Corvus watched in silence as Ewan and Bran traded words. He had been sure that Ewan would not waver, yet something subtle shifted in Ewan's posture the moment peerage was mentioned.

  For an instant, everything fell still. Neither Bran nor the others made any further plea. Perhaps they had surrendered their fate to kismet, or because they knew their task was already done.

  Years of experience had honed Corvus's senses sharp enough to detect bloodlust, particularly when aimed his way. He had felt flickers of it from Ewan before, but he knew its target was not him.

  Suddenly, Ewan's bloodlust spiked. Corvus could not tell who it was meant for—but he noticed Ewan's back stiffening. Instinctively he leapt back just as Ewan whirled and slashed at him.

  Landing a few feet away, Corvus noticed Ewan's shortswords. One was spotless, having sliced only through his cloak, the other's tip though was painted red. Corvus looked at his abdomen, there was no sign of a wound or even blood.

  Then Ewan flicked his bloody sword, scattering crimson droplets on the ground. Almost in tandem, a deep gash opened beneath Corvus's chest. A heartbeat later came the warmth—his blood seeped through the fabric, slow but unrelenting.

  Ewan's eyes, stripped of their usual light, held only a vacant, ruthless calm.

  In a low measured voice, he said, "Vice-Captain Corvus, please surrender. I assure you, the Oathkeepers will do you no further harm. As for the Velmoria... I cannot make promises on their behalf; perhaps they'll offer a bargain..."

  "...The bottom line is, there is no victory to be had against the Oathbounds. Not tonight."

  Corvus went pale as bile churned in his stomach, threatening to spill from his mouth, and blood bubbled in his throat. He spat a mouthful of blood, then wiped his face.

  Anchoring Kharos in the road, he pressed one hand to the wound and pointed the other at Ewan: "Are you certain, Captain Ewan, that I'm against the Oathbounds—and not a pack of treacherous ingrates."

  Nausea dulled his senses and made it taxing to speak, yet Corvus added, "Some Oathkeepers you are... showing your true colors at the first sliver of opportunity."

  Ewan stated with a blank expression, "Some things are bigger than one's kingdom, one's people...and one's oath."

  With each passing moment, the ground beneath Corvus was tainted with rich crimson as blood dripped from his wound. The Oathkeepers merely had to wait until he was too weak to resist—and Corvus knew this.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Maybe Ewan will honor his word this time. But the others? Can he speak for them? Who can say if I won't be quietly murdered in my sleep? Even if nobody would benefit from my death, I'm sure that wretched brunet would salivate at the thought.

  Scrutinising Ewan's deadpan face, Corvus concluded, That leaves only one viable option: flight.

  Corvus grabbed Kharos from the ground. Leveling the glaive at Ewan, he asserted, "I will fight!"

  "I knew you are not one to go down without a fight, that's why I struck first," Ewan replied in a calm, almost cordial tone. "You have my respect."

  His vacant eyes instantly ignited as he ordered: "Charge!"

  At the edge of Corvus's vision, Bran's grin flashed—snide and eager. A rage sparked within Corvus far surpassing anything he felt for the rest of the Oathkeepers combined.

  He dies.

  Seizing the initiative, Corvus lunged forward and hurled Kharos at Ewan. The glaive's twin blade spun through the air; its reach long, its edges merciless. Only those proficient with it—or beings of superhuman acumen—could stop it mid-flight.

  Ewan barely managed to dodge. His proximity to Corvus forced him to dive farther than intended.

  Corvus pivoted on his heel and sprinted toward the woods. Immediately, two arrows shot at him—one grazed his thigh, the other buried itself deep in his shoulders.

  He let out a sharp yelp.

  His stunt had also failed to slow Bran, who had ample space to read the glaive's trajectory and dodge easily.

  Without hesitation, Bran chased after Corvus. The other two Oathkeepers followed, though more reluctantly. For they had noticed something Bran had not.

  Corvus veered off the road and into the forest, but his pace was slowed by his wounds. Behind him, Bran charged frantically at him, the distance closing fast.

  Unfazed by the footsteps drawing near, Corvus raised his hand in the air as he ran. An odd gesture that Bran, lost in bloodlust, failed to question.

  Almost upon Corvus, Bran grew ecstatic at the prospect butchering the man who once belittled him. Shouts echoed from behind, but Bran heard nothing. He was too fixated at his prey—too engrossed in his own reverie—to pay them any heed.

  Just you wait bastard, I'll make sure that damn tongue of yours is put to its rightful place—beneath my foot.

  Within an arm's reach, Bran's disdain reflected on his face—something twisted and feral. His eyes shot wide, teeth bared, and tongue lolling, as he hissed, "Vice-Captain Corvus Ashford of—"

  Thud. His lifeless body dropped.

  Corvus slowly lowered his hand. Kharos had returned to its master, bathed in scarlet. His lips curled slightly upward.

  The space between Corvus and the Oathkeepers widened; he kept running at the same pace but the latter faltered. Their gazes fixed at Bran Locke's fallen corpse.

  The kill owed itself to Kharos's insidious design. Forged with a deceptive recurve, the glaive carried a boomerang-like attribute. If wielded with precision, it would always pivot back to its intended location. In Corvus's hands, that precision became mastery. And mastery, an art.

  Bran's rash, maniacal rush put him directly in the path of Kharos' returning arc. The glaive, spinning like a silver disc of death, severed his head clean in two.

  Now, the Oathkeepers spared only a single, somber glance at their fallen brethren, then resumed the chase in earnest.