarah was hurting more than he was. His pain was nothing compared to hers. If Tesarah could hold on despite the severity of her wounds, then he could too. He had to hold on.
For her sake.
But even though he was running with all of his breathless might, he couldn't seem to escape the alleys. It was a massive maze trapping him in, with no clues anywhere in sight as to how to get out. There was only brick and stone and an unimaginable amount of dust and grime.
Where was he? How was he going to get out?
He tried to peer over the tops of the buildings around him, searching for the imposing figure of the Palace in the distance. He had to get to the Palace. He had to get Tesarah to Zana. The Head Cleric would know what to do. She always knew what to do.
A sudden stab of pain up his side, and Storm coughed, his pace faltering, stumbling. Gritting his teeth, he pushed onward, ignoring the warm ache in his chest. Move, move, move! He had to keep moving. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving—
His knees buckled. He fell.
There he lay, crumpled in exhaustion, breathing hard. Tesarah lay in front of him, unresponsive. He tried to reach out to her, pulling himself forward. Quickly— he had to get her to the Palace quickly.
But it hurt so much. Why did it hurt so much?
Every muscle in his body ached. Sweat rolled down his face. Shaky, shallow, rapid breaths. There was only fatigue. He couldn't even muster the energy to sit up. It felt like a great weight had been placed upon him, rendering him incapable of further movement.
And that searing in his chest, like a relentless fire had lit up and was incinerating everything within. His physical, external wounds were like mere scratches compared to the choking feeling inside him.
Why did it hurt so much?
He couldn't do it. He couldn't. Storm bit his lip, his eyes already burning with unwanted tears. How useless he was. How weak. Incapable. Horrid, worthless, pathetic. He couldn't protect a single person. Not his father, not his mother, not even Tesarah, fading away right before him.
He should've disappeared earlier. How he wanted to rest.
Just rest.
A light-headed sensation came flooding in, sending his mind reeling, his vision whirling. His eyelids fluttered. Darkness crept in. And a sense of tranquility like no other, reaching out to him. Beckoning, coaxing, welcoming him into its embrace.
Could he finally—?
"Prince Storm!"
A voice. A rather unfamiliar one. It wasn't his brother's, nor was it Slayen's. Who was it?
"Prince Storm, hey!"
A forceful shake. Everything cleared in an instant. He gasped, blinking, jolting back to startling awareness. Then squinted at the figure crouching at his side, the strong afternoon sunlight hurting his eyes.
He saw green, and immediately a cold fear pulsed within him. Scrambling back, he fumbled with an apology, an excuse, anything to lessen the wrath about to be inflicted upon him. His back hit a wall, and all the breath escaped his lungs. He froze, heart hammering in his chest, body quivering. Until he realised it was green hair, not green eyes.
Green hair paired with warm, worried pupils of brown.
"You okay, sir?" Karza Jewelsmith asked, waving a hand in front of his face.
Storm stared at him. Then he relaxed, almost sobbing. All the tension in his body cleared away, leaving him a giddy mess of relief. It wasn't him. He'd thought it was, but it wasn't. He had to thank the Guardian Spirit for having mercy on him.
"Karza," he said numbly.
"That's me, sir." The boy nodded. "Need some help?"
"I... Yes. Please."
"Okay! Lemme go and grab Tes. Hang on."
Karza crawled over to Tesarah and heaved her onto his back. He stood, gently adjusting his hold on her limp body, before returning to Storm's side. "Is she alright?" Storm asked before the boy could say anything. The girl looked frighteningly lifeless, with her clammy, ashen skin. He couldn't tell at all if she was still breathing.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, she's still breathin'. Don't worry, she's a tough one!" The boy gave him a smile. "C'mon now, sir. Get up. We gotta get ya both to a clinic." He offered a hand.
Storm reached out and took it, and that was when he noticed the long, thin slash across the boy's chest, bleeding red. "You're hurt too..." he gasped. Once more, guilt crashed down on him.
How many more people were going to get injured due to his carelessness?
"Oh, this?" Karza pulled him to his feet, glancing down at his torso. "Nah, this's just a lil' scratch. No biggie." He flashed another bright, reassuring smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "C'mon, let's go!"
