The battlefield was quiet now, save for the crackling of the dying campfire and the occasional shifting of the horses. Blood soaked into the dry earth, forming dark patches beneath the bodies of the fallen. Zion stood amid them, his breathing still heavy from exertion, his golden eyes scanning the carnage with cold detachment. His sword, still slick with blood, hung loosely at his side.
Grundhill let out a long exhale as he approached, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. "Alright, lad, that was intense. Maybe a bit too much."
Zion didn't respond immediately, still watching the bodies at his feet. The remnants of the battle still pulsed through his veins, the tension refusing to release him just yet.
"I protected you and your wares as it was agreed upon," he said flatly, his voice lacking any sense of triumph or remorse.
Grundhill let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Aye, lad, that ye did. But nobody asked ye to bite off that dog’s neck."
Artoril, who had been lingering near the cart, scoffed. "Well, father, he did what was needed, if you ask me."
Grundhill rubbed his face, sighing heavily. "Ah, who am I kiddin’. Not bad, lad. Just… don’t get those fangs near me, ye hear?"
Zion finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "I am being paid to protect you. You shall not worry about my fangs."
Grundhill smirked, though there was still an air of wary amusement in his gaze. "Well, ye best not develop an appetite fer dog, because there aren’t many of ‘em in Amif."
Zion let out a short, humorless breath. "I have tasted better meals before."
Grundhill let out a barking laugh at that. "Aye, good to know."
He glanced around at the scattered bodies and the mess left in the aftermath of the fight, rubbing his hands together. "Now, what a mess. Zion, gather their bodies, throw ‘em near that tree. Take all their belongings. You can keep their coin. We’ll deal with the iron."
Zion didn’t argue. He simply nodded and set to work.
One by one, he stripped the corpses of their armor, yanking free the curved scimitars, the round chest plates they had worn, and the smaller daggers sheathed at their belts. Their clothing was worn but serviceable, though stained now with blood and dust. He pulled the leather pouches from their waists, feeling the weight of coin inside, and brought the collected gear to the cart, stacking it neatly.
Grundhill gave a nod of approval as Zion dropped the last of the loot onto the wagon. "Good job, lad."
Zion opened one of the pouches, inspecting its contents. Inside were a mix of Amif coin, primarily copper and silver, with only a few gold pieces scattered amongst them. He calculated the rough value—probably somewhere between ten to fifteen gold coins in total. Not a fortune, but certainly enough for supplies.
Grundhill waved a hand dismissively. "Keep that, mercenary. Ye earned it."
Zion tightened the pouch and fastened it to his belt. "I had no intention of giving it away."
Grundhill let out a sharp laugh. "Aye, ye truly are a mercenary."
Satisfied with the collection of spoils, Zion turned his attention to the last remaining horse—a strong, dark-coated beast standing some distance away, nibbling at the weeds on the ground. It hadn’t bolted during the fight, nor did it appear to be particularly frightened. It had merely moved away from the violence, waiting.
Zion strode toward the horse, his steps slow and measured. The animal flicked its ears at his approach but did not shy away. He reached out, letting his hand hover near its muzzle, allowing it to scent him before gently stroking its neck.
Artoril watched from a short distance, arms crossed. "You’re taking the horse?"
Zion nodded. "It has no owner now. It would be a waste to leave a dead man’s horse without a rider."
Artoril hesitated, then shrugged. "I heard it’s cursed."
Zion turned his golden eyes toward the young dwarf, expression unreadable. "Not everything is a curse, boy."
Artoril tilted his head slightly, considering the words before asking, "How old are you, anyway?"
"Thirty-four years."
The dwarf smirked. "Still younger than me."
Zion didn't react, merely continuing to run his hand along the horse’s flank. "It matters not. Not every rumor of a curse or a hex translates into fact."
Artoril snorted. "Well, don’t let me stop you from making a bad decision, lion. At least give it a proper name."
Zion glanced at the horse, his fingers still resting against its mane. A name.
"Does it change the curse?" he asked dryly.
Artoril grinned. "I mean, some people say it does."
