Strange man

Time was slipping away like grains of sand through a sieve, and Bram knew it. The pride of miniature predatory cats would soon find its way to their camp. He could already imagine the chaos—the flood of olive-green bodies, the razor-sharp claws tearing through flesh. They had to act fast. But even with the looming threat of the pride, Bram had a more immediate problem. Two of his comrades—Arcia and Orden—were bound and at the mercy of strangers, and he stood powerless.

His sharp eyes took in the assailants. A man and a woman, both looking disheveled and desperate. Their clothes were torn, bloodstained, but oddly, the blood didn't seem to be their own. Their eyes darted nervously between Bram and Solveig, betraying the fear bubbling beneath their aggressive facade. Bram pieced the puzzle together as he scanned their faces and attire.

These weren't hardened killers. They were survivors—likely the last remnants of the camp they had passed earlier. The one littered with half-eaten corpses. The memory of the carnage sent a shiver down Bram's spine. The pride must have ravaged their camp, leaving these two to flee. Their attack on his group wasn't malice; it was desperation born from terror.

And scared humans, Bram knew, were dangerous.

He had to think fast. A fight would only waste precious time, and they couldn't afford it. The pride was coming. He needed to calm the situation and de-escalate before it spiraled further.

"What do you want?" Bram called out, his tone steady but firm. He raised his hands slightly, making himself look unarmed, non-threatening. "Whatever it is, we can talk it out."

The man tightened his grip on the dagger he held to Orden, while the auburn-haired woman glanced nervously at Arcia, whose arms were tied tightly behind her back. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

"There's absolutely no reason for us to fight," Bram continued, his voice soothing, yet carrying an edge of authority. "We have to work together if we're going to survive this island. The more people we have, the better our chances. You know that."

The man's jaw tightened, his eyes darting to the woman as if silently debating Bram's words. Bram pressed on, seizing the moment of hesitation.

"We saw your camp," he said, his voice softening. "The pride destroyed it. We came from there—there were no survivors."

At those words, the woman's face crumpled. She dropped to her knees, her body trembling as sobs wracked her frame. The dagger she had been clutching fell from her hand, landing in the dirt with a dull thud. Her grief spilled out in broken cries, the weight of her loss crashing down on her.

The man's resolve faltered. His hand, once steady, now shook as he stared at the crying woman. Bram saw the devastation in his eyes—the pain of losing everything. He had been fighting to protect her, but even he seemed to realize how futile it all was.

"The pride will move this way soon," Bram said firmly, his voice cutting through the woman's sobs. "We don't have time for this. If we don't leave now, we're all as good as dead."

Bram's mind raced. Slowly, as he kept talking, he bent down, pretending to steady himself, and picked up a smooth stone from the ground. His "weapon of choice," he thought grimly. He'd never imagined he'd be throwing rocks to save lives, but here he was.

Bram locked eyes with Solveig, giving her a subtle nod. She caught on immediately, her posture shifting slightly, ready to spring into action.

Then, with a quick, fluid motion, Bram hurled the stone. It flew true, striking the man's hand hard enough to make him cry out and drop the dagger. The blade clattered to the ground as the man clutched his injured hand in pain.

Solveig didn't hesitate. She surged forward like a predator, closing the distance in an instant and tackling the man to the ground. Her sheer size and strength made resistance futile as she pinned him effortlessly.

Bram moved just as quickly, pushing the sobbing woman back before she could retrieve her weapon. He rushed to Arcia's side, his fingers working frantically to untie the knots that bound her. The ropes were tight, digging into her skin, but Bram's hands were steady despite the chaos.

As soon as Arcia was free, she sprang to her feet, her dagger back in hand in a flash. Her cold, piercing eyes turned to the assailants, who now found themselves on the receiving end of the group's wrath.

"We surrender!" the woman cried, her voice cracking with desperation. "Please… enough! Enough of this!"

The man beneath Solveig groaned, still pinned under her weight. "We didn't mean for it to go this far," he muttered. "We were scared. We didn't know what else to do."

Orden, now rubbing his bruised eye, stepped closer. "We get to decide that," he growled, his tone laced with anger. "You tied us up. You threatened our lives. Scared or not, you crossed a line."

"Orden," Bram said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. The older man shot him a glare but didn't say anything further.

Arcia's gaze shifted between the two strangers. Her expression was unreadable, but her grip on her dagger remained tight. For a moment, the only sound was the woman's quiet sobbing.