The boy began running, and Storm forced himself to move after him, ignoring the tremors of pain that shuddered through his body, the intense clenching in his chest. They continued, Karza turning this way and that, rounding bends with an assured, confident ease.
Down the alleys they went, past the similar walls and other paths that led to everywhere and nowhere. At times, the boy had to heave Tesarah further up his back, and with the action came a few grunts. Staring at him, Storm realised something, amidst his efforts to focus on running.
"How did—" he panted, trying to regulate his strained breathing. "How did you find me? Why are you helping me?"
"Oh," Karza said, glancing back at him, "I just found this weird blood trail on the floor while tryin' to find that jerk Slayen. Thought someone else got hit by him, so I followed it. Then I found you! It was really shockin'.
"And I'm helpin' ya 'cos— hey!"
Storm's vision whirled. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, and the green-haired boy was yelling at him, squatting at his side. He couldn't register a single word, however, for there was a tremendous ringing in his ears that drowned every other noise out.
Bile rose at the back of his throat. Nausea. He wanted to puke.
Then a hand grabbed his collar and heaved him forward, pulled him onward. Storm coughed. A wet cough. He continued to get dragged, and he floundered, attempting to find his footing. But he tripped, he staggered, and his vision waned and momentarily turned white with agony when his injured shoulder was jostled.
"... almost... sir!" It was Karza's voice. "We're... there...!"
And Storm tried to pull himself together even though his body protested against him, yearning for sweet relief.
His sight cleared. Brilliant rays of sunlight. Karza was struggling to pull him along while keeping Tesarah upright on his back.
And there in front of him was the Main Street, bustling with people.
They were finally out of the alleys. Out of the confining maze.
A sudden breath of fresh air. "The Palace—" Storm grasped Karza's shirt. He stumbled to his feet, swaying unsteadily as his head spun from the movement. "Go to the Palace—"
"What? No way, sir! That's too bloody far— ya need a cleric now!"
"But Zana—"
"Nuh-uh! There's a clinic nearby. We're goin' there or I'm draggin' ya there!"
The boy grabbed his wrist, and Storm found himself being lugged down the street rather roughly. A blur of colours, a stentorian clamour. He tried to pull away, but Karza was strong (or perhaps it was his own fatigue and weakness debilitating him), resolutely yanking him forward.
Shallow breaths. Sweat entered his eyes, stinging them. His body burned, legs trembling, arms like lead, on the brink of collapse. "Wait—" Storm gagged. "I need to—"
Chest clenching, throat tightening, stomach roiling.
He couldn't breathe.
Karza didn't stop. He continued, sprinting now, still clenching Storm's wrist and forcing him to run too.
The breathlessness grew worse.
Storm wheezed, trying to take air into his choked lungs, trying to hold his body up and keep running until they reached the clinic, wherever it was. Quick, short breaths. In, out, in, out.
An excruciating spasm throughout his body. Heaving, retching, heart hammering in his ears and threatening to spill from his lips.
Tears.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
He wanted it to stop. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop—
Karza stopped.
Storm crashed into the boy just as he began to yell something, and they tumbled into a dirty heap of blood and wounds and anguished breathing. Another desperate yell. The sound of a door opening.
Shouts.
Cries.
Movement.
Storm felt someone shifting his body. Eyes, lips, hands, feet. Green and brown and blue and red.
White.
Tesarah lay next to him, eyes closed. How peaceful she looked, despite the chaos happening around them. An undisturbed, beautiful flower, like the ones that grew in the gardens. The ones she loved.
He reached out to her, brushing his fingers through her snowy locks.
The pain ebbed away. A brief smile.
Black.
Minara and Yelena Marisoix stood before them, identical expressions of horror etched all over their faces.
Xenor eyed them, noting their flushed faces and shallow breaths. Had they been running around? Likely in search of Slayen.
"The fuck are you doing here?" the redhead trapped beneath him screamed. His skin had paled considerably, terrified eyes darting from Xenor to his sister and friend and back again. "You trying to get yourself fucking killed? Leave!"
The two girls, however, did not respond to him, gaping in wide-eyed disbelief at Xenor. "Yelena," Minara said, "that's Prince Xenor, right?"
