*WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS DEPICTIONS OF GORE*
The axe struck again.
Once.
Twice.
Wood surrendered in a slow, steady rhythm.
The boy worked in silence. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. The forest around him held its breath. Even the birds were quiet, like the trees were listening.
WHACK!
He swung the axe. The blade swung down in a clean arc, met wood, and rang.
Then the sound changed.
Footsteps. Soft. Measured. Not the stumble of a hunter. The kind of step a person makes when they don't want to be heard at all.
He didn't stop cutting. He couldn't. Stopping would be admitting a surprise, and surprises were things he couldn't afford.
More footsteps.
Closer now.
Closer.
He turned his head slightly to see a shadow slip between two trunks. Three shadows.
His hands tightened on the handle of the axe. It felt heavy in his hand. But not as heavy as his greatsword.
Dammit, if I knew that this would happen, I would've brought it...
The sky above had thinned—clouds like wet cloth—and a distant roll of thunder pushed the air low.
"You shouldn't be out here all alone," a voice said. Quiet. No smile in it.
The boy said nothing in return. He just slowed his breathing and kept his axe moving.
The first man moved like wind. He darted in—thin, fast—aiming low, a blade flicking for the legs. The boy didn't give him the satisfaction of surprise. He pivoted, not a full turn, just enough to bring the handle around. The blade met flesh with a dull, solid thump. The thief collapsed with a sound that was almost a whisper. No theatrics. No scream. Just one breath bleeding out of him into the wet ground. Blood sprayed from the man's head, painting the brown tree bark a dark red.
The second came from the left. Quicker. He swung wild, cruel—looking for show, for pain. The boy stepped in under the blow, felt the leather of the man's cuff brush his ribs, and drove the axe butt into muscle. The man folded, a sound not loud but final.
The third man did not move like the others. He waited. Patient. Watching. Like a spider at the edge of a web watching its prey. He circled, looking for the moment the boy's shoulders loosened.
Rain began to fall then. Not much. A little drizzle. It slicked the axe's handle in the boy's hands.
The boy felt something then. Not fear. A dull, hot animal feeling. Anger sharpened into focus. He thought of the town—his town—burned like tinder. He thought of a small pink house and a laugh that wouldn't ever be coming back.
The third moved.
He struck like a shadow, quicker than any of the other men. The blade aimed for the boy's throat. Close. Too close. The boy ducked, let the man's arm brush past his cheek. The cold air kissed his skin. He smelled the other's breath—mint, rust, the faint smell, of blood. The man was a cannibal.
He responded with the axe.
Not a huge swing. Not a dramatic cut. A small, precise turn. The haft knocked the blade from the assassin's hand. The metal rang against stone and fell into mud. The assassin reeled, surprised. For a second the world was nothing but the drum of his pulse and the soft hiss of rain.
Then the boy moved up—closer—so close he could see the man's pupils dart for the exit. He didn't let him find it. He grabbed the assassin's wrist with both hands, palms raw and wet, and twisted. The man cried out—not loud—and the sound tore itself into the rain. The boy swung the axe. It drove into the right side of the man's neck. The man's body went slack and collapsed into the wet leaves.
Silence snapped down over the clearing like a lid. The rain grew steadier, like someone had twisted the tap. Lightning lit the trees in a white strip, and for a heartbeat everything was bright and terrible. When the light died, the bodies laid lifeless.
The boy stood alone among trunks and fresh chips of wood. His breath was a harsh thing in his chest. The axe drooped in his hands. It felt blood-heavier now, an anchor. He wiped his palms on his trousers and did not look at the wet dark on the edge of his sleeve more than necessary. He removed the axe from the man's neck as blood violently gushed out of the man's neck.
The boy never expected for assassins to attempt to kill him in the day time. He had expected them to come in the dark, to be smooth and quick and efficient. He had expected to be taken in the night, to have one motion end everything. But expectations were like rope; you learned quickly how to snap them.
His legs shook but did not give. He had been built on other people's cruelties. He had learned to stand after falling. He had learned to make promises stick like burrs.
Somewhere in the forest, something moved. Not a man. Not a creature. A fox, maybe. A branch giving up its old weight. The world went on like the sharp edge of a blade—unchanged, uncaring.
He bent down and gathered the knives, one by one. He set them on the stump beside the half-cut tree as if arranging a small memorial. The rain made letters on the blade that would wash away in an hour. He did not expect anyone to understand why he did it.
A distant shout rolled from the direction of the village—urgent, broken. Not a hunter's call. Not a friendly voice. Something raw and human, carried on the wind.
He listened. For a moment he thought of walking away. Of leaving the stump to rot and heading for the road. For a life where the voices of the dead didn't call to him in his sleep. For a bakery window, warm bread and a small life of unremarkable days.
He pictured Cindy's pink house one more time. The image pinned him like a thorn.
He swung one final time at the tree trunk. The final piece of wood surrendered with a clean crack and slid away. The trunk sagged. The tree leaned. It would fall tonight.
He sheathed the axe and walked towards the sound.
The storm swallowed his footprints. The forest watched him go.
Behind him, the three bodies lay quiet. The rain began to wash the blood from their faces, and the earth swept it away without complaint.
***
The rain still clung to the world, falling thin and steady, but the village smelled different now—like wet smoke.
He walked the main street with the axe rested on his shoulder. The light from lanterns reflected brightly puddles. Doors shut. Curtains trembled. People watched from cracks, from dark windows, from the edges where fear met curiosity.
