With a thunderous roar, the bandits sprint forward, weapons drawn for battle. Lysandre drags his foot behind him, discarding his cloak, then vaults into a sprint, racing straight at them. A burly bandit swings his axe with ferocious strength, the blade slicing through the air. In a split second, Lysandre arches his back, tilting his head just as the deadly edge whizzes past his face, missing by an inch. He swiftly pivots to the right, dodging another bandit. With a powerful kick, he slams the sole of his foot into the bandit's gut, sending him stumbling back. Suddenly caught off guard, a sharp hiss escapes his dry lips as the dagger's edge slices through his shoulder with a searing sting. Wrath sparks through him, adrenaline flooding through the dry cavern of his veins as he spins around, throwing his weight forward. In a whirlwind of chaos, the scrawny man lashed out with his daggers, slicing through the air as an arrow whizzed past, narrowly missing Lysandre.

Lysandre dodges swiftly, eyes scanning for an opening. Suddenly, he hears a familiar thrum. In a flash, his arm lunges forward, clutching the leather collar of the man's doublet while he spins around. A sharp cry pierces the air as another arrow strikes itself in the scrawny bandit's back.

"Duck!" a female voice shouts from behind him.

With a swift motion, he launches the bandit's body forward, ducking low as he does. A resounding clang shatters the chaos, and he looks up just in time to see an axe blade hurtling toward his face. Reacting instantly, the dwarf brandishes a long steel hammer, gritting her teeth as she thrusts it against the incoming attack while forcing back the axe with all of her might. In a flash, he flanks his body left, snatching a pair of shackles from the burly bandit's belt and twisting around, dodging swiftly another attack from the scrawny bandit.

"Leadoff, you toothless worm!" Lysandre growls, gritting his teeth.

Wrapping the chain around his fist, he ducks just as a sword swooshes above his head. Loose hairs whip away in the wind. He curses under his breath, his heart beating like a war drum in his ears, feeling an electric spark ignite along his spine. He lunges forward, narrowly dodging a dagger aimed at his face and blocking it with his fist. In a flash, Lysandre collides with the scrawny bandit, sending them both crashing and rolling into the dirt below. A sharp wheeze escapes his throat as his skull slams into the dirt. In an instant, he rolls sideways just as a sword thuds into the ground where he just was. His heart racing, he instinctively thrusts his left hand forward, metal clashing against the chain wrapped around his fist. With his left, Lysandre snatches a clump of dirt and flings it at the bandit looming above him. The bandit grunts, flinching away from the flying debris.

Scrambling to his feet, his gaze darts toward the dwarf. She swung her hammer at the burly bandit, struggling to take him down as she held her ground, parrying his every attack. Her crimson braids danced like flames in the wind while her eyes sparkled with fierce determination, challenging the burly bandit as she refused to give in. Dashing forward in a blur of speed, another thrum echoes through the air. Slamming the brakes on his feet, his arm springs forward, snatching the arrow out of the air before spinning around and ramming it through the scrawny bandit's throat. The man clawed at his throat, a gurgling sound escaping as he struggled to breathe.

With a fierce snap of his head, the burly bandit lunged forward, his boot crashing violently into the dwarf's gut. The impact sent her spiralling through the air, her body slamming into the dirt below with a thud that echoed in the chaos around them.

Lysandre jolted with adrenaline, sprinting toward the burly bandit like a cannon shot, his heart pounding. A flash of death danced before his eyes, fearing it would be the dwarf's next as a fierce wind whipped around his legs, propelling him forward. He banked right, slamming his chain against the bandit's sword just as the brute lunged. Seizing the moment, Lysandre leapt onto the bandit's knee, vaulting himself upward with explosive force.

With a swift motion, Lysandre yanks the chain taut in his hand, crashing against the brute's back just as the axe descends toward the dwarf. He wraps his legs around the giant, swiftly looping the chain around the man's throat. Gripping the chain with unyielding strength, he leans back, muscles straining with effort as he lets out a fierce grunt, ready to take down his foe. The brute stumbles back, throwing his body left and right, attempting to shake off Lysandre like a fly. His lips form into a thin line as a feeling of relief washes over him, watching the dwarf slowly get up, grabbing her hammer in the process.

The bandit claws at his throat, his face turning from red to purple. With the last of his strength fading, Lysandre throws his weight back, gritting his teeth as a grunt escapes. Sensing the bandit losing balance, he tightens his grip on the chain, fury igniting in his chest. His eyes blaze as he thrusts his body back, sending them both crashing into the dirt.