The baker next to her reached into her apron's pocket and took out her glasses, putting them on. She squinted for a moment, then said, "Yes, but why is he—? How is he—?"
A pause.
Realisation came over her face.
"Zenny," she whispered.
Xenor twitched, scowling at the crude nickname. 'Zen' had been a good enough alias, but his little brother had to flap his foolish mouth and ruin it. 'Zenny' was so awfully childish, grating on his ears with its lack of maturity and elegance.
Disgusting.
"You're 'Zenny', aren't you?" Yelena asked, glaring at him. "You disguised yourself, like your brother."
Pinching the bridge of his nose (and swearing to cut off her tongue if she so much as uttered that terrible name one more time), Xenor said, "Why, yes. Though, if you must know, I was the one who came up with the idea to disguise ourselves."
"Let my brother go." Minara fidgeted, turning her gaze to Slayen. "Please, Prince Xenor."
"Why should I?" Digging his heel deeper into the redhead's back, Xenor twirled his dagger and checked his nails. "I have already caught him. Letting him go after all my efforts would simply be too tiresome."
"Yelena, hurry up and get Minara the hell away from here," Slayen coughed out before the two girls could say anything. "He'll kill you—"
"No way!" Minara started forward, but Yelena grabbed her hand and pulled her back. "Yelena? Let me go! I need to—"
"I know how you feel, but don't be reckless!" the baker hissed. "He's dangerous, you can't just—"
"He's only, what, fifteen! No way he defeated my brother," the redheaded girl snapped back, jerking her arm away. "He must've used some dirty trick!"
Xenor clicked his tongue. How he detested unnecessary chatter. The whole situation was starting to bore him.
"Fourteen," he corrected, "and if you must know, it was an extremely fair battle." He glanced down at Slayen. Grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. The redhead grunted, straining, and Xenor bent down, gesturing at the bleeding cut on his face. "And remarkably easy, in fact, that it was exceptionally dull."
Minara froze. Yelena paled.
He smiled.
"Get... the fuck... OUT OF HERE!" Slayen roared, his expression twisted into one of frustrated anguish. The two girls flinched at his sudden outburst.
Xenor slammed his head against the ground, eliciting a cry. "Did I give you permission to speak?" He turned his gaze back to the girls in front of him. "Do ignore the gibberish he spouted."
"Don't hurt my brother," Minara sobbed, clenching her fists. "Give him back."
Tilting his head, Xenor crossed his arms over his chest. "Why, if you wish to stay with him, you can follow me back to the Palace." He lifted his dagger, brandishing it at them. A leer.
"So you can be punished for the crime of hiding a wanted criminal."
And Slayen snapped.
"FUCK OFF!" With renewed strength, he heaved himself up, pushing against Xenor's foot. A guttural roar, and he jumped back to his feet. Xenor staggered off him, surprised.
"You're not laying a single fucking finger on my sister!"
Slayen picked up his daggers, kicking away Xenor's that had been stabbed into the ground, and dashed towards his sister and friend. Xenor watched as he grabbed Minara's hand and wrenched her away, bulldozing down the path and around the bend. Yelena ran after them, taking off her glasses in the process.
How protective. Xenor strode to his other dagger and picked it up, dusting off the dirt that coated its edge. He spun his blades once, twice.
But perhaps he will be more entertaining now.
And the chase began once more.
Xenor ran down the path his three targets took, and saw them in the distance. He sped up, stirring the dust around him, zeroing in on the head of red curls leading at the front.
Muscles bunching, strides long, daggers flashing in the sunlight.
Yelena glanced back, saw him, and uttered a cry of warning. A flurry of panic. Slayen stopped in his tracks, shoving her sister forward. Yelling, commands to escape, pleas to follow. Bellowing.
Whatever they said mattered nothing.
Xenor reached the redhead, blades out. And he reciprocated, unleashing a mighty caterwaul.
Metal screeching.
Sparks dancing.
Slayen groaned, attempting to push him back. A battle of raw strength. Edges sliding across each other, a resounding clang. Slashing, again and again and again.
Gritted teeth, blazing eyes, and Xenor grinned.
Whirling, he slammed his blades against Slayen's. The redhead staggered back, and using the momentum of the force, Xenor swung forward. Lashed his foot out. Connected with the side of Slayen's face.
