Chapter 12: A Lesson on the Streets

The bitter aftertaste of cheap elven liquor still clung to my tongue as I shoved open the heavy wooden doors of The Wild Boar's Roar and stepped into the biting cold of the night. A gust of wind, sharp and unforgiving, carried the scent of damp earth, fireplace smoke, and the musty staleness of the narrow alley beside the tavern. The cobbled path beneath my boots was uneven, flanked on one side by the rough stone wall of the inn and on the other by the wattle-and-daub facade of an old storage house, its surface cracked and crumbling with time. The alley was dark and silent—the perfect place to vent the frustration boiling within me.

Tonight, like so many nights before, my attempts to ignite a spark of resistance among the villagers had ended in failure. Trying to rally them against injustice felt like pouring water over cold ash. Fear ran too deep in their veins. I saw pity in their eyes, but none willing to take the risk. Or worse—some saw me as the real troublemaker. I was exhausted. I was alone.

"Damn it!" I cursed under my breath, kicking a loose stone with all my might. It struck the rough stone wall of the tavern with a sharp crack—but instead of just bouncing off, a flicker of greenish-brown energy sparked at the point of impact before vanishing into the night. I froze.

That wasn't normal.

It wasn't just some trick of the light; I had felt something—like a static charge, or a ripple in the unseen forces around me. A primal, instinctual warning stirred within me, something buried deep in the bloodline of the Stonehands.

Then, suddenly—

The sensation of a thousand tiny needles pricked across my skin, sending a cold shiver down my spine. A warning. A threat.

I snapped my eyes open just as two large figures stepped from the thickest shadows at the alley's end. They moved too quietly, their presence unnatural in the near-total darkness. The thin slivers of moonlight filtering between buildings illuminated their faces—grim, unfriendly—and the things that made my breath catch in my throat.

One wore jet-black leather gloves, so dark they swallowed the moonlight itself. But around them, a faint, shifting aura of deep violet shimmered, pulsing like a living thing. The other clutched a simple oaken cudgel—ordinary at first glance, but the runes carved along its length glowed with a dull silver light, icy mist curling around its surface in an eerie haze.

I clenched my fists. "What do you want?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady. My hands tightened, and beneath my boots, I felt something—a connection to the ground beneath me, a strange sense of solidity I had never noticed before.

"Just a little chat, Stonehand boy," the man with the black gloves rasped. His voice was unnatural, as if two different tones—one human, one like grinding stone—spoke at once. "Some important folks aren't too pleased with all the noise you've been making."

Important folks. Thugs wielding magic-infused weapons. No doubt who was behind this. Thorn. That treacherous old snake. This was his way of silencing me.

Rage flared in my chest, pushing back the creeping fear. "Tell your 'important' folks," I spat, "that if they want a conversation, they should send someone with a spine—not a pair of leashed mongrels armed with cheap enchantments."

The cudgel-wielding man snarled. The runes on his weapon flared to life, the mist thickening as he swung it at me with inhuman speed!

I felt it—an icy force rushing toward me. My instincts screamed. I twisted away just in time. The cudgel struck the stone wall behind me with a thunderous crack, ice crystals forming instantly at the point of impact before shattering into fine dust.

I didn't hesitate—I lunged forward, driving my fist toward the gut of the man with the black gloves, putting every ounce of strength behind it.

Thud!—It felt like punching solid iron. A shockwave of pain rattled through my arm, my knuckles numb from the impact. The man barely staggered. He glanced down at me, unimpressed. "Is that all?" he sneered. "They say the Stonehands used to be strong. What a joke."

Before I could react, the rune-inscribed cudgel crashed into my side. Agony erupted through my ribs, but worse was the numbing cold that spread instantly through my bones. It wasn't just pain—it was as if something was seeping into me, making my limbs sluggish, my body betray me.

I gasped, barely biting back a cry. My muscles tensed in protest as I tried to move, but my reflexes were dulling.

Then the gloved man struck—his hand clamped onto my wrist like a steel vice, and the moment his fingers made contact, I felt it.

Draining. Draining.

A suffocating heaviness spread through me, my strength slipping away into the swirling darkness surrounding his gloves. My knees nearly buckled. I gritted my teeth, fighting against the unnatural weight pressing down on me.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," the cudgel-wielder growled, raising his weapon again. "Maybe a few more hits will teach you to stay down."

He didn't wait for a reply. Blows rained down—fists, kicks, the cudgel slamming into my body again and again. Every strike left a biting cold in its wake. Every touch from those gloves stole another fraction of my strength.

I tried to fight back, but my limbs were heavy, slow. A strike to my jaw sent blood spilling into my mouth. A knee to my gut left me gasping, doubling over. Then, finally—

The cudgel's runed tip smashed into the back of my neck.

Lightning. That's what it felt like. A white-hot explosion behind my eyes, followed by total darkness.

When I came to, I was on the cold stone ground, the metallic taste of blood thick in my mouth. My body throbbed in agony. The air stank of sweat, dirt, and something sickly-sweet—the residue of magic.

"Consider this a warning," the black-gloved man murmured above me. "Keep running your mouth, and next time… the Reaper himself will come for you."

Their footsteps faded into the night, leaving me sprawled in the filth. Humiliation burned hotter than my injuries. But beneath it, something stirred.

Despite the pain, despite the cold that still gnawed at my core—

I felt the earth beneath me.

It wasn't just stone and dirt. It was alive, pulsing with warmth, an ancient strength that pushed back against the creeping numbness. It didn't heal me, but it held me, refusing to let me slip into the void.

They had used magic—dark, oppressive magic—to try and silence me. But the very fact that they attacked meant they feared me. Feared what I knew. Feared what I was capable of.

Hot tears welled in my eyes, a mix of pain, rage, and newfound resolve. I forced myself to sit up, dragging in breath after ragged breath. My muscles screamed, but my spine straightened. I wiped the blood from my lips and gazed into the darkness where they had disappeared. My amber eyes burned like embers.

"You made a mistake, Thorn," I whispered, voice hoarse but unwavering. "You didn't just send thugs to beat me into silence—you woke something in me. Something that's been asleep far too long."

I rose on shaky legs, each step forward a declaration. Tonight had been painful. But it had also opened my eyes.

This wasn't just a fight of men against men. It was a battle of oppression against the forgotten power of the land itself.

And I… had just found my first weapon.