Gathering Storm

Finn's eyes darted between the spinning needle and Pyrrhus's unwavering gaze. For a moment, his bravado wavered, a flicker of fear eclipsing his anger. But the gnawing hunger in his belly pushed him to the brink.

He took a half-step forward, his fists clenching, but Erik, ever the cautious one, grabbed his arm and yanked him back. "Don't be stupid, Finn," he hissed. "He'll skewer you like a pig on a spit."

Finn reluctantly backed down, his cheeks flushing with anger and humiliation. Pyrrhus, his threat still hanging in the air, gave a satisfied smirk. "Wise choice," he said, turning to Owen. "Let's go collect our dinner."

As Owen gathered the fallen birds, his eyes darted nervously between Pyrrhus and the scowling duo. Pyrrhus noticed Sera eyeing the bird at her feet. "You can have that one," he offered. "But you'll have to eat it alone."

Sera wrinkled her nose but didn't protest. A lone bird wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Finn and Erik, watching from the sidelines, seethed with jealousy. "Look at the little snitch," Finn spat, his voice barely a whisper. "Always sucking up to the weaklings."

"Yeah," Erik chimed in, his eyes narrowing as he watched Owen carefully place each bird into a sack. "Figures the coward would befriend the runt. His family's nothing but a bunch of charity cases, living off the scraps of others."

"His grandpa's a crippled fool," Finn added, a cruel laugh escaping his lips. "And his granny? She's nothing but a beggar, always scrounging for scraps like a starving dog."

Owen flinched at every word, his hands trembling as he picked up the last bird. He knew Finn and Erik were echoing their parents' poisonous whispers, the same ones that had haunted him since they'd fled, the same ones that blamed his grandparents for their misfortune. He wanted to scream at them to shut up, to defend his family's honor, but fear held him back.

The whispers continued, growing louder, more vicious. "It's no wonder they're always starving," Finn sneered. "They're too proud to admit they're failures, too pathetic to ask for help."

"If they had any shame left, they would be begging everyone in camp forgiveness for their failures," Erik added, his voice dripping with venom. "They're a stain on this camp."

Pyrrhus, who held himself back hoping for Owen to react had enough. His blood ran cold, a surge of fury coursing through his veins. He whipped around, his eyes blazing with a righteous anger that made even Finn take a step back.

Before anyone could react, a flash of steel flickered. Finn screamed, clutching his ear in agony as blood spurted between his fingers.

"What did you do?!" Erik shrieked, his voice a mix of terror and rage.

"That's for insulting Owen's family," Pyrrhus growled, his voice dangerously low. "Try it again, and the next one won't miss your throat."

"You think you can scare us with your magic, you little freak?" Erik snarled, stepping forward. "It won't change the truth. Their family is made up of a bunch of failures and losers!"

Pyrrhus's mana surged, his fists clenching as he prepared to unleash another attack. But before he could strike, a small hand grabbed his arm. He spun around, expecting to see Sera, but it was Owen, his eyes wide with terror.

"Please, Pyrrhus," Owen whispered, his voice trembling. "Don't. After all, my … my grandpa did make mistakes."

*****

The battlefield was a gruesome scene, littered with the bodies of forty fallen soldiers. Carrion birds circled overhead, their harsh cries a chilling contrast to the eerie silence that hung over the scene. A lone figure, boots squelching in the blood-soaked earth, approached a woman standing at the edge of the carnage.

Her once gleaming armor was now a canvas of crimson splatter, the dark braids of her hair indistinguishable from the carnage around her.

"It is done," the figure whispered, their voice barely audible above the wind's mournful song.

A tremor rippled through the woman, her gloved hand tightening reflexively around the hilt of her bloodied sword.

The echo of heavy footsteps shattered the fragile peace. From the shadows emerged a tall, imposing figure, his face etched with the cruelty of a thousand battles. Vestin, strode forward, flanked by a phalanx of soldiers clad in gleaming armor that mocked the broken bodies strewn around them.

Two figures, their faces grim and weary, joined the woman, their eyes scanning the fallen soldiers with ruthless efficiency. One was a tall, lean woman with fierce grey eyes and a scar that bisected her left cheek like a jagged lightning bolt. The other was a younger man, his youthful face hardened by the grim task at hand.

They moved with the practiced ease of experienced warriors, their movements betraying no hint of remorse as they ensured none of the fallen soldiers were still alive.

"Didn't expect to see you here in the flesh, Vestin," the scarred warrior sneered, her voice dripping with disdain.

"Must be something important to bring you all the way out here," the younger man chimed in, his hand twitching towards the dagger at his hip.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the clearing as Vestin emerged from the shadows, his soldiers parting to create a path. He was a figure of undeniable power, his presence radiating a quiet menace that made even the bravest hearts tremble.

"Excellent work, Lyra," Vestin's voice was smooth as silk, yet an undercurrent of malice lurked beneath the surface.

The woman, Lyra, turned to face him. Her figure was lean and athletic, her dark hair pulled back into a tight braid that snaked down her back. Her eyes, the color of a storm cloud, blazed with a fury that could incinerate a man. "What do you want?" she hissed, her voice barely a whisper but filled with venom.

Vestin's lips curled into a cruel smile. "None of the mercenaries I hired, nor the bounties I've placed, have yielded any results," he said calmly. "It seems Jonathan has vanished."

A sardonic smile twisted her lips. "You underestimated him," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "He may be injured, but he was the one who taught us both."

"An oversight on my part," Vestin conceded. "One I intend to rectify." His gaze bored into Lyra's, a silent challenge passing between them. "You will hunt him down."

The clearing fell into a stunned silence.

"What?" the scarred warrior whispered, her hand tightening on her sword hilt.

The soldiers behind Vestin mirrored her stance, their eyes darting between their leader and the woman he had just tasked with a mission.

Vestin continued, unperturbed by the growing hostility. "You've had the best results of anyone I know. I trust you to track him down."

Lyra's men bristled, their anger barely contained.

"Just say the word, Captain," the younger man growled, his eyes locked on Vestin.

Lyra's fingers tightened around her sword, her knuckles white with suppressed rage. She wanted to strike, to unleash the fury that simmered within her, but she knew it was a futile gesture. Vestin held all the power here.

"You destroyed his life," she said, her voice shaking with barely restrained fury. "Killed his family. Laid waste to the land he swore to protect. What more will you take from him?"

Vestin turned, his back to Lyra as he walked away. "Everything," he said, his voice a chilling whisper that echoed through the desolate battlefield.

*****

A/N:

Thanks for reading Chapter 14! I hope you're enjoying John's journey as Pyrrhus. Your comments and votes really motivate me to keep writing.

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