“As you command.” The Castor brothers spoke in tandem. Their movements were identical as they each took a step forward, bending their knees slightly. Their torso turned somewhat towards the left, they held their blades parallel to the ground, the tip pointing at their opponents.

  In tandem, they kicked the ground, dashing towards the cultists surrounding them. The sound of metal hitting metal echoed in the otherwise silent forest, followed by the pained screens, and cut-off grunts of the cultists as the Castor Brothers’ blade found their hearts and throats.

  “What do you think you’re doing?!” The man with the helmet shouted. “There are just two of them!” Was that a tinge of panic in his voice?

  Midhir shifted his gaze towards the Castor Brothers. The cultists they were fighting were better armed and armoured than the ones he, Ilya and the others faced in the catacombs of the Induen House. They wore a mix of chainmail and leather padded armour, carried both spears and swords, and he even spotted a few augments placed into their pommels.

  With narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, he turned his gaze back to the man wearing that ridiculous helmet.

  He was dressed differently than before too. Instead of his ragged clothes, torn cloak and boots that seemed like they could fall apart at any second, he was now wearing chainmail, with reinforced boots and leather gloves that each had a gemstone woven into the back of his hands. A black, fur lined cloak was attached to his shoulders with two golden pins.

  His gaze lingered on his gloves. Two of them. Two hands. Had he seen things wrongly? Hadn’t Ilya burned off that man’s hand? His parted as he breathed in to speak up, but a loud scream cut him off before he could begin.

  “For the Old Gods!” One of the cultists shouted at the top of his lungs as he charged at Midhir.

  “Prince!” The Castor brother in black warned him. He swung his blade and motioned to turn towards the assailant. He was too far away – he wasn’t going to make it in time to get between him and Midhir.

  He drew his blade just as the cultist lunged forward with his spear. The thick thud of wood hitting metal was mostly drowned out by the sounds of battle all around them. The flat side of the slightly curved blade had hit the spear’s wooden haft, changing its direction just enough to miss Midhir. Instead, the cultist stumbled forward, stabbing the ground with his spear, and leaving himself wide open. His eyes widened just for a split second before Midhir’s swift strike slit his throat.

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  The disgusting sounds of the dying man trying to breathe reached his ears. Steeling his resolve, he turned his gaze towards the others – half a dozen men who hadn’t yet engaged the Castor Brothers in battle.

  They were meant to catch him alive.

  He had no such reservations.

  Reaching within, he summoned his spiritual power, controlling its flow as it poured out, through his arms, down to his fingertips, and finally using the sword as a conduit, into the white crystal embedded into its hilt.

  White-silver flames danced on the blade as he bent his knees slightly, held the blade off to his left side, its tip dragging behind him, mimicking one of the many stances the Lord Arbiter had taught him. He breathed out to calm his racing heart somewhat, and his gaze settled on his opponents. As he took his next breath, he lunged forward.

  Leaving trails of white-silver flames burning hot behind, he stuck. The flames leapt from his sword onto the wooden hafts of his opponent’s spears. He forced the flames to separate from his blade, he forced himself to control them despite there being no physical connection. The trails of fire left behind by his blade spread out, forcing the cultists to retreat and allowing him to turn this into a duel – albeit only for a few moments. His strength faded quickly, and his power drained at an alarming rate.

  But a few moments was all he needed. No amount of gear and fine weaponry could make up for a lack of discipline and training. These men had perhaps a few weeks of training at most, and from how scared they seemed of him and the two enforcers wreaking havoc behind him, this was probably their first real battle.

  He pushed his emotions aside and struck. As they fell, he told himself he had given them fast, mostly painless deaths.

  When the last one fell, his gaze turned towards the man with the helmet. They both remained still for a moment, weighing their options.

  The man turned around and ran.

  Midhir kicked the ground, dashing after him. The flames faded away as he stopped the flow of spiritual power.

  The dense forest made it difficult to run. Bushes and large shrubbery blocked the path, while low hanging branches made it difficult to stand straight. Vines and flowery plants hung from the forest canopy, providing them with pale blue light.

  Even when he lost sight of the man, he could follow him with ease simply by listening to the thudding sound of his helmet hitting the branches. He ran, and Midhir followed, until they came to a stop.

  The man was out of breath, he leaned his arm against a tree trunk, panting, taking deep, sharp breaths. His other hand was clenched, pressed against his chest. He lifted his head as Midhir approached. “You don’t give up, do you, prince?” He grunted.

  “Not when my people are threatened.” Midhir grasped the hilt of his blade with both hands. “What you are doing in the name of the Old Gods is doing irreversible damage to the Veil. Do you even know what the consequences of your success could be?”

  “Ascension!” He spat, pointing at Midhir. “We would have had it if not for your meddling! You killed our priestess, massacred our people, and for what?! To protect your precious church? The sun and the daughter?” He scoffed. “False gods, false idols! The Old Gods await! They wait for us to see the truth once more! So they can bless us – with power beyond comprehension!” he shouted, slamming his fist into the tree.

  A sharp pain struck Midhir’s left eye as the forest seemingly came to life.