Eidel

  A hush settled over the camp, thick and uneasy, as the big man held his blade leveled toward the orc chieftain. The blade caught the firelight, its edge gleaming faintly as if impatient. Around them, the orcs stirred. One by one they rose from their seats and crouches, hands closing around crude weapons—axes, spears, cleavers—eyes flicking between their leader and the lone human standing in their midst, uncertain which way the moment would break.

  The chieftain remained still.

  He studied the blind man in silence, heavy brow lowered, tusked mouth set in a hard line. The last of the twin suns had slipped beneath the horizon, leaving only firelight to paint his scarred face in sharp orange and shadow. He looked every inch a predator, measuring his potential prey.

  “You have a plan?” Zahir asked the man who’d called himself Barrett Donovan.

  The big man grinned, his wild blonde hair flowing over his face.

  “More or less.” He said, motioning them to get behind him.

  Eidel looked around, then she remembered something. The black bird she’d seen earlier. It was dark now, but she could still barely make it out, hovering above them.

  “The bird?” she asked.

  The man simply smiled and put a finger to his lips.

  Zahir had moved close to her now and ushered her to the area behind this new stranger. As she passed by the stranger, she stopped and whispered.

  “The rest of my guard is locked up by the opposite side of the camp,” she said.

  He spoke without looking toward her, “I know, they’ll be fine.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  The sky answered.

  A lance of mana streaked upward, tearing through the darkness before bursting high above the camp in a radiant bloom. Blue-white light cascaded outward like a flower made of lightning, briefly banishing the night. For an instant, everything was frozen in stark clarity—the orcs’ snarling faces, weapons half-raised, the wide eyes of Eidel and Zahir standing rigid, and this Barrett Donovan, outlined like a figure cut from myth.

  He threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing loud and fearless.

  “Right on time, baby!”

  Confusion rippled through the orcs, but it didn’t last.

  Footsteps ran up from behind them. Shapes emerged from the darkness. There was a woman and a younger teen next to her.

  The woman led with an air of focus, black eyes sharp and observant, her dark hair framing a face accustomed to difficult decisions. Close beside her was a younger girl with red pigtails, nervous but resolute, hands clenched as if bracing herself for what came next.

  An older woman followed a step behind, one Eidel hadn’t noticed until now. Her expression was gentle, steady, and strangely grounding amid the tension of the camp.

  “Seems my reinforcements are here.” The strange man chuckled.

  He seemed to relax, resting the machete casually on his shoulder as if the entire camp weren’t holding its breath.

  EIdel met Zahir’s eye, they didn’t have to say anything to know this already strange situation had gotten even stranger.

  Wagar’s posture loosened the moment he took in the newcomers. The tension in his shoulders bled away, and in its place was amusement. A low, rasping laugh crawled out of his chest, the sound carrying easily through the firelit camp.

  “And here I thought it would just be a meal,” he said, tusked grin spreading wide. “I should thank you for bringing me a feast, human.”

  Rough laughter followed. The orcs joined in, their voices overlapping in a coarse chorus. They didn’t fully relax—hands still hovered near weapons, eyes still tracked every movement—but their chieftain’s mirth eased the edge of panic. Predators reassured by their alpha.

  Zahir tightened his grip on his knife, the leather-wrapped hilt creaking under his fingers. He let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging as if the weight of the situation had finally settled on him.

  “We haven’t recovered our mana from those sapper shackles,” he said quietly, eyes flicking toward the blind man. “We can still fight. I can tell you’re strong—but unless you have an army…”

  He trailed off.

  A small hand slipped into Eidel’s.

  She startled, looking down to see the red-haired girl from earlier gazing up at her, expression bright and untroubled, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience.

  “It’s okay,” the girl said, squeezing once. “You can leave it to us.”

  Before Eidel could respond, the girl let go and stepped past her, moving with easy confidence toward the broad-shouldered man in the bandana.

  Zahir frowned, confusion knitting his brow. Eidel found her voice again. “Who…who are you people?”

  The woman with black hair glanced over her shoulder, lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Haven’t you heard?” she said, feigning offense. “We’re Team Donovan.”

  Eidel turned instinctively to Zahir, but before either of them could reply, the older woman gestured them over with a gentle wave.

  “Come,” she said calmly. “Stand by me. This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Team Donovan?” Eidel echoed as she moved, incredulous. “He named the team after himself? Barrett Donovan, therefore Team Donovan?” She looked to the old woman for confirmation.