As the intense pressure bore down hard on his chest, Lysandre gasped, the very breath knocked violently from his lungs. Wrath spread through him like wildfire as he yanked the chain away, his heart racing. With adrenaline coursing in his veins, he darted his head aside just in time as a heavy iron hammer plummeted down, crushing the bandit's skull with a sickening crack. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he felt crimson spew on his cheek, reminding him of how fragile mortals were regardless of their strength or size.

The dwarf extended her hand eagerly, her palm open and inviting, as Lysandre struggled to lift the heavy corpse, pinning him down. With a grunt escaping his lips, he finally freed himself, pushing the corpse aside and instinctively reaching out to grasp her hand, steadying himself in the process.

Releasing his grip, Lysandre pivoted his footing, banking left while the edge of the blade sliced through the air swiftly. A sharp clang echoed as the dwarf swung her hammer, parrying the bandit's attack in a fierce clash of steel. Gritting her teeth, she pushed forward, digging her heels into the dirt just as an arrow whizzed past her head. Twirling the chain in his hand, he lunged forward, snapping it against the bandit's jaw before sweeping the leader's legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

He snatched a bare dagger from the dirt and hurled it at the archer with the flick of his wrist, the blade whistling through the air, slicing the next arrow in two before burying itself between the bandit's eyes. Before the last bandit could react, a massive iron hammer crashed down, sending him six feet below.

"You know," she pants, leaning over with her hands on her knees, tilting her head up to meet his, "you're not bad for a lad claiming to be Magniadas' Champion."

"I've been called many things in my life, dwarf—traitor, demon, king slayer. Yet, 'not bad' isn't one of them," he states dryly as a warm, swelling sensation fills his chest, a feeling long forgotten and foreign to him.

Satisfaction? Pride? Both of which he couldn't identify.

"You mortals have a quaint notion of praise." A soft sigh escapes his lips, feeling his heart slowing down and the adrenaline leaving his veins.

Chuckling to herself lightly, the dwarf leans on her tall, iron hammer.

"Why am I not surprised? You look like a mortal," she points at him, realizing the obsidian jagged-like lacerations along his body and the black around his scleras of each eye was far from normal, "yet you possess power the gods would not trifle with. If I were you, lad, I'd haul ass to the other side of Rivenhelm. Such power will raise your existence into question."

"I don't know what you did to earn such titles, but one in particular I've heard before," she pauses, looking him dead in the eyes.

"King Slayer."

The name left her lips as if it were enlaced with poison and struck him deep within his chest.

"What of it?" He tuts, narrowing his gaze, cocking a brow in question.

"I've heard stories, all mere rumours of a man who slaughtered His Majesty King Ryfur, the realm's protector. I wasn't there to witness the execution personally or see his face, but rumours spread like wildfire—all who believed he was guilty of regicide and that burning him and his kin was more than justified."

A choking sensation engulfed him; each breath laboured as an invisible weight pressed down on his chest. Dread slithered through him, gripping his legs and coiling around his stomach, twisting tighter with every mention of his kin suffering because of him and his deceitful words. Suppressing the demonized emotions, Lysandre stays calm, his hollow gaze remaining lifeless as his lip twitches slightly.

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe he was guilty. I don't believe in his innocence. I'm sure the lad had his reasons, but burning his whole kin alongside his race," she pauses, shaking her head, "that's too far. All those innocent souls—mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, children. . . all who paid the price for what he reaped," her voice trails off, much softer than what she's been with him.

"Again, I owe you a lifetime of gratitude for saving me twice," she chuckles, hauling her hammer over her shoulder.

"Saving you? I merely removed an obstacle in your path. As for the second, I was feeling rather bored," he replies blandly, stepping forward before stopping in front of her.

"Don't mistake my intervention for benevolence, dwarf." His jaded gaze locks with hers.

"Aye. I respect your reasoning, and for that, I feel like aiding you, Magniadas' Champion. I'm Nash, Nash Ironfist," she grins, extending her hand forward.

Lysandre's gaze flickers to her outstretched hand. He hesitates as he weighs the choice between taking it and sharing his name. In a world teetering on the edge of oblivion, he feels the weight of the decision; revealing a birthright name could grant power over an individual. His gaze narrows as he peers through his dark lashes, torn between gaining a possible ally and the consequences that could follow.

"Lysandre," he replies, taking her hand.

Her grip on his hand tightens like a vice, squeezing his fingers with an almost painful intensity, pulling him forward.

"Right. Should I find you weaving a tapestry of deceit, I won't hesitate to hammer you back where you lay still," she warns, releasing his hand in the process before turning her heel.