Zion let a moment of silence stretch between them before finally speaking.
Artoril raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t that some kind of animal from the northern plains?"
Zion gave a faint shrug. "It is not. But little does it matter. I like the way it sounds."
Artoril considered the name before nodding approvingly. "Not terrible."
Zion gave the horse a final pat, securing the reins. Ardyon let out a soft huff but did not resist.
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With the bodies looted, the iron secured, and the night settling into eerie silence, they knew there was no time to waste. They had won the fight—but the road to Amif still lay ahead.
The night stretched onward, the landscape painted in hues of deep blue and shadowed gold beneath the faint glow of the moon. The fight was behind them, but the air still carried the lingering scent of blood and sweat. The corpses lay still beneath the tree where Zion had left them, stripped of their weapons, armor, and coin.
A gurgling sound pulled his attention downward.
The man with the clawed-out eyes, the one who had screamed in agony as Zion’s talons had torn through his skull, was still alive—barely. He twitched and spasmed, his breath wet and ragged, the blood pooling around him as his body refused to die quickly. His remaining eye, wide with terror, darted around aimlessly, his fingers clawing weakly at the dirt, grasping for salvation that would never come.
Zion exhaled sharply through his nose. He had thought to leave the man there, let the wolves or vultures have their fill. But something in the way the man shuddered, his slow, pitiful descent into death, irritated him.
He swung his leg off his horse and approached, drawing his sword with a practiced motion. The steel caught the moonlight as he knelt beside the dying bandit.
Without hesitation, he thrust the blade into the man’s throat.
A single, swift motion.
The body jerked once, then stilled. No more gurgling. No more pain. Just silence.
Zion wiped the blade against the corpse’s tattered clothes before standing. He turned back toward the wagon, finding Artoril already helping Grundhill climb onto the driver's seat. He mounted Ardyon with smooth efficiency, settling into the saddle as he fell into formation behind them.
The road stretched out endlessly before them, the wheels of the cart creaking against the dry, cracked ground as they pressed onward. The terrain was changing—slowly, subtly. It was not yet desert, but the dusty steppes stretched for miles, barren and unyielding. The wind carried fine grains of dirt that clung to their clothes and armor, whispering of the sands that lay ahead.
Zion rode in silence for a while, his mind lingering on the men he had just killed. Would this become the norm again? Would his days be filled with nothing but slaying bandits for quick coin, spilling blood over petty squabbles, gutting horses, ripping throats, and clawing the eyes from fools who dared cross him?
Would he become just another blade-for-hire, drifting from contract to contract with nothing to show for it but gold-stained hands?
He huffed softly, shaking the thought from his mind.
"How long until we arrive at Moudhaz?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Grundhill adjusted his seat, grunting as he shifted his weight. "Oh, lad. Couple days, I suppose."
Zion nodded. "Understood."
The journey continued, the monotonous rhythm of hooves against dirt lulling them into a quiet, uneasy calm. Hours passed in near silence before Artoril, never one to let things lie, spoke up.
"Are the Solareye always this violent?"
Zion turned his golden gaze toward the young dwarf, but Artoril didn’t flinch under the weight of his stare.
"We are efficient in violence," Zion replied evenly.
"But are you eager to take a life?"
Zion did not answer immediately. Instead, he considered the question carefully. He had fought countless battles, shed enough blood to paint an entire field red. There had been a time when the rush of combat had ignited something inside him, an adrenaline-fueled hunger for the fight itself. That feeling had not left him entirely.
He thought of the fight earlier, the way his heart had pounded as he tore through the bandits, the satisfaction that came with the decisive end of his blade. The moment he had crushed the dog’s spine beneath his boot. The way the rider’s bones had shattered beneath the weight of his own dying horse.
He exhaled slowly.
"I do," he admitted. "I do like to draw blood. Although not of the innocent."
Artoril tilted his head slightly, as though measuring the response. "And what defines innocence to a mercenary?"
Zion met his gaze without hesitation. "Contract."
Artoril frowned. "So you'd kill anyone you're paid to?"
