Two down. Three remaining.
"Monster!" the bearded man screamed, fumbling to reload. "Filthy beast—"
Ralvar didn't waste breath on replies. He advanced, and they broke.
One of the outriders ran. Ralvar marked his path and dismissed him. He'd never make it back to human territory alive, not alone in the Wilds.
The other two held their ground. The younger guard drew a short sword with shaking hands while the other finally got his crossbow loaded.
"We have a legal contract," he said, voice cracking. "She belongs to Castellan Vorn. You're—you're harboring stolen property—"
"She is not property." Ralvar's voice was flat. Cold. "She is notyours.And you will die if you take another step toward her."
"The law—"
"Your law means nothing here."
The young guard broke first. He charged with a scream that was more terror than battle cry, sword swinging wild.
Ralvar sidestepped the clumsy blow, caught the guard's wrist, and twisted. Bone cracked. The sword clattered to the ground. He kicked the man in the chest, sending him tumbling back down the slope.
The other man fired.
The bolt took Ralvar in the side.
No—not quite. He'd turned at the last instant, felt the iron tip slice across his ribs rather than punch through them. It hurt vaguely, but he'd endured worse.
He crossed the remaining distance before the man could reload.
"Wait—" he gasped, backing away, crossbow raised like a shield. "Wait, please—"
Ralvar grabbed the crossbow and ripped it from his hands. Grabbed the man's shirt and lifted him clear off the ground.
"You hunted her," he said, very quietly. "You would have dragged her back to a place where she would have died. Worked to death. Used up. Forgotten."
His face was gray with terror. "I was just—following orders—"
"So was the envoy who betrayed my warriors."
He saw understanding dawn in the man's eyes. Saw the moment he realized he wasn't going to survive this.
"Please—"
Ralvar dropped him.
He hit the ground hard, scrambling backward, but Ralvar didn't pursue. He stood over the man, blade dripping, chest heaving, and let the silence stretch.
"Run," he said finally. "Run back to your masters. Tell them the Mountain Clan has claimed her. Tell them—" His voice dropped to a growl. "—that she is under my protection, and I am not merciful."
The pitiful human ran.
Ralvar watched him go, watched the young guard with the broken wrist limp after him, and waited until they disappeared into the trees.
Then the pain hit.
Blood was spreading across his tunic, dark and wet, pulsing with each heartbeat. The wound wasn't fatal—he'd survive worse on training grounds—but it was deep. The bolt had carved a furrow across his ribs, slicing through muscle, possibly nicking bone.
He'd need stitches. Herbs. Rest he didn't have time for.
