Jaenor studied the man for a moment, then made a decision.

He moved forward quickly, closing the distance before the farmer could react, and grabbed the man’s collar, pulling him close.

“Listen carefully,” Jaenor said, his voice low and intense.

“Those people in red robes have my friend. They’re torturing him, possibly killing him, while we stand here playing games. So I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you lie to me, I’m going to make you regret it.

Where. Are. They?”

The farmer’s eyes went wide, fear and anger warring in his expression.

For a moment, Rena thought he might refuse again.

Then something in Jaenor’s eyes—some quality of absolute certainty—made him fold.

“The Ki’thara village,” he said quickly.

“There was an attack two days ago. Smoke rising from that direction, sounds of battle. Word is the whole tribe is gone, wiped out. People in crimson robes have been seen moving toward it since then, like they’re setting up there.”

Jaenor released him, stepping back. “Thank you.

That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“You’re going to get yourselves killed,” the farmer said, rubbing his neck.

“The Blaedred Skull sect doesn’t leave survivors. Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work.”

“We’ll see,” Jaenor said, then turned to the others.

“The Ki’thara village. Let’s move.”

They set off immediately, leaving the farmer staring after them. As they traveled, Rena found herself walking beside Jaenor.

“That was intense,” she said quietly.

“The old you would have asked nicely first.”

“The old me was naive,” Jaenor replied.

“People respond to strength, not politeness. And we don’t have time to be nice.”

Rena wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she couldn’t argue with the results.

The forest grew denser as they traveled east, the trees older and larger. The air itself felt different here—heavier, charged with ancient power. This was sacred ground and had been for generations beyond counting.

And now it reeked of death.

They smelled it before they saw it—the sickly sweet stench of decay, of bodies left in the open. Darian signaled for caution, and they slowed their approach, moving carefully through the undergrowth.

The Ki’thara village came into view gradually, revealed in pieces through gaps in the trees.

What had once been a harmonious settlement built in concert with the forest was now a charnel ground. Bodies lay scattered throughout—men, women, even children. Some had clearly fought, dying with weapons in hand. Others appeared to have been cut down while fleeing.

The buildings, constructed from living wood shaped by generations, were broken and burning. Smoke still rose from several dwellings, and the great temple at the village’s heart—a massive oak that legends claimed predated human civilization—bore the scars of battle. Its bark was scorched and cracked, its branches broken.

“Gods,” Taeryn breathed, his face pale.

“They slaughtered everyone.”

And there, at the base of the temple steps, they saw movement.

A group of figures stood clustered near the temple entrance.

Most wore the armor and colors of Blaedred soldiers, but two stood out. A woman in crimson robes bearing the skull symbol—Hilda, Rena realized with a surge of hatred. And beside her, a massive man in black plate armor that seemed to drink in the light.

As they were watching, Jaenor recognized one more person who he had forgotten earlier.

Caelum.

He was standing beside the woman named Hilda.

A smile appeared on his face as he saw Caelum, thinking that he was going to kill him, but it soon disappeared as he saw the man on the ground.

Bound between two posts driven into the ground, arms stretched above his head, was Baren.

Even from a distance, Rena could see he was badly injured. Blood matted his hair and streaked down his bare chest, mixing with the distinctive scales that marked his heritage. His head hung forward, and she couldn’t tell if he was conscious.

Jaenor stepped forward.

“Wait,” Darian whispered urgently.

“We need a plan. They’ll cut him down if we just charge in.”

“No plan,” Jaenor said flatly.

“I’m getting Baren. The rest of you deal with the soldiers.”

Before anyone could stop him, he was moving, striding out of the forest and into the open. His posture was confident, almost casual, as if he were approaching friends rather than enemies.

“Jaenor, wait!” Rena hissed, but he ignored her.

The Blaedred soldiers noticed him immediately, weapons coming up.

The commotion has drawn the attention of Hilda and Vasthren. She saw the young man coming towards them and frowned deeply. She saw the soldiers rounding him up.

Hilda raised a hand to stop them. She watched Jaenor approach with evident curiosity.