Finally, Bram spoke. "The pride is coming, and we don't have time for revenge. If you want to live, you'll work with us. If not, you're on your own."

"You trust them?" Arcia asked, her icy glare boring into Bram. "After they threatened us? After they tied us up?"

Bram glanced at her, his expression unreadable. Before he could respond, the auburn-haired woman—Marzia—spoke, her voice trembling with sorrow.

"We didn't want to, alright? We were just out of options," she said, her gaze dropping to the ground. "Tonar and I," she gestured to the man beside her, "we're from the same village. The same village as the people you saw... killed." Her voice broke, and she looked at Tonar as if seeking permission to continue.

"Marzia, enough," Tonar said sharply, his tone edged with pain.

"Enough? What is enough, Tonar?" Marzia snapped, her sorrow shifting to anger. "Our people are dead! They were eaten, torn apart, taken away by this cursed island!"

Tonar's shoulders sagged, and his expression softened. "It isn't your fault, Marzia," he said quietly. "It was that man. He started all of it. They died because of him." He turned to Bram and the others, his face a mixture of guilt and frustration.

"Who?" Arcia asked, her voice steady but edged with suspicion. "What man?"

Tonar took a deep breath. "Everything was fine at first. No one died to the mist because we knew how to keep it at bay. We knew you needed to keep moving, keep sweating, to ward it off. We crossed the mist easily, landed safely, and set up camp. Everything was fine... until we met him."

Bram frowned. "Him?"

Tonar nodded, his eyes darkening. "He seemed normal at first. Tall, imposing, but with a cheerful smile. He seemed helpful, so we took him into our camp. For the first few hours, things were fine. We moved inland, cleared some of the area, and made progress. But then..." He hesitated, glancing at Marzia.

Marzia picked up the story, her voice shaky. "He... he took a liking to me. Tried to get close. But I... I already had someone. A lover," her voice broke, and she wiped at her tears. "Lefnar. He's... he's dead now."

Tonar continued, his tone heavy. "When Marzia rejected him, it sparked a fight. Lefnar confronted the stranger, and they got into a brawl. It seemed harmless at first—just fists flying. But then... the stranger pulled out a weapon from thin air. A blade. He sliced Lefnar's head clean off."

The group froze, the weight of Tonar's words hanging in the air.

"It was chaos," Marzia said, her voice cracking. "Our people tried to fight him, but the noise attracted... them. The pride. They swarmed us. And while we were being slaughtered, the man—he just disappeared."

Bram's eyes narrowed. "And how did the two of you survive?" he asked, suspicion lacing his tone. "You don't seem that powerful to me."

Tonar hesitated, then reached into his tattered cloak. Marzia's eyes widened. "Tonar, no!" she whispered urgently.

"It's okay, Marzia. We have no other options," Tonar said, pulling out a dark, shimmering cloak. "This," he said, holding it up, "is a magical artifact that was passed down in my household. Its only function is stealth. It can hide us completely, but only once a week."

Bram's mind raced. A magical artifact. This was the second one he had come across, the first being Arcia's enchanted dagger. This cloak, though not as powerful, was still immensely useful—stealth enough to hide them from predators with even the sharpest senses. It now made sense how Arcia and Orden had been captured. The stealth must have worn off after they ambushed the group, or they had dismissed it once the job was done.

"The strange man," Arcia said, her voice cutting through the air. "What was he like? Did he give you a name?"

Tonar frowned, thinking. "He was tall, with white hair. His clothes... they looked like something a noble would wear—fine, rich fabrics. He gave us a name, but not a full one. He called himself Aurguisi."

The name seemed to hit Arcia like a physical blow. Her face paled, and her hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of her dagger.

"Aurguisi?" she repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. "He must be part of the Aurguisi family."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bram asked, frowning.

Arcia turned to him, her expression a mixture of fear and anger. "The Aurguisi family is a prominent pioneer family. They're known for their wealth and military power. I heard rumors they might attempt the trials, but I dismissed them. I didn't see their ship at the port, so I assumed they didn't come. But... they must have hidden their arrival."

Tonar's face darkened. "If that's true, it explains his behavior."

Arcia shook her head, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If he called himself Aurguisi, and given the way he acted with Marzia, it must be him. Zormi Aurguisi. The fourth son. The womanizer."

Bram's eyes narrowed. "And he's still out there."

Arcia nodded, her expression grim. "And if he's anything like the rumors say, he's not just dangerous. He's ruthless."