Del pivoted fast, caught the man’s arm mid-arc, and drove his knee into the elbow joint. Bone snapped with a dull, wet pop, bending the arm backward like broken furniture. The man’s scream cut high and sharp, piercing the night.

  Del didn’t pause. He yanked the man forward by the ruined limb, their faces inches apart, and smashed his forehead repeatedly into the bridge of the man’s nose.

  On the third, something gave way with a soft, wet crunch. Teeth scattered. Blood sprayed across Del’s cheek.

  The man slumped, still whimpering, trying to crawl—but Del stepped on his neck and pressed down.

  No flourish. No snarl. Just pressure. A boot into meat. The body went limp.

  He didn’t need to kill him. But he did.

  He dropped him like meat.

  The clearing fell silent but for the crack of firewood and the whisper of wind.

  Only two remained.

  One was crawling, dragging himself backwards through the mud with elbows and fingernails. Blood poured from a gash in his side, leaking through the torn seams of his tunic. He didn’t scream anymore. Just wept. Del didn’t look at him.

  The other—Karth—rose from his seat like a man waking from a dream. Slow. Controlled. Measured, like it mattered.

  Del saw the moment it hit him. Not the shock. Not the fear.

  The understanding.

  Karth’s blade was already in his hand, low and loose. His mouth opened. A dry chuckle escaped.

  “Well,” he muttered, turning the weapon over in his palm, watching the light catch the edge. “Guess this is the part where I beg, is it?”

  Del stepped forward. No flourish. No threat.

  Just: “No.”

  The answer hung there a moment. The fire crackled behind them. The last crawling man sobbed silently into the dirt as his last breath left him. Ash drifted sideways on the breeze.

  Karth’s smile was wrong—too wide, too brittle. He glanced down at the corpses littering the ground. Nudged one with the toe of his boot. A skull caved in like rotten fruit.

  He clicked his tongue. “They were bastards,” he said quietly. “But they were my bastards.”

  Then he moved.

  Grim determination etched itself across Karth’s face as he stepped into the space between corpses, the fire painting his cheeks in flickering orange. Blood soaked the ground beneath his boots—his men’s blood—and the stench of it clung to him. His blade rose, not high, but steady. Not showy. Measured.

  A man who had seen battle.

  Del recognised it.

  Fear lived behind Karth’s eyes, but it hadn’t taken hold. Not yet.

  “You think you’re some kind of hero?” Karth sneered, voice thick with disdain. “You’re nothing but a butcher.”

  Del said nothing.

  He stepped forward.

  Karth came at him fast. A brutal downward arc—tight, vicious—aimed to split Del’s midsection from navel to spine.

  Del slid aside, just enough to let the blade whisper past the hem of his coat, and pivoted with it. His own weapon came up in reply, meeting steel with steel.

  The impact sang through his bones.

  Karth was strong; not clever, not quick. But strong in that old, brutal way—the kind born of years spent breaking bones and making others bleed.

  Del absorbed the jolt, turned with the force, and dropped low—blade arcing toward Karth’s knee in a whiplash curve. The man half-hopped back, off balance, but not fast enough. The tip caught him across the thigh, shallow but slicing. Blood welled and ran down into his boot.

  Karth grunted, teeth clenched. He pivoted hard, a full-bodied swing following—a cleaver’s blow, all power.

  Del caught it on the flat, bracing. The jarring weight of it thundered down his arm, muscle shuddering with the strain. His boots skidded half a foot through the muck before he found purchase.

  Karth pressed in, snarling, both hands gripping his weapon as he forced their blades together.

  “Go on,” he hissed. “Say something righteous. Something noble.”

  Del didn’t oblige. He twisted sharply and broke the lock, letting Karth stumble forward under his own weight.

  “No,” Del said.

  And struck.

  His blade licked across Karth’s upper arm—diagonal, fast—cutting cloth and flesh in one smooth line. Not deep enough to slow him, but enough to sting. To mark him.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Karth roared and lunged, eyes wide, swinging with blind force.

  Del slipped the blow with ease, gliding sideways. His elbow crashed into Karth’s ribs a half-second later—bone against bone. Something cracked.

  The bandit leader wheezed, staggered—then spun with a desperate backhand.

  The blade missed Del’s face by inches.

  He could have ended it there. One thrust. One clean kill.

  But he didn’t.

  He circled. Slow. Precise.

  This wasn’t vengeance. This was clarity.

  “You’ve killed a lot of men,” Del said quietly.

  Karth bared his teeth. “You’re catching up.”

  Another charge. Clumsy. Angry.

  Del sidestepped, then slammed the hilt of his blade into the side of Karth’s knee. The man collapsed with a curse, rolling to avoid the follow-up strike.

  “You ordered her taken,” Del said.

  “She’s just a brat,” Karth hissed from the ground. “One of hundreds.”

  Del drove his boot into the side of Karth’s ribs. The man howled, sword skittering from his hand. He rolled, coughed blood, then scrambled back to his feet, snatching the blade with trembling fingers.

  Del let him.

  “You’re still talking,” Del said. “That’s brave.”

  Karth wheezed, rolled, grabbed his blade; switched grip, blade now reversed, and shoved himself upright again. Unsteady. Snarling.

  “You think this makes you better than us?” he rasped. “You think she’ll even look at you the same after this?”

  Del tilted his head slightly. “You’re still talking,” he said. “That’s brave.”

  “Not brave,” he growled. “Just not done yet.”

  Despite his strength and speed, Karth was no match for him.

  Del moved like a storm contained in flesh—fluid, balanced, relentless. Every time Karth lunged, Del stepped aside. Every wild swing met nothing but air or the flat of a blade turned just enough to send it glancing wide. The man’s power was there—his armoured frame, his brute strength—but none of it could touch Del.

  He danced around him. Measured steps. Calculated arcs. He didn’t rush. Didn’t press. He let Karth try. Let him believe there might still be a chance.

  A shallow cut across the arm. Red blooming against leather. A clean line through the thigh—deep enough to sting, not deep enough to stop.

  Karth grunted, staggered, spun to face him. His eyes were wild now, rimmed with panic. Sweat poured down his face, glinting in the firelight.

  “You are fucking scum!” he screamed. “Worse than the lowest of these bastards you tore apart!”

  Del said nothing.

  He batted aside Karth’s next strike with lazy precision, not even stepping back.

  Karth roared and swung again—harder, more desperate.

  Del parried, pivoted, and tapped the flat of his blade against Karth’s ribs. Just a touch. Just enough to humiliate.

  “What the fuck are you?”

  Karth snarled, stumbled. His once-powerful sword dragged in his grip now—too heavy, too slow. His legs trembled. His breath came ragged and loud, each gasp like a dying engine.

  Still, he came. A lunge—sloppy, off-balance.

  Del stepped aside and drove his knee up into Karth’s gut.

  “I’m just the man who was asked to protect a little girl... and a cunt like you thought he could steal her.”

  The air left Karth in a wet, barking cough. He folded in half.

  Del brought the hilt of his blade down between the man’s shoulder blades—solid, sharp. Not enough to kill. Just enough to break him.

  Karth fell, face-first into the dirt, sucking mud into his mouth. He rolled, coughing, choking, then raised his blade in a weak guard.

  Del didn’t strike. Not yet.

  “You’re dragging this out,” Karth spat, voice shredded. “Just fucking finish it.”

  Del took a step closer. “No,” he said again. And slashed the back of Karth’s calf.

  The man screamed.

  Del kicked the blade from his hand as it wobbled in the dirt. Steel skittered into the firelight.

  Karth crawled after it. He didn’t get far. Del stepped on his hand, a crunch and the fingers folded in the wrong direction.

