Ashren forced himself upright.
The world swayed, but he tightened his grip on the sword, fingers slick with blood and sweat.
Vorrek watched him carefully now.
No laughter.
No mockery.
Only focus.
“You’re still standing,” Vorrek said.
“Most don’t.”
Ashren exhaled slowly, steadying his breath.
“I will fight you.”
Vorrek’s eyes narrowed.
He moved.
Steel clashed against steel.
Ashren met the strike head-on this time—blade ringing as he
redirected Vorrek’s swing rather than blocking it outright. Sparks
jumped. The impact jolted his arms, but he held.
He stepped inside Vorrek’s reach, slashing toward the ribs—
Vorrek twisted just enough.
The blade cut armor, not flesh.
Still close.
Still dangerous.
Vorrek retaliated with a brutal backhand slash.
Ashren ducked—barely—and rolled, coming up on one knee.
He struck upward.
The sword bit into Vorrek’s forearm.
Blood splattered the dirt.
A sharp hiss escaped Vorrek’s lips.
The Night Hunters stirred.
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Ravenn’s eyes gleamed faintly.
Ashren didn’t press forward recklessly.
He knew better now.
He circled, breathing hard, letting Vorrek’s weight work against him.
You’re faster than him.
But he only needs one clean hit.
Vorrek adjusted his stance.
“You’re trained,” he admitted.
“Not enough—but not nothing.”
Ashren tightened his jaw.
“My uncle taught me how to survive.”
Vorrek charged again.
This time Ashren didn’t retreat.
He stepped in.
Blades crossed, locked.
Muscle strained against muscle.
Ashren’s arms shook—but he twisted, broke the lock, and slammed his shoulder into Vorrek’s chest.
The larger man stumbled back a step.
Just one.
But it was enough.
Ashren followed with a fast diagonal cut.
Vorrek blocked—
—but too slow.
The blade sliced across his side.
Another wound.
Deeper.
Blood ran freely now.
Silence fell over the clearing.
Vorrek wiped the blood from his fingers and stared at it.
Then at Ashren.
“…You’re persistent.”
Ashren’s vision blurred at the edges.
His breaths came shorter.
Not from fear.
From exhaustion.
Every strike was heavier now.
Every step slower.
His body was beginning to lag behind his intent.
Vorrek saw it.
And smiled—not cruelly.
Knowingly.
He advanced again.
This time, Ashren blocked the first strike—
But the second slipped through.
A hard kick slammed into Ashren’s thigh.
His leg buckled.
He caught himself with the sword, barely staying upright.
Vorrek didn’t rush.
He waited.
Ashren tried to raise the blade again.
His arm trembled.
His fingers burned.
Still… he lifted it.
“I’m not done,” Ashren said through clenched teeth.
Vorrek nodded once.
“Neither am I.”
The final exchange was fast.
Too fast.
Ashren dodged the first swing.
Deflected the second.
But the third—
A heavy, precise strike—slammed into Ashren’s shoulder, rattling bone.
The sword flew from his grasp.
Ashren staggered back.
Tried to move.
His legs didn’t answer.
He dropped to one knee.
The world tilted violently.
Vorrek stood over him, breathing hard, wounded—but steady.
Ashren looked up at Elara.
She was crying.
He tried to smile.
“I will....” he whispered.
His strength finally gave out.
Ashren collapsed forward.
The dirt rushed up—
Then nothing.
Ravenn raised his hand.
“Enough.”
Vorrek stepped back immediately.
Ravenn dismounted and approached, studying Ashren’s unconscious form.
Not disappointed.
Not amused.
Thoughtful.
“…He pushed you,” Ravenn said.
Vorrek exhaled.
“Yes.”
Ravenn’s gaze lingered on Ashren.
“He fought knowing he couldn’t win.”
“That makes him dangerous.”
He straightened.
“Carry him.”
Vorrek hesitated only a moment—then lifted Ashren carefully.
To be continued…
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