Elira stirred, her eyes fluttering open. The cold moonlight washed over the clearing, and the first thing she saw was Lucan — surrounded by four men in crimson cloaks, his blade flashing like silver lightning.
Her breath caught. He was fighting them all at once.
"H-How come…" she whispered. She remembered the forest itself attacking them, and now he was locked in combat with men. Fear struck her, and she gripped the reins tighter. She didn't know what to do.
It was her first time seeing a real fight with swords.
Lucan's movements were sharp, merciless, but the cloaked warriors were unlike anything she had imagined. They matched his speed, his precision. Every strike he delivered was dodged, every counter met with equal force. Sparks flew as steel clashed, the sound echoing through the forest like a storm.
Sweat glistened at his temple. He had fought beasts, armies, assassins — but these men were different. They moved with the same deadly rhythm as him, their blades cutting arcs that mirrored his own.
He swung hard, forcing one back, but another slipped in from the side, their dagger grazing his arm. Lucan hissed, twisting to parry another strike, his breath growing heavier.
Elira's heart pounded as she saw him falter. The fatigue in his shoulders, the strain in his movements — it was undeniable. The journey, the battles, the cursed forest… all of it was catching up to him.
The leader laughed, circling. "You're slowing, commander. You bleed, you tire. You are mortal after all. Where is that madness now? The great king feared by all stands at his weakest."
Lucan's grip tightened on his sword, his eyes burning with defiance. "I don't fall easily."
But the truth was clear — he was being pushed to his limits. Every strike drained him, every dodge cost him precious breath. The crimson warriors pressed harder, their blades flashing under the moonlight, their movements relentless.
Elira clutched the stallion's reins again, trembling. She wanted to scream, to run, to do anything — but all she could do was watch as Lucan, the man who terrified armies, slowly began to lose himself in the battle. If he fell, these four men would come for her next.
And for the first time, she realized: if Lucan broke, there would be no salvation left for her.
Lucan's blade blurred, his strikes relentless, but exhaustion weighed on him. His breath came heavier, his shoulders strained. The crimson warriors pressed harder, their movements sharp and merciless, their speed equal to his own.
Elira's eyes widened as she clutched the reins. She saw one of the cloaked men slip behind Lucan, his sword raised for a killing blow. Panic surged through her. Without thinking, she reached for the dagger embedded in the tree trunk — the one that had nearly struck Lucan earlier.
Her hands trembled, but she pulled it free. With a cry, she hurled it toward the man's back.
The blade spun under the moonlight, striking his shoulder. It wasn't fatal, but it was enough to stagger him.
Lucan twisted, catching the opening, and drove his sword forward to block another strike. But the wounded man's head snapped toward Elira. His eyes burned with fury.
"You dare," he hissed.
Before Lucan could react, the cloaked warrior vanished into shadow. His form blurred, dissolving into darkness, and in an instant he reappeared — behind Elira.
Her breath froze. The stallion reared as the man's sword gleamed, poised to strike her down.
Elira's scream tore through the clearing.
Lucan's eyes widened. He surged forward, his blade cutting through the air with desperate speed.
The duel had shifted — no longer just a battle for survival, but a race against death itself.
With only a second to act, Lucan hurled his sword. The silver blade spun under the moonlight and struck true — piercing straight into the crimson warrior's chest. The man froze, his shadowy aura flickering, then collapsed lifelessly at Elira's feet.
Elira gasped, her hands trembling on the reins. She had never seen such ruthless precision.
Lucan, now without his weapon, dodged a slash aimed at him. His chest heaved, his eyes burned with fury, but the remaining three pressed harder. Their blades cut in relentless arcs, forcing him back. He couldn't reach his sword — their attacks were endless.
A strike slipped past his guard, slicing across his lower body. Lucan staggered, falling to one knee, blood staining the earth.
Elira's breath caught. Seeing him falter shook her to the core.
The leader sneered. "Impressive… but desperation makes you reckless. You cannot hold against us forever."
Lucan's jaw tightened, his voice low and defiant. "Then I'll die standing."
But as the three cloaked warriors closed in for the final blow, Elira's body moved before her mind could catch up. She slid down from the stallion, her legs weak but determined. Her eyes locked on the sword still buried in the dead man's chest.
She ran to it, yanked it free with trembling hands, and turned.
Without a second thought — as if her body acted on its own will — she stepped between Lucan's frail, bleeding form and the three crimson warriors.
Their blades descended.
Steel met steel.
The clash rang out under the moonlight as Elira, gripping the sword with all her strength, blocked the deadly strike meant for Lucan. Sparks flew, her arms shaking violently from the impact, but she held her ground.
The warriors' eyes widened in surprise. The girl they had dismissed as nothing now stood in defiance, shielding the fallen king.
Lucan's gaze flicked up, disbelief flashing in his weary eyes. For the first time, Elira wasn't just a burden — she was standing between him and death.
"Ugh!" Elira growled, her arms trembling violently. She couldn't hold the clash any longer — the force of their blades was far beyond her strength.
One of the crimson warriors sneered, raising his sword high, ready to cut her down.
But before the strike could fall, Lucan forced himself to rise. His body screamed in pain, blood dripping from his wounds, yet his will drove him forward.
He moved with desperate speed, stepping between Elira and the attacker. The blade meant for her carved into his back instead, the impact brutal, forcing him down to one knee again.
Elira's eyes widened in horror. "No!" she cried, her voice breaking.
Lucan gritted his teeth, his breath ragged, but his hand shot out to steady her. His eyes, burning with defiance, locked on the three remaining warriors.
"You'll strike me," he rasped, "before you ever touch her."
The crimson warriors tightened their circle, their blades gleaming under the moonlight. Lucan's body was failing, but his presence — his sheer will — was unyielding.
He seized the sword from Elira's trembling hands and shoved her back. "Stop intervening!" he barked, his voice sharp despite his weakness.
Then, with a sudden burst of speed, Lucan launched himself forward. His blade cut through the air in a furious arc, forcing the three warriors to scatter.
Elira's breath caught as she watched him fight. His wounds should have crippled him, yet he moved as if pain was nothing — as if sheer defiance alone kept him standing.
The clash was brutal. Steel rang against steel, sparks flew under the moonlight, and Lucan's strikes grew heavier, more desperate. Every blow carried the weight of survival, every movement a refusal to fall.
The crimson warriors pressed harder, their precision unrelenting. But Lucan, bloodied and exhausted, fought like a man possessed — a king who would not yield, even at the edge of death.