The chief's house sat high like a crooked tooth. Smoke curled from its chimney. The boy pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.
The chief was waiting patiently. He sat behind a table carved with the village's old runes, hands folded as if he was counting time. His eyes were sharper now. He'd been a leader once. Tonight he looked like a man who had traded his soul for something warm and safe.
"You shouldn't have come here," the chief said. His voice was steady. Too steady.
The boy slammed the axe on the table. The sound it made was loud in the quiet room. The chief looked at it as if it were a clock that had finally rung. His time had come.
"Why?" the boy asked. "Why did you send them to kill me?"
He stepped forward. He put the butt of the axe on the floor and leaned the blade toward the chief like a sentence.
The chief's fingers tightened on the table. "The King wanted you gone. He offered protection from the Royal Knights. Wealth for the village. A roof that won't leak and food that won't rot."
The axe quivered in his grip at the mention of the Royal Knights.
"You oughta learn some manners..."
He's one ofthem...
"And you took it?" the boy said.
"I took what I had to," the chief murmured. "What choice did I have? We are small things. This offer was a no-brainer. We bend to survive."
"Survive?" The boy laughed. "They burned down my town. You are exchanging my life for some protection from some douchebags from the capital! Are you crazy?."
The chief's face tightened. Regret moved across it like a shadow. "The king promised to keep us safe. He said—" He hesitated, eyes flicking somewhere past the boy as if the memory had teeth. "He said you are dangerous. That you are… an ill thing. He said it would spread. He said—"
The chief's throat bobbed. "Why would the king want me dead?" the boy yelled. He needed to hear it. He wanted to match the lie to the face that sold it.
The chief's mouth moved. The words were coming. He reached for them like a man reaching for a rope.
Then the chief's shoulders snapped. His hands leapt to his throat. His eyes went wide. He made a sound—half-cough, half-animal panic—and clawed at his neck. The boy stepped back, axe lifted, heart banging like a drum.
The chief's face went pale, then red, then pale again. He fell forward as if some invisible rope had been pulled. The table thudded. The chief hit the floor with a single final breath that left the room hollow.
Silence filled the gap the chief left behind. The boy stood frozen, the axe suddenly too heavy to hold. Rain hissed against the eaves. Somewhere outside a dog whined.
A shadow shifted in the corner of the room. Not a trick of lamplight. The air filled with intense pressure. True murderous intent.
She stepped out of the shadows. Black robe. Purple hood. When she walked, she barely even made a sound every time her foot reached the ground. Her face was pale in the candle glow, but her eyes glowed a dark purple that stood out from the rest of the dark room.
"He didn't hold up the end of his bargain," she said. Her voice was soft and sharp at once. "he was going to spill secrets about the king."
The boy tightened his grip on the axe. "Who are you?" His voice hoarse.
The woman gave a wide smile. Not a smile from a friend, but the smile a psychopath would give. "You mortals call me...what was it. Ah, yes. A Witch." she said. "Sent by the capital. Sent by the king." She stepped closer, and the air around her felt thinner, like the space over a grave. "I've watched you. The king sent me to keep an eye on his investments. You were a liability. The chief did what chiefs do—he traded a future for a promise he couldn't keep."
"Why?" The axe trembled. "Why does the king want me dead?"
The woman's fingers toyed with the edge of her hood. "You ask the wrong question," she said. "Why does any kingdom kill what it fears? Why does any man buy safety with other men's blood?" She paused, then, as if making a decision, she pulled back the hood enough for the candlelight to touch her cheekbones. "Your death is convenient. Your presence awakens things that the king prefers quiet. But more than that—there are forces you don't know. Things older and more precise than war. The king saw risk and acted."
"Is that it?" he asked. His voice was small against the room's sudden cold. "Just that?"
She shook her head. "There is more. There is always more." Her eyes found his, hard as flint. "If you continue this path, you will not die cleanly. You will not die quick. Revenge is a bright thing that burns the hand that lights it. You will end in a way that will make even the sky look small. A horrendous death. Pain that will rewrite you."
The boy tasted grief and a fierce, stupid hope. "Make me afraid," he said. "Tell me I should go home, become a baker, die a boring death."
She looked at him as if she could see the years that had shaped him into a thing of cinders and promises. "I do not make threats out of cruelty," she said. "I make them because I am tasked to watch. Because I have seen what revenge breeds. I have eaten the stories and spit out the bones. If you keep walking this road, you will find fire that does not clean. You will find a night that will never end."
He thought of the pink house. The laugh that no longer echoed. The promise he'd shouted into the blaze.
"Is magic real?" he asked, voice a thin wire.
The witch looked almost amused. "Do you humans need to breathe?" she answered. "Magic is as real as the hunger inside you. As real as the rain falling around us. You have no idea, boy. There is so much you do not know."
She stepped back into shadow. Her robe flowed. Her purple hood swallowed the last of her face.
"Think about it," she murmured. "Or don't. Either way, the king will sleep safer tonight."
Just as quickly as she appeared. She disappeared without a trace.
"You are a huge part of the prophecy. The reason for the world's destruction in the near future."
The boy froze. He was going to be the reason why the world would end?
"The king has a special gift, he believe that he can save the world if he ordered for your assassination," Her voice echoed from the shadows. "he's delusional. The future is already set. Nothing can be changed."
When she was gone the room felt only half-warm. The boy set the axe gently against the floor. He knelt and looked down at the chief's still hands. The answer the man had tried to offer had evaporated with his breath.
Outside, the rain kept coming.