Blood in the mud

Rael stumbled forward, clutching his side. Every step sent a fresh wave of pain through his ribs. His shirt was damp with blood, the fabric clinging to his skin.

The Direfang Wolf lay dead behind him, its corpse already attracting flies. The smell of iron and wet fur lingered in the cold night air.

He needed to move.

Staying here meant death. The fight had been too loud. If any other predators were nearby—beasts or men—they would be coming.

Rael exhaled through clenched teeth. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he forced himself forward. He moved with caution, sticking to the shadows, his feet light against the damp forest floor.

Think. Survive.

He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. But he was still alive.

And in the Trial of Kings, that was enough.

---

The trees loomed above him, their twisted branches casting long shadows beneath the moon. The mist curled around his ankles, making every step uncertain.

Rael had no map. No direction. He had been thrown into this trial with nothing—just a dagger and the will to survive.

His breaths were slow. Controlled.

Then—a sound.

Faint. Almost too soft to notice.

A twig snapping.

Rael's body went rigid. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Something—or someone—was nearby.

He turned his head slightly, scanning the trees.

Then he saw it.

A figure crouched in the underbrush.

They were dressed in dark leathers, their face hidden behind a tattered hood. A mercenary.

Rael didn't move.

His heartbeat slowed.

Why aren't they attacking?

Then he understood.

They thought he hadn't noticed them.

Rael's fingers tightened around his dagger. His entire body ached, but he shoved the pain aside.

If he ran, they would chase.If he hesitated, they would strike first.

So instead—

He moved first.

Rael dropped to the ground.

The sudden movement caught the mercenary off guard. An arrow whistled through the air, missing his head by inches.

Rael rolled sideways, kicking dirt into the air to obscure his position.

The mercenary cursed, scrambling to reload. Too slow.

Rael lunged forward, his dagger flashing in the moonlight. The mercenary barely had time to react—Rael slammed into him, knocking them both to the ground.

A struggle.

The mercenary was stronger. His grip closed around Rael's throat, squeezing.

Rael's vision blurred. His lungs burned.

But he didn't fight fair.

He jabbed his thumb into the man's eye.

The mercenary howled, loosening his grip for just a second.

Rael drove his dagger into the man's thigh, twisting the blade.

A scream. Blood sprayed onto Rael's hands.

The mercenary lashed out, punching Rael across the jaw. His head snapped to the side, stars exploding in his vision.

Too strong.

Rael couldn't overpower him.

So he didn't try.

Instead, he let his body go limp.

The mercenary, thinking he had won, relaxed just slightly—

And that's when Rael struck.

He thrust the dagger upward, straight into the mercenary's throat.

A gurgling choke.

The man twitched.

Then he went still.

Rael gasped for air, shoving the body off of him. His hands trembled. His chest ached from the beating. His lip was split, and his vision swam.

But he was alive.

And the mercenary wasn't.

---

Rael sat back, breathing heavily. His ribs throbbed, his arms felt like lead, and his jaw ached from the punch.

But he had won.

He forced himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his dagger. He searched the mercenary's body, his fingers quick and precise.

A bow. Useless. He wasn't trained for it.

A small pouch of coins. Pointless here.

A short sword. Too heavy.

Then, his fingers found something useful.

A flint and steel.

Rael's lips curled into a smirk. Fire. Now that was something he could use.

He tucked it into his belt and took one last look at the corpse.

One more obstacle down.

But there were still many more ahead.

The Trial of Kings would not be won by strength.

It would be won by survival.