Flying back with a grunt, the redhead barely managed to recover before Xenor was in front of him again, bringing his daggers down. They moved, back and forth, back and forth, jabbing, stabbing, blocking, countering.
Wrists snapping, blood rushing.
The desire to hurt. To harm.
To destroy.
How he adored the thrill of battle.
Xenor locked gazes with Slayen, past their clashing blades. With sweat pouring down his face and his heavy breathing, exhaustion was imminent. But he was still fighting, not like before. There was no fear, only murderous fury and determination. Precise movements, targeted hits, aiming for any and all vital points on a human's body.
Unmatched swiftness, unrivalled dexterity.
The powerful, bloodthirsty instinct to kill.
That was it. That was what Xenor had wanted to see. To battle against first-hand, instead of being a witness from afar like a ridiculous, insolent spectator who knew nothing about the glory of fighting.
The innate battle prowess of the Eltros, the clan once revered as the strongest in all of Argon.
However...
"Not enough."
Slayen's eyes widened. With a stunned cry, he was sent tumbling back after Xenor slipped past his defences and kicked him in the gut.
Choked wheezes, retching, a frenzied desperation to recover.
Blades brandished, Xenor charged forward once more. Blades meeting, pressing down. Then a flick of his wrist, a twist, and he wrenched a dagger from Slayen's grip.
It flew.
Trailing red eyes, rounding in alarm.
And Xenor struck.
An uppercut to the jaw. Then a right hook to the face. A knee to the chest.
Continuous blows. A slash across the chest, a cut to the neck, a stab to the thigh. "Still"— Xenor spun and struck his cheek— "too"— another hook, slicing his arm— "weak!" A final roundhouse, bringing Slayen crashing to the ground.
"You disappoint me, Slayen." He stood over the beaten redhead, who lay groaning and coughing, littered with bloody cuts and throbbing bruises. "What a poor state you are in. What's more, you failed to inflict a single wound upon me." A glance down at his body. Not a single gash in sight. Only grimy skin and ruffled clothes, much to his distaste.
"Y-you... fucking... monster!" Slayen roared, lashing out at him with his remaining dagger. A single upward strike sent it spinning out of his hand with a resonating clash. Xenor kicked him in the face. Stabbed his blade through that very same hand, embedding the tip into the dirt.
An agonised scream.
The redhead choked out strangled noises, expression contorted into one of ugly pain. He grasped the dagger's hilt, but couldn't pull it out. His grip slipped, arm landing with a heavy thump, and he continued to shiver on the ground as red, red blood crept towards him, pouring from the fresh wound in his hand.
"Monster?" Xenor scoffed amidst Slayen's groans. "How impertinent. Who was it who ruthlessly murdered the king and queen?" He stepped on the hilt, shifting the dagger, and there came an anguished whine. "Need I remind you the sin you committed against this kingdom?"
A pebble hurtled towards him.
Xenor deflected it with his other blade, gazing in the direction it came from. And there was Yelena, shakily gripping one of Slayen's daggers. Minara stood a little ways behind her, a pile of rocks in her arms.
"Let... Slayen... go," Yelena said, sweat dripping down her face.
"What authority do you have to dare to order me around?" Xenor raised a brow at her, glancing at the dagger in her hands. How bold of her to wield a weapon against him despite having no experience in fighting.
"I'll use this." The baker glared at him, raising the blade. But her hands continued to tremble, violent tremors that made the weapon almost slip from her grip.
"Then use it." Xenor beckoned her forward. "Attack me."
She didn't move.
"What 's the matter?" Gazing at her steadily with narrowed eyes, he cocked his head. "Were you not going to use it?"
"I—"
"If you are unable to," Xenor said, "then do not make such impetuous statements." He stepped off the hilt of his dagger stabbed through Slayen's hand. "Cease your foolish behaviour and come with me quietly. If not..." A small half-smile.
"... I may have to tend to you the way I dealt with your beloved friend right here."
Yelena stiffened.
And Minara snatched the dagger out of her grasp, the pile of stones she had held in her arms falling to the ground.
With a shaky cry, the redheaded girl charged forward, raising the blade high above her head.
"Minara, no!"