  Karth howled. “You bastard!”

  Another step. Another cut—this one across the shoulder. A sharp line, angled, surgical.

  Karth tried to scramble upright. Del let him.

  Just long enough for the man to find his feet again, blood streaming down his leg, teeth bared in something like madness. He lunged once more with bare hands, shrieking.

  Del caught him mid-charge. One hand on the throat. Lifted.

  Karth kicked and clawed, legs scrabbling at the air, his face going red.

  Del stared into his eyes. No fire. No triumph. Just weight.

  And let him drop.

  Karth hit the earth in a heap, coughing blood, trying to breathe. Trying to do anything. His body trembled. His limbs spasmed.

  It was almost over.

  As he dropped—collapsed to one knee—it wasn’t surrender.

  It was failure.

  Del stepped forward. Not fast. Not hesitant.

  His voice came low and cold, uncoloured by emotion. “Where is she?”

  Karth looked up slowly, blood threading from the corner of his mouth. He spat, a thick, dark rope of it hitting the earth between them. “Go to hell.”

  Del didn’t blink. “Wrong answer.”

  His boot came up and drove into Karth’s chest with a thud that echoed off the tree trunks. The man sprawled backward, arms wide, breath knocked from him in a wet gasp.

  “Where is Naomi?” The name hit harder than the kick had.

  Karth gave no reply.

  Del stepped over him, looming.

  Another kick—lower this time. Ribs. The crack was audible. Karth screamed.

  “Where.”

  Del crouched. Gripped a fistful of blood-wet tunic and dragged him upright like hauling meat from a hook.

  A punch to the gut. Karth doubled.

  A punch to the face. Blood sprayed across Del’s knuckles.

  Then the backhand—sharp and slicing—opened the man’s cheek like ripe fruit.

  Still no answer. Just a ragged wheeze.

  Del shifted his grip, seized the hand he’d crushed earlier, and tore a finger free—plucked it like an overripe fruit. Karth’s scream split the clearing.

  That did it.

  “She’s… she’s in the shed.” The words came ragged, wet. “Out back. Past the paddock. Locked. Shackled. Listwort in her veins. Just—just to keep her quiet.”

  Del held him a moment longer. Let the words settle. Let them root. Then punched him again. No warning. Just a fist. A final punctuation mark.

  Karth sagged. Moaned through blood and broken teeth.

  Del could have walked away. Could have left him there in the dirt, alive and humiliated.

  But he didn’t.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why take her?”

  Karth hesitated. Just for a breath. Then he laughed—a broken, wet sound that hitched in his throat and turned to a cough.

  “She’s got power,” he rasped. “Felt it. Back in the barn. She went under—deep. Magic pouring out of her like steam off a bath.”

  He coughed again. Blood bubbled on his lip. “You know what untrained magic’s worth in Easher?”

  Del didn’t answer.

  “Slaves like that,” Karth continued, slurring now, “they don’t go cheap. Could’ve sold her for a keep. Might’ve kept her, though. Just for a while. She’d’ve lasted. They do, when you keep ’em dosed…”

  He grinned. A mangled thing. A final provocation.

  Del stared down at him. His expression didn’t change. No fire. No rage. Just the look of a man finished with speaking.

  He drew his blade.

  Karth saw it—eyes widening just slightly.

  Del didn’t posture. Didn’t wait.

  The steel swept across the bandit’s throat in a clean, final line. Not showy. Not messy. Just done.

  The blood came fast, thick and hot, pumping from the opened artery in slow, rhythmic surges that faltered too quickly.

  Karth’s hands reached up in an instinctive reflex. Useless.

  He gurgled something that didn’t form words.

  Then stilled.

  The clearing went quiet again. Just the wind. Just the fire.

  Del stood over the body a moment longer, breathing in the stink of blood and smoke and piss.

  Then he turned and walked toward the paddock.

  Naomi was waiting.