"Thought you'd play hero?" the scarred man snarls, blood dripping from his split lip. "Big mistake, boy."
Through the haze of pain, Evran's training screams at him. He's outnumbered, outmatched. He needs an advantage, needs something—
The dagger. The small blade he keeps in his boot, the one he'd retrieved from his old belongings after arriving here. He'd started carrying it while working in the gardens, thinking of it as a tool for cutting stubborn roots or rope. But it's a weapon, and right now that's what he needs.
He drops, pretending to be more hurt than he is, and his hand finds his boot. The dagger slides free, small but sharp, and as thetall man reaches for him again, Evran surges upward and drives the blade into the man's reaching arm.
The man screams, jerking back, blood welling around the blade. The scarred man swears viciously, but there's new wariness in his eyes now. Evran has proven he's not helpless, that he'll fight back.
"Evran!" Eira's voice breaks through the chaos. She's finally moving, running toward the stronghold, her voice rising in a scream for help.
"Get the guards!" Evran shouts after her, then has to duck as the shorter man swings at his head.
The next few seconds are a blur of motion and pain. Evran isn't trained for this—isn't prepared for real combat where the goal is to hurt and disable rather than practice forms. But desperation and protective fury drive him forward. He slashes with the dagger, keeping them at a distance, using footwork Kellin taught him to avoid their grasping hands.
He manages to cut the shorter man across the arm, drawing a howl of pain. But there are still three of them and only one of him, and he's tiring quickly. His lungs burn, his movements growing slower.
The scarred man catches his wrist—the one holding the dagger—and twists brutally. Evran cries out as pain shoots up his arm, but he doesn't drop the blade. Instead, he drives his knee into the man's stomach, breaking the grip.
But that leaves him open to the tall man, who's managed to bind his wounded arm and is back in the fight. Something hard crashes into the side of Evran's head—a fist or an elbow, he can't tell—and stars explode across his vision. He staggers, trying to keep his feet, trying to keep the dagger between himself and his attackers.
"Should've minded your own business," the scarred man snarls, and there's a glint of metal in his hand now. He has aknife of his own, longer and more wicked than Evran's small blade.
Evran backs up, but his foot catches on something—a basket or a tool—and he goes down hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. The scarred man looms over him, knife raised, and for a horrible moment Evran is certain this is how it ends.
Then a voice cuts through the chaos like a whip crack: "Drop your weapons!"
Guards. Finally. Two of them come running down the path from the stronghold, weapons drawn, and behind them Evran can see more coming. The travelers see them too, and calculation crosses the scarred man's face.
"This isn't over," he spits at Evran, then he and his companions are scrambling for their horses.
The guards reach Evran as the travelers mount up and spur their horses toward the northern pass, clearly deciding that fleeing is better than facing Drakarri warriors. Two guards peel off in pursuit while the other two kneel beside Evran.
"Are you hurt?" one of them asks—a woman with kind eyes and gray-threaded hair. "Can you stand?"
Evran tries to take stock of himself. His head throbs where he was hit, his ribs ache from the punch to his stomach, and his wrist burns where it was twisted. But he's alive, and more importantly—
"Eira," he gasps. "Is she—"
"I'm here," Eira's voice comes from nearby, shaking but whole. "I'm alright. You protected me."
Relief floods through him so intensely it makes him dizzy. She's safe. That's all that matters.
"Let's get you back to the stronghold," the guard says gently. "You're bleeding."
Evran touches his head where he was hit and his fingers come away red. He stares at the blood for a moment, everythingcatching up with him at once. The adrenaline that kept him moving is draining away, leaving behind pain and exhaustion.
"Can you walk?" the other guard asks.
"I think so," Evran says, though when he tries to stand his legs feel unsteady. The guards help him up, supporting him on either side, and they begin the slow walk back to the stronghold.
Eira stays close, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock and what might be admiration. "You fought them off," she says, her voice full of wonder. "You fought three men to protect me."
"Couldn't let them hurt you," Evran manages, though talking makes his head throb worse. "You're my friend."
The simple declaration makes her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back and nods firmly.
Word of the attack has apparently spread quickly, because by the time they reach the stronghold, people are gathering. Leona appears from somewhere, her expression shifting from concern to determination as she sees Evran's condition.
