Kael advanced with his longsword raised.
Miles met him, war-hammer slick with blood. A tense silence spread. One raider nocked an arrow, fingers shaking at the sight of the black-armoured Dread Sentinel.
Their eyes met.
A flick of Kael's left wrist—
Whunk!
The hurled hand-axe buried itself in the archer's face. Blood sprayed; the body fell.
"Hold the line—attack!" Miles barked.
Hammer and sword crashed together, sparks leaping. The blow numbed Kael's arm: a slow but brutally strong third-rank maul fighter. Kael let the clash hang, then stepped back; Miles staggered forward—
Crunch!
A mailed fist flattened Miles's nose. The man barely kept his footing, spitting crimson.
"That dog, Garland, planted a monster in our crew," he snarled.
Before Kael could answer, Miles shouted, "Douse him!"
His allies popped glass vials and flung a shimmering fluid. Holy water. Where it struck, Mil's wounds sealed. Where it hit Kael, his steel hissed and smoked— Light's bane to a child of the Boon of Dusk.
Pain stabs the bed mind rather than the flesh. Kael's voice chilled.
"You bought all that just for me."
"Quick study," Miles sneered.
Mail was melting. The brigands smirked, sure that victory was theirs.
"Irritating," Kael muttered—and sprinted away.
"He's running?" Miles blinked, then chased. The Sentinel could not be allowed to reach the guild.
Yet Kael was not fleeing; he veered to the dead bowman, rammed a gauntlet through the corpse, and invoked Umbral Draw. Metal knit itself; vigor flooded back.
"More holy water—stop him draining!" Miles yelled. A brigand hefted a bottle—an axe whirled, shattering it and pinning the man's hand to his chest.
Kael flashed among them: a double palm-clap crushed one skull; a punch caved another's ribs. In heartbeats, only Miles remained.
"We fought for four years," the bronze merc coughed. "They died like flies…"
Kael raised his blade.
"Born killer," Miles spat. "No form, just instinct—lucky devil." He emptied the last vial over himself and braced.
Kael leapt. His shadow blotted the sun; Miles squinted up.
"Damn—"
Steel plummeted. The longsword split chain pressed toward Miles's heart; he caught the edge bare-handed, sinews bulging. Slowly, the point drove deeper until it kissed the core. Life leaked from his eyes.
"Finished," Kael judged, emotionless—though the dark wolf within licked its chops.
He scanned the clearing: corpses, red pools.
"Anyone alive?"
A rustle—Leon the dwarf crawled out, white as chalk.
"Is it over?"
Kael nodded.
"The priestess—she's breathing!"
Lira lay gasping, arrow in breast, skin grey.
"Need holy water—" Leon fumbled.
"Too late," Kael said. Black toxin coated the shaft: poison, paralysis, chest wound. A miracle she lingered at all.
Hearing them, Lira opened her eyes. Sweat streamed; Kael wiped it away with surprising gentleness. Leon stared, baffled.
"Please," she rasped, "don't take my soul."
"I won't," Kael vowed. "Your body goes home to the Church."
"Name?" she whispered.
"Kael. Yours?"
"Maria." (She used her baptismal name.)
"Last wish?"
She tried to pray; he stopped her. "Your god can listen after. Speak to the living now."
Maria pressed a faintly glowing ring into his palm. "Use…this."
"I will."
She smiled and slipped away. Her soul drifted upward.
Kael turned to Leon. "We need to prepare. Gather everything worth coin—or proof."
Blades, coins, shattered vials, mercenary plates—evidence and leverage, scattered like leaves.