Grave of Giants (1)

[Rowan's POV]

The night stretched cold and endless around us, the air thick with the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. My crew stood at my sides, their presence steady, solid. Across from us, Joey and his gang loomed, a wall of muscle and malice.

Tonight, blood would flow. A lot of it.

"So… what's the plan here?" Joey's voice rang out, smug and mocking. He was playing with me, prodding, trying to get a reaction. I couldn't give him one. Not tonight. If I lost my temper now, I wouldn't make it out of here alive.

But just seeing him—hearing him—made something dark coil inside me, a fire that had been burning for far too long.

"You gonna beg for your life?" He grinned, all teeth, all cruelty. "Or do I get to have a little fun first?"

I exhaled slowly, controlling the tremor of rage beneath my skin. My lips curled, a ghost of a smirk pulling at my mouth. He had no idea.

"Oh Joey," I murmured, voice like a blade slipping from its sheath. "You have no idea."

It was the signal.

From the shadows, the Spiders struck. They surged forward, silent and deadly, their movements precise, practiced. Shadows turned to flesh, blades flashing in the dim light.

And I was moving too. My crew with me, fanning out, weapons drawn.

Good luck, Joey. You'll need it tonight.

But he was already charging, a mountain of a man, broad and solid, his frame towering over mine by at least a head. A force of nature, barreling forward like a runaway carriage, set on trampling me underfoot.

I dug my heels into the earth, bracing myself. Let's see who breaks first.

The dagger felt steady in my grip as I closed the distance, the blade flashing in a quick, testing swipe. Fast, precise—meant to feel him out.

But Joey moved quicker than any man his size had a right to.

He pivoted back, just out of reach, then his fist came hurtling toward my face like a battering ram.

Fuck.

I barely ducked in time, the force of his swing whistling past my ear. Before he could yank his arm back, I slashed at his forearm. The blade bit, but barely. Just a thin red line.

What the hell is this bastard made of?

We broke apart, taking a few measured steps back, sizing each other up. Around us, chaos churned—bodies crashing, blades glinting, screams swallowed by the night. A battlefield soaked in shadow and violence.

An idea struck.

"We won't fight among the dogs, I hope?" My voice came out cold, cutting through the noise.

Joey grinned, eyes gleaming like a predator that smelled blood. "Sure, little snake. What do you have in mind?"

I tilted my head toward the ruined church, its broken silhouette jagged against the night sky. "Follow me."

And he did. Away from the fray, away from the bodies. Just the two of us.

I'd kill him myself. No help. No interruptions.

We stepped into the ruined church, shadows stretching long beneath the fractured moonlight. The air was thick—dust, blood, and something heavier.

A fitting graveyard for one of us.

Outside, the battle raged, but here, in the hollowed-out ruin, it was just us. A fight stripped bare—kill or be killed.

We grinned at the same time. And then we moved.

Joey struck first, his massive hand swinging toward my face. A slap? The insult nearly made me laugh—until I saw the force behind it.

I ducked, twisting low, my blade flashing as I aimed for his thigh. Deep, straight for the artery. My knife sliced through flesh, but not deep enough.

Not nearly enough.

I pivoted, slipping behind him, ready to strike again. But something felt off.

A grunt. A shift in the air.

Then—impact.

His boot smashed into my side, a roundhouse kick that sent me reeling. My ribs screamed. My vision blurred for half a second.

Fuck.

He hit like a battering ram. But I was still standing. And this wasn't over.

I pushed myself up fast, but Joey was already coming—a beast ready to eat me alive.

Think. Move. Now.

I flipped my dagger in my grip, bracing it straight ahead. If he wanted to crush me, he'd impale himself doing it.

At the last second, he saw it. His charge halted, muscles coiling like steel cables. Then his hand shot out, wrapping around mine.

Shit.

His fingers crushed my wrist, locking me in place. I wrenched, twisted—nothing. He grinned, the sick bastard.

Then he moved. And I moved with him.

My feet left the ground. A blur of motion. The world spun.

Then—impact.

I slammed into a pile of shattered pews, wood shards stabbed into my back, hot and wet with my own blood. Dust clouded the air. My lungs seized.