"No," Zion replied. "I'm not an assassin. I do not kill for profit."
The young dwarf arched a brow. "Then how are you different from an assassin?"
"Artoril," Grundhill interjected sharply, his tone laced with irritation. "The man just saved our lives. Could ye not bother him with yer endless chatter?"
"I'm just asking questions, father, like we did before," Artoril defended.
Grundhill let out an exasperated huff. "And ye almost got yer father killed."
"Because they had things to hide," Artoril shot back.
Zion narrowed his eyes slightly. "Every man has things to hide, dwarf."
The young dwarf did not flinch. "The question is how many."
Zion’s grip tightened slightly on the reins, his fangs grinding together, his patience fraying at the edges.
Grundhill, sensing the tension, waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be bothered by the boy, lad. He means no harm."
Zion didn't relax his grip. Instead, his voice came low, edged with a quiet warning. "Tell him that questioning those who help him never ends in triumph—for either party."
Artoril's lips curled into a faint smirk. "I'd take my chances."
Grundhill groaned, rubbing his temple. "Ye do not, ye daft wayn. Let the man alone."
"Yes, father," Artoril muttered, though the amusement in his tone suggested he wasn't entirely cowed.
The night carried on in silence after that, the only sounds the steady trot of hooves and the occasional rustle of the wind sweeping across the empty steppes.
Zion let the quiet settle over him like a shroud, pushing aside the conversation, pushing aside the questions.
For now, he focused only on the road ahead.
The wagon rumbled on, the dry earth shifting beneath its wheels as they pressed further into the steppes. The moon was high, casting long shadows across the land, and the stars shimmered in the darkened sky like scattered silver coins. The crisp night air carried the distant howl of desert winds, a quiet reminder that they were heading deeper into unfamiliar territory.
They had been riding for hours, pushing onward with little rest. Zion could feel the tension settling into his bones, a familiar stiffness after a long day’s travel. His body was willing to continue, but the dwarves, especially Grundhill, were beginning to show signs of exhaustion.
Finally, Grundhill sighed, rubbing a hand over his aching ribs. "We’ve burned enough of tomorrow’s daylight," he muttered, glancing toward the road ahead. "I'm sorry, but we'll have to stop at the next inn."
Zion turned his golden gaze toward the old dwarf, mildly surprised. "Didn't you hate inns, dwarf?"
Grundhill let out a dry chuckle. "I do, lion. But I'm hurt, and I need a proper rest. And so do ye."
Zion lifted his right hand, flexing his fingers, showing no sign of pain. "I'm no longer injured."
Grundhill raised a brow. "What, how? The potion?"
Zion shook his head. "I drank it earlier. It’s the sword."
Both dwarves turned to him in unison, exchanging cautious glances.
"A blood-stealin’ sword?" Grundhill muttered, his voice laced with suspicion.
Zion gave a short nod. "I understand it as such."
Artoril leaned forward slightly, his curiosity outweighing his apprehension. "That's a nice piece then, saves ya a whole lot of trouble."
"It does," Zion admitted, glancing down at the weapon at his hip. The blade was silent now, its hunger sated for the moment, but he could still feel its presence. It wasn’t just a tool—it had a will of its own, one that was slowly becoming intertwined with his.
Grundhill let out a grunt, stretching his stiff shoulders. "Well then, we’ll set fer the nearest inn. Stay there fer the night, and we continue in the morning. We should be there in no less than four days."
Zion considered the timeline, then gave a curt nod. "Acceptable."
But Artoril wasn’t finished. "What then, mercenary?"
Zion hesitated.
For the first time since his exile began, he had no clear answer. He had always lived with a plan, a strategy, an objective. His life had been dictated by tactics, missions, formations, goals. Now, he had none of it. No orders. No cause. No map to follow. Just the road stretching endlessly ahead, with no clear destination.
His fingers tightened slightly on the reins.
He had been living hour by hour since the fall of his troops. Reacting, not planning. Surviving, not leading.
It was unsettling.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but firm.
"After then?" He paused, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon.
"I'm yet to find out."