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Agnar pushes the dead man off his blade, and the earth swiftly carries that body away too. As he stalks toward the other earth user, his eyes burn with lethal glee. “You’re not strong enough to scrub the dirt from my boots.”

The bandit screams as Agnar strikes him down. Blood pours onto the soil, streaming toward the ditch.

After that, silence reigns save for the final struggles of the men dying in the dirt.

Agnar takes stock of the field and releases a derisive snort. Then, with a gesture, he calls upon dust to scrub the blood and gore from his blade before slinging the residue away.

That done, he whirls to look at me.

My breathing stops.

For one awful moment, I spy a deep emotion behind his eyes that terrifies me more than the bandits did. More than the arrow in my shoulder. More than the thought of my father finding out I failed.

Joy.

He loved killing these men.

I’ve seen men fight before. Soldiers drilling in the palace yards. Guards breaking up tavern brawls. Tournament champions performing for crowds. The Graywatch navigating through streets with their cold efficiency.

This is different.

Today, I witnessed violence stripped of everything except purpose, akin to a rockslide destroying everything in its path.

Then Agnar blinks, and the darkness recedes.

He’s a regular man again. Tired and blood-soaked, but human.

Descending the road, he reaches for me, but I flinch, scooting backward, unable to stand the thought of his gory hands on me after they slaughtered so many. If he’s capable of all that, what’s he going to do to me?

“We need to get the arrow out.” He points at the broken shaft poking out of my flesh.

Somehow, in the midst of everything, I had forgotten about my injury, the pain having grown dim and far away. “You just killed twelve men.” I doubt it’s wise to treat him like a monster right after he saved me, but I can’t keep the horror from my voice.

“They weren’t real men. They were slavers. They were going to hurt you.” He utters the statements as if the truth is obvious. “Now keep still.”

He examines the wound with gentle hands, his fingers probing the exit point with startling care, his touch incongruous with the coppery stench clinging to him. “It missed the bone. Went through clean in the muscle. But this is going to hurt.”

Shock helps me pretend like the wound belongs to somebody else. “Just do it.”

“On three. One—” His finger jams into the entrance wound at the same time that he yanks the arrow through from the back.

I scream as pain tears through me, and my body disintegrates into an agonized haze. It feels like he ripped half my chest out.

“Sorry. I was never very good with numbers.” He doesn’t sound sorry. In fact, the bastard’s almost laughing.

My vision swims. Gray at the edges, threatening to go black. I swallow constantly to avoid puking as acid burns my throat.

“Stay with me.” Agnar’s command slices through the fog. “Don’t pass out. I need you conscious.”

I force my eyes open.

He kneels in front of me, one hand pressing cloth against the entry wound. Blood soaks through immediately, bright red against the pale fabric. He has bandages? Why doesn’t that surprise me?

“It’ll stop soon.” The darkness no longer shows in his expression. “Head between your knees if you’re going to faint. I’m not done yet.”

I observe him while he works. “Who are you?” My voice rasps, my throat torn from all the screaming. This same man blew up another man’s skull and suffocated four others with dirt, all while displaying god-like elemental powers and expert swordsmanship that rivals Meridia’s greatest generals.

Agnar’s hands pause for a moment, then continue wrapping my shoulder. “Someone I’m trying not to be.”