“There are no runes! I’m not a king.”
“You’re not? I see a man more worthy of a crown than your king.”
“Don’t speak ill of King Galen.”
“Try saying that with passion,” he mocks, raising an arrogant eyebrow.
I swing my sword with everything I have; the force of my lunge has my boots sinking ankle deep into the ground. He meets my blow with confidence. A deafening clang pierces through the strange time bubble he has created.
For a split second, it shatters. The noise from the real battle wails and slashes through me, shocking me to my core, thrusting me into the chilling cold realization that he’s telling the truth; he’s a time-weaver, and shit, he must have the magic of foresight too.
Zap!The time bubble erects again, but this time, I hear more of the battle outside. It’s not as strong.
“Now you believe me.” He grins, taunting me, but I see the sweat beading on his brow. He’s growing tired. His magic is fading.
I’m not going to enjoy killing him. It is a travesty to kill such a rare creature.
“A wiser man would let me finish our conversation,” he says as if having heard my thoughts.
“I’m a soldier. It’s not my duty to be a wise man.” I move forward, aiming for his chest. “Only a deadly one!”
He blocks it! Dammit!
Our swords clash like two bickering lovers who hate to love each other.
He’s the most skilled fighter I have struck metal with; there are no tricks I can produce that will best him. It will come down to who exhausts first. One small mistake will be the tiebreaker.
I sidestep his swing just in time, but the tip of his blade catches under my arm directly on my armor, where the metal turns to leather, allowing me more movement. Pain blooms, hot and sharp, but it is shallow enough that I can still swing my sword. It will heal slowly. Had I not used all my magic, I could have healed it in an instant.
I drive my knee into his stomach. The blow isn’t strong enough to penetrate his armor, but it shakes his balance.
That’s my opening.
He staggers; his boot slips on the bloody mud. I slash my blade down his exposed arm, cutting deep, to the bone. His sword falls to the ground.
Everything I do next is just a reflex of my training.
I don’t mean to do it.
It’s like blinking your eyes on a windy day; it just happens, a subconscious way to protect yourself.
I step in close, bringing my sword down in a brutal arc, aiming for the weakest spot in his fae armor. They love details. It’s what kills them: all those etchings in the metal surrounding their collars and chest plates weaken the metal. Thinning it, and over time, if you hit it enough, it makes the metal more brittle.
Right as my sword hits the metal, I hear the crack.
I regret it. A part of me feels like my sword has pierced my own heart.
I just did something terrible; I have no idea what the consequences will be yet.
My sword breaks the metal. The rest is so easy, so light to the touch; it’s like sinking my teeth into freshly baked sourdough bread. The armor's outside is hard and crusty, while beneath, his flesh is as soft and airy as bread’s interior—no match for my bite. The taste is tangy, sour; my mind rejoices, because killing him means I get to live. Regret follows instantly, like the guilt after overeating on a strict no-carb diet—you want to vomit, but you don't, knowing it's wrong to start a new sickness. The urge to binge and purge lingers. My mind, convincing as ever, tells me it’s okay: overeat carbs, kill if you must! Feel your heart beat. See, you’re alive. You can walk it off.
I don’t have to push as my sword sank into his heart.
It happens like breathing. Effortlessly.
“I’m sorry!” I choke. I let go of my sword as his flesh and bone now hold it in place. I grab him. He staggers for a moment, and then his knees give out, hitting mine before he falls into my arms.
No, no, no!I want to take it back, reverse time, pull my sword out, and not have his death on my conscience.