“Well,” she said, her voice carrying clearly. “This is unexpected. A boy walking into a battlefield. Either very brave or very stupid.”

“Who are you, boy? What do you want?”

Jaenor didn’t respond.

He simply walked past her, past the soldiers, directly to where Baren hung bound. He drew a knife from his belt and cut the ropes with quick, efficient movements.

Baren collapsed forward, and Jaenor caught him, supporting his weight.

“I’ve got you,” Jaenor said quietly.

“You’re safe now.”

Baren’s eyes flickered open—those distinctive eyes—and recognition dawned.

“Jaenor? What… you shouldn’t be here…”

“Where else would I be?” Jaenor looked back toward the forest and called out, “Morgana! Raelana! Get over here and heal him!”

The two witches emerged from cover, moving quickly toward them.

The Blaedred soldiers tensed, clearly uncertain how to respond to this bizarre situation.

The massive man in black armor—Vasthren—stepped forward. “This is highly irregular. That prisoner belongs to the Blaedred Skull Sect. You have no authority to—”

“I don’t need authority,” Jaenor interrupted, carefully lowering Baren to the ground where Morgana and Raelana could begin their healing work.

“I’m taking him. You can try to stop me, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Vasthren’s hand went to his sword. “Bold words from a boy.”

Jaenor stood, turning to face him fully. “Not a boy.”

And Caelum, who saw him, was trembling in fear.

How did he find me…?

He began to slowly move backwards as he thought Jaenor wasn’t looking at him.

But Jaenor looked at him right at that moment and smiled.

And it wasn’t a pleasant smile. It made Caelum’s heart pound faster.

Jaenor began walking toward Hilda and Vasthren, his movements deliberate and unhurried. And as he walked, he felt something shift in the air around them—a presence, ancient and vast, pressing against his awareness.

A voice spoke in his mind, and he paused mid-step.

The temple. Enter the temple. Take what lies within. The sword. The crown.

They were meant for one of your blood.

Jaenor’s eyes went distant for a moment; he looked around. The voice felt very familiar and closer. But he wasn’t sure who it was.

then refocused with startling intensity.

He changed direction slightly, moving toward the temple entrance rather than toward Hilda and Vasthren.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Vasthren demanded, moving to block his path.

Jaenor looked at him, and something in his expression made the massive warrior hesitate.

“Into the temple,” Jaenor said simply.

Vasthren’s sword cleared its scabbard with a metallic ring that echoed across the ruined village. The blade was massive, easily five feet of blackened steel etched with crimson runes that pulsed with malevolent light. He held it in one hand as if it weighed nothing, his stance that of a master swordsman who’d killed more men than he could count.

“You want to enter the temple?” Vasthren’s voice was cold amusement.

“You’ll have to go through me first, boy. And I haven’t lost a duel in fifteen years.”

Jaenor drew his own sword—a simple longsword he’d acquired from Marhaevn’s armory before leaving—and settled into a guard position. His movements were simple and practiced, showing training that went deeper than his years suggested.

“Then you’re overdue for a loss,” Jaenor said quietly.

All those days of practice with the old man, and he had never gotten to test out his skills.

Now he thought it would be perfect to fight an opponent such as Vasthren. He could tell he was a master swordsman.

And then, Vasthren attacked.

He moved with shocking speed for someone wearing full plate armor, closing the distance in two massive strides. His sword came down in an overhead strike that would have split Jaenor from crown to groin if it had connected.

Jaenor sidestepped, the blade passing close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. He riposted immediately, thrusting toward the gap in Vasthren’s armor at the armpit. The massive warrior twisted impossibly fast, and Jaenor’s blade scraped harmlessly off his chest plate with a screech of metal on metal.

“Fast,” Vasthren acknowledged, circling. “But speed won’t save you.”

“We’ll see.”

They engaged again, and this time it was a proper exchange.

Vasthren’s sword came in from the left, a horizontal cut aimed at Jaenor’s midsection.

Jaenor parried, the impact sending shock waves up his arms, then immediately had to duck as Vasthren reversed the swing and brought the blade back at head height. He rolled forward, coming up inside Vasthren’s guard, and drove his pommel toward the man’s face.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep