A Premonition in Violet

The primal urge to stop, to plant his feet on the unstable ground and scream for a single, coherent answer, became a physical ache. But the man ahead moved with an unnerving, economical grace, his form weaving through the oppressive gloom of the ancient woods as if he were born of them.

“Wait a minute!” Nicolas finally choked out, the words tearing from his throat, raw and hoarse. “Just stop! What is happening? You haven’t even given me a name.”

The man cast a fleeting, sharp glance over his shoulder, his stride not faltering for even a beat. “I’ve given you a chance to stay alive,” he clipped out, his voice a low baritone that barely carried over the sound of their flight. “For now, that should be more than enough. This is no time for conversation.”

“It is for me!” Nicolas countered, stumbling over a gnarled root and barely catching his balance. Fear and desperation frayed the edges of his voice. “One moment, I’m in chains on my way to who-knows-where, and the next, I’m chasing a ghost through a forest that shouldn’t exist. You owe me an explanation!”

The man stopped. The sudden halt was so complete that Nicolas nearly barreled into his back. A heavy, profound silence crashed down around them, so thick it felt like a physical pressure. The typical hum of the wilderness—the insects, the rustle of unseen creatures—seemed to have vanished, holding its breath. “Be silent,” he whispered, the command sharp enough to cut.

It was then that another voice, impossibly clear and resonant, sliced through the gloom. It was a voice of calm, aristocratic confidence, laced with a chilling undercurrent of amusement.

“Hector. I had a feeling you would attempt something like this.”

The man called Hector went rigid, his posture transforming into that of a cornered predator. He aimed his response into the oppressive darkness, his tone layered with the weight of an old, bitter history.

“Lucas. It has been a long time.”

From the deep shadows between two monolithic trees, a figure materialized. The armor he wore was not the practical, worn leather and steel of Hector’s; it was ornate, its polished surfaces capturing the faint, filtered light with a dull gleam. A derisive smirk twisted his lips as his gaze drifted lazily from Hector to settle on Nicolas. His eyes, cold and assessing, conducted a slow, contemptuous appraisal from head to toe. “A Zinox I have not seen before,