Xenor almost laughed as Minara swung at him, side-stepping out of the way before she could hit him. "You lack your brother's prowess, but it appears you are not as pusillanimous as he is." He spun his own dagger, and batted away another slash. "Nor are you as weak-minded as your friend."
"Go away!" she hissed, stabbing at him. "Leave us alone!"
He dodged again, and held his foot out in front of her. Oblivious, the girl swung at him once more, only to trip over his foot and stumble forward with a cry. He shifted in front of her just as she was about to fall, and jabbed her in the gut, keeping his blade away from her flesh.
A choke. Down she went, coughing, heaving, curling into a ball as she clutched her stomach.
"MINARA!"
Xenor glanced back and saw Slayen sitting up with the help of Yelena, cradling his injured hand. His expression was stricken, eyes darting in search of something. His weapons, perhaps, seeing how he was unarmed.
And hence vulnerable.
"Who told you to get up?" Xenor started towards them. "You will stay down until I tell you to get up."
"Stay back!" Yelena yelled. "Slayen, get up." She tugged at the redhead's arm, pulling him to his feet. "Get up! Go!"
"Are you fucking—"
"Go! I'll deal with him—"
"Like hell I'm leaving! Minara's—"
"Who he wants is you, and you're injured. Minara will be fine, I'll take care of her. Just go!"
Xenor watched as they bickered. It was amusing, the way they could still engage in such worthless chatter despite the situation they were in. Was this the sort of thing friends did together? If so, he doubted he would ever be able to understand or tolerate it. The senseless loyalty. The undying faith.
Friends were meaningless. Nothing but hindrances.
And yet there was a twinge in his chest that wouldn't go away.
Perhaps I inhaled something, he mused, checking his nails as he waited for the two in front of him to end their silly exchange. With the repulsive environment here, that wouldn't be too surprising. I will have Zana perform a check-up on me when I return.
"If you are quite finished," he said, rolling his eyes at Slayen and Yelena, "I will be taking all three of you back to the Palace with me now. If I have to spend one more minute in this repugnant dump, I might stab another hand."
Yelena clenched her fists, lips clamming shut. Slayen pulled his wounded hand closer to his chest, edging away. "Go," the baker pleaded, pushing him back.
"How disobedient." Xenor spun his dagger, eyes narrowed at them. "No one will be going anywhere except with me."
And he moved, rushing towards them with his blade flashing at his side. Slayen flinched and began to flee, movements staggering, whilst Yelena leapt in front of Xenor, arms out to block him.
A feeble attempt.
Twisting, Xenor struck the baker across the face with the back of his hand. She tumbled to the side, then suddenly snagged the sleeve of his jacket. Pulling, she struggled to halt his advance, teeth gritted and face scrunched.
Weak.
Xenor kicked at her shin, sending her down to one knee. A vicious slap, and she finally let go with a yelp. He started forward again, eyeing Slayen's retreating figure down the path, until his leg was grabbed.
Looking down, there was Yelena, clinging onto his ankle like a lifeline.
Annoyance flared within. She was acting very much like a vile cockroach that would not die no matter how many times it was hit. "Unhand me," he growled, shaking his leg. He almost got her off, until she clasped the hem of his trousers, pulling once more.
I swear to—
Xenor lashed out at her face, his grabbed foot connecting with her jaw. The baker groaned, blood oozing from a cut on her lip, but refused to let go.
He scowled. If it was a death wish she was asking for, he would gladly grant it.
So he continued kicking, bashing the sides of her head and her cheeks and her shoulders. But she withstood it all, eyes squeezed shut, grip tightening.
There was a strange sense of déjà vu at his predicament, but the feeling was shut down in an instant. He was going to snap if her adamance continued any longer. He had been trying to hold back since a dead body was a hassle to clean up, but with the way she was getting on his nerves, perhaps he should have turned her into one from the beginning.
"I told you to unhand me!" A final hard kick, and Yelena let go at last, lying unconscious on the ground.
Xenor stepped away from her, glowering. He had wasted enough time dealing with her. Slayen had already disappeared from sight, but perhaps if he—
Then a flash of fire and ruby, and he turned to see Minara, brandishing something in his face. A small red can. A little red cap.
A click.
The sound of something spraying.
And the world began to burn.