  The woman smiled serenely. “It sounded clunky to me as well,” she admitted. “But it grows on you.” She shrugged.

  “Sheesh,” Barrett called from the front, his voice carrying with unsettling ease. “This must be one of the weaker raiding parties.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  The laughter died as if smothered by a hand.

  Wagar’s grin froze in place, tusks bared, the amusement draining from his eyes. Around him, the orcs stiffened, hands tightening on hafts and hilts, the mood of the camp shifting from indulgent to wary in the span of a breath.

  Barrett didn’t look at the chieftain. He tilted his head instead, gaze drifting as though he were thinking aloud, speaking to his team as if the orcs weren’t even there.

  “You ever feel like the bad guy when you run into opponents like this?” he asked mildly. “Like…it almost feels unfair.”

  Then he turned back to Wagar.

  Barrett cracked his knuckles. “What do you think?” he said. “Should I feel bad about annihilating you all?”

  Wagar’s lip peeled back from his tusks. Thick saliva stretched and snapped as he spat onto the dirt at Barrett’s feet. “You will die for this, human.”

  Barrett hummed, as if considering something complicated. “I mean, you’ve gotta have hopes and dreams, right?” he went on, tone almost curious. “Someone waiting back home? Am I about to turn you into a memory for someone who loves you?”

  The orc chieftain’s mouth twisted, anticipation burning hot in his eyes. “My dream,” Wagar growled, “is shredding your body into pieces, human.”

  Barrett let out a short, humorless huff. He rolled his shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his coat, loose and ready.

  “Sorry, big guy,” he said lightly. His smile sharpened into something ugly. “You’re a little late to the party.” He spread his hands. “I’m already shredded.”

  Wagar roared, rage finally boiling over, and stepped forward, cleaver beginning to rise—

  Barrett lifted a single hand.

  “That’s rude,” he said mildly. He tapped two fingers against his chest. “I gave you my name. Seems only fair you return the courtesy.”

  Wagar didn’t answer.

  He jerked his chin.

  One of the orcs closest to him lunged forward, sneer twisting his face as he raised his blade—

  Crack!

  The sound tore through the night like snapping bone.

  A lance of brilliant blue mana screamed across the camp and slammed into the orc’s chest. He was hurled backward as if seized by an invisible giant, armor collapsing inward before he struck the ground in a smoking heap.

  The camp fell dead silent.

  Eidel stared, heart hammering, then followed Zahir’s silent gesture upward.

  High above the camp, barely visible against the darkening sky, a lone figure hovered on a disk of glowing mana.

  Barrett clicked his tongue. “Now that was naughty.” He shifted his stance, boots grinding into the dirt. “I’ll ask again. Name?”

  “It’s Wagar!” Eidel shouted before she could stop herself. “He’s called Wagar!”

  Barrett’s smile widened slowly, something sharp and predatory creeping into it.

  “Wagar,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Got it.”

  He straightened, shoulders rolling back as if settling into something familiar. “Wagar, I—Barrett Donovan—challenge you to a duel.” His grin sharpened. “Winner takes all.”

  The camp went utterly silent.

  Wagar’s eyes narrowed to slits. “We are more than you,” he rumbled. “Why should I duel you one on one?”

  Barrett barked out a laugh. “Okay! Then let’s even the odds!”

  He stepped forward, drove his machete into the dirt with a solid thunk, and spread his arms wide.

  “Me against all of you,” he declared. “At the same time.”

  Wagar threw his head back and roared with laughter, barking something in orcish that sent his warriors into harsh, eager chuckles.

  “You amuse us,” the chieftain rumbled when the sound finally faded. “But now, we end you.”

  He extended one massive hand. An underling rushed forward, reverently placing into it the largest cleaver Eidel had ever seen—blackened steel, jagged edges layered like teeth, a weapon built solely for slaughter.

  Barrett whistled. “Ugly.”

  He pointed at it. “Does it have a name?”

  “My sword?” Wagar asked, pride thick in his voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Balradur.”

  “Yeah,” Barrett said casually, “I’m gonna have to change that when I take it from you.”

  Wagar growled, the sound rolling deep in his chest.

  Around him, the orcs shifted, weapons lifting, brows furrowing as anticipation hardened into bloodlust.