He hated to admit it to himself, but she possessed an undeniable spirit—a blazing fire that burned brightly within her fiercely and set everything that stood in her path ablaze. Her passion was like a beacon in the dark, vibrant and threatening to scorch anything unworthy that dared to obstruct her way. Yet, despite the danger her intensity posed, he found it deeply admirable in a world that was slowly withering away, where courage and zeal had become rare.

As Lysandre turned toward the four corpses that lay motionless in the middle of the road, surrounded by a pool of their own blood, a thought crossed his mind. He stepped closer, scanning the various gear they wore, each differing in size and weaponry. The cold breeze caressed his shoulders and legs as he moved toward the leader's now-faceless corpse. Crinkling his face in disgust, he recognized the lost potential and the life that had been wasted away.

"Nam salvos. For my survival," he murmurs, kneeling down before undoing the many leather belts to the scabbard and the leather doublet.

Grasping onto the corpse's forearm, he tugged at the leather gloves, peeling them off with quick haste. He began deftly unbuckling the worn leather boots before methodically unfastening the dark leather doublet and loosening the belt around the pants. He spotted a pouch dangling from the belt, his fingers instinctively reaching for it. With a firm grip, he yanked the pouch open, the soft leather parting to unveil a sparkling cluster of gold coins, their surfaces gleaming in the light.

"Grave robbing, really?" Nash questions, raising a brow before turning back to both mares and feeding them an apple.

A hint of amusement flickers across his features at the accusation. "Hardly grave robbing when I'm simply collecting what's owed," he comments, looping the belt around his waist before tightening it.

"Would you prefer I enter combat half-bare and unarmed?" He asks, his tone enlaced in sarcasm as he cocks a brow at her comment. Lysandre tosses the leather doublet over his shoulders before folding the doublet's lapel over to the other side of his chest and fastening the many small leather straps enlaced with intricate brooches. It was a wonder to him how most of the gear fit comfortably around his body, besides the pants, which stopped a little higher than his ankles. 

"Besides, this armour serves its purpose," Lysandre states dryly, adjusting the gloves by giving them a tug.

Leaning over, his fingers curl around the sword's hilt, raising it high in the muted light, marvelling at the extraordinary craftsmanship. The sword glimmered with a mesmerizing brilliance, its blade forged from the finest silver steel of the mountain, polished to a mirror finish that caught the faint rays of the overcast sky and reflected his jaded gaze. Intricate designs danced along the blade's surface while the hilt, wrapped in rich leather, offered both comfort and elegance to the wielder. This was not merely a weapon; it was a masterpiece of artistry, forged with a dedication that transcended the ordinary, a testament to the skill of the forge masters. Narrowing his gaze, he wondered how such a blade came to be with an unworthy mortal.

With a swift motion, he sheathed the sword into its hilt at his waist, the blade sliding home with a satisfying click. Gripping the corpse's wrists, he strained against its weight, muscles tensing as he dragged it across the road, watching Nash sprint over to help. The rough ground scraped against the corpse as he heaved it further. With a final heave, he maneuvered the body into the ditch, the grass crunching underfoot, before dragging the rest in. He knew that the cart's wheels would never clear the hefty bulk of it, especially not the burly one that threatened to tip the entire wagon over.

Dusting the dirt off his hands, Lysandre drags the back of his hand against the side of his face, grimacing at the caked-on blood as he strides over to the cart, climbing up and taking a seat next to Nash. His jaded gaze flickers at her, noticing she holds an old, worn map in front of her.

"If we head east and keep following the path, we should reach Silverstone before nightfall," she comments before rolling the paper between her fingers.

"From there, we'll stock up on our wares, and you're going to explain to me how you plan to rid the realm of the wounds it bears." She turns her shoulder, placing the map into a small bag before placing it in the back.

"Plus, I have someone I'd like you to meet."

A gnawing unease churned in his gut, tightening around his insides like a vice. Thoughts crashed against each other like the churning tides below, each one heavier than the last, burdened by the weight of an invisible truth, knowing it would pull him under if he didn't swim. He could feel the lie—a small, white deception—nestling in the corners of his mind, refusing to loosen its grip. Lysandre was acutely aware that his boast of being Magniadas' Champion was nothing but a facade, a fragile pretense far removed from reality—to guide him to his destination. Yet within him flickered a glimmer of hope, a defiant ember in a world teetering on the edge of despair. If he could unravel the mystery of the events that led to his demise, if he could banish the darkness from the realm, then he'd clutch tightly to that lie.

Heavy is the heart that bears deceit.

Nam salvos: For my survival

Word count: 2697 (Excluding author's note and images)

A/N: All word count for each chapter is counted up before the author's notes and images (which do not count toward the total number).