Coughing, I forced myself upright, pain flaring in every limb. This giant bastard. 

I focused on his large frame, he stood, not attacking. His grin still in place. "You know, your mother resisted more than this!" With these words, a booming laughter erupted from him. 

I'll kill him, I'll fucking kill that big fucker. 

I lunged, rage burning hot in my veins, but I kept my focus razor-sharp. No reckless swings. No wasted movement.

My foot shot out in a low kick, slamming into his shin. A solid hit. He staggered.

I pressed forward, dagger flashing toward his face. Almost—just a fraction too slow. The blade scraped his cheek, leaving a thin red line.

His eyes darkened. Now he was pissed.

His fist came at me like a battering ram. Too fast. Too strong. I barely had time to raise my arm in defense before—

Impact.

My vision blurred. My skull snapped sideways. My thoughts scattered like glass shattering on stone.

But Joey wasn't done.

A dropkick crashed into my chest, sending me sprawling. The cold stone bit into my back.

Fuck. What do they feed this guy?

Pain screamed through me, but I didn't stay down. A quick roll, a sharp inhale, and I was back on my feet.

Breath ragged. Body aching. And we'd only just begun. I shifted, adjusting my stance. No more blind charges. No more easy tells.

We began to circle each other, slow and deliberate, both waiting for the perfect opening.

A deep breath. Then another.

I moved first. A sharp step in, muscles coiling. My leg snapped out in a roundhouse kick.

Blocked.

Joey barely flinched, his massive forearm absorbing the impact like a slab of stone.

Then he countered. A fist hurtling toward my face like a wrecking ball.

I ducked, barely. Air whooshed past my cheek. My knuckles drove into his side—fast, precise, aiming for the liver.

No reaction.

Shit.

We fell into a brutal rhythm. Him swinging, me dodging, striking back, chipping away at him piece by piece.

I couldn't take a single solid hit. That would be it for me.

He knew my dagger was the real threat, kept it at bay with practiced precision. For a brute, his technique was sharp. Too sharp.

Still, I kept at his side, my fists working his liver like a hammer to stone.

One. Two. Three. Then finally—a break.

A subtle hitch in his breath. A flicker of hesitation. He felt that one. Good. I just had to make him feel the next even more.

We squared off again, circling like starving wolves.

My breath came ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. My shirt clung to me in tattered strips, skin burning from where his blows had landed. I couldn't take much more of this.

This next strike had to count.

I moved in, dagger low, steps sharp and deliberate. A feint—left hook, just enough to bait him.

His body reacted, instinct kicking in.

That was my opening.

I switched the momentum, blade flashing toward his ribs. So close—almost—

Missed.

He twisted just in time, the blade barely scraping past him. But that was fine. That was enough.

I adjusted, shifting my weight, and with a sharp flick, I slashed across his torso. A clean hit. Blood welled up, dark against his skin.

Then came the growl.

"This little knife is getting annoying."

His arm snapped out before I could react, a blur of muscle and speed. A sharp crack against my wrist—pain exploded.

The dagger flew from my grip, skidding across the floor, disappearing into the debris.

Fuck.

Then came the charge. Too fast. Too heavy. I had no time to dodge.

His entire weight crashed into me, an unstoppable force meeting something far too breakable. The impact sent me hurtling backward, my body weightless for a split second before I slammed into something solid. Pain flared, my vision blinking white for a moment.

I gasped, twisting to see what I'd hit—a barrel. Left behind by scavengers, abandoned and forgotten.

Not anymore.

Before my mind even caught up, my hands had already grabbed it. With a grunt, I flung it straight at him.

It sailed through the air.

Joey barely had time to react, throwing his thick arms up in defense. Bang.

The barrel struck, forcing him back a step. That was all I needed.

I was already there, closing the distance in an instant. My fist came next, a right hook aimed straight at his jaw, every ounce of power I had behind it.

Crack.

His head snapped to the side, and for the first time, I wasn't the only one getting tossed around.

I didn't stop. Didn't let him breathe. A jab to his nose—bone and cartilage crunching under my knuckles. Then an uppercut, sharp and clean, driving up into his chin.

He stumbled back, his footing uncertain for once.

But that tiny bit of space between us?

It was already too much.