  “And where is your weapon, human trash?” Wagar sneered.

  Barrett reached down and pulled his blade free from the dirt. Next to Balradur it looked pitiful—dented, dulled, scarred by countless impacts. Eidel wondered how it had survived at all.

  “You’re lookin’ at it, little fella.”

  “Are you insane?” Eidel blurted.

  Barrett chuckled without turning. “Nah. I just train that way.”

  Zahir remained silent. His gaze never left Barrett, dark eyes tracking every shift of weight, every subtle adjustment of stance.

  Eidel noticed then, the way the old veteran watched him.

  Zahir wasn’t a gambler. He had never entrusted their lives to chance or bravado. If he was willing to place their fate in Barrett’s hands, it meant he saw something Eidel couldn’t.

  And that unsettled her more than the orcs ever could.

  Because from where she stood, it all looked like a clown show.

  Barrett began to stretch, rolling his shoulders, working the tension from his neck like a man about to spar with an old friend rather than face a massacre. As he moved, the red-haired girl slipped close and murmured softly.

  “Mister Donovan,” the red-haired girl whispered, slipping in close. “You want some help?”

  Barrett turned his head just enough for her to see his expression settle.

  “Damn right,” he murmured, a faint smile still touching his lips. “This is our time.”

  She nodded once and drifted back into place, already gone before anyone thought to track her movement.

  Eidel glanced at Zahir. He only shrugged.

  Barrett cracked his knuckles. The easy grin vanished, replaced by something colder, harder.

  “Alright, Wagar,” he said softly. “Let’s dance.”

  —

  Eidel watched as Barrett strode toward the center of the camp, boots crunching softly over packed dirt and scattered embers. The fires seemed to bend around him as he moved, shadows stretching long and thin across the ground.

  Wagar was already there, waiting.

  The orc chieftain tightened his grip on the massive cleaver and threw his head back, roaring. The sound rolled through the clearing and set the lesser orcs growling in response.

  Barrett didn’t even look at him.

  Instead, he glanced over his shoulder and raised his voice. “Yo, Rei!”

  “Yeah?” came the answer, calm and unbothered.

  “Mind making it so they can’t run?” Barrett asked, as casually as if he were requesting a favor around a campfire.

  “Sure, sure.”

  Rei stepped forward, lifting one hand.

  Fire answered her call.

  Flames burst to life in a wide, sweeping ring, racing across the ground in a roaring arc that closed around the orcs. Heat washed outward, sparks spiraling into the air as the wall of fire rose higher, cutting off every path of escape.

  The orcs recoiled, weapons lifting as panic rippled through their ranks. Eyes darted from the flames to Barrett and back again.

  “You said only you!” Wagar snarled, tusks bared. “Human, you said only you!”

  Barrett laughed, waving one hand dismissively. “Relax, relax,” he said. “She’s just giving us a little light. I wanna be sure I can see all of you.”

  The joke sent him into another round of laughter, loud and genuine, echoing off the firelit stones.

  Beside Eidel, the old woman groaned. “He’s been milking this blind guy bit for weeks now,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “Just loves it.”

  Then everything changed.

  “Blood Oath,” Barrett said, his voice dropping, the humor vanishing. “Stage One.”

  The air around him shifted.

  Power surged outward in a visible spiral, dark and oppressive, curling around his body like living smoke. It wasn’t mana—not like anything Eidel had ever sensed before. This was heavier. Denser. It pressed against her chest and made her skin prickle, steeped in something bitter and hateful.

  The firelight dimmed in its presence.

  Nearby, the red-haired girl murmured a single word, so softly it barely disturbed the air. She blinked once.

  When her eyes opened again, they burned with intricate golden runes, layers of symbols unfolding and collapsing in endless succession. Countless calculations chased one another across her gaze, faster than thought. The rhythm of the world slowed, as though time itself deferred to her.

  As Eidel watched, a thin line of blood traced its way down the girl’s cheek, stark against her skin.

  Zahir sucked in a breath. “Eidel,” he said quietly, concern threading his voice.

  She couldn’t answer.

  Her mouth hung open, heart pounding, mind scrambling to catch up with what her eyes were telling her. She had never imagined seeing power like this, especially not here, on this island, where such things weren’t supposed to exist.

  Not like this.

  She swallowed hard, the question forming unbidden in her thoughts.

  Just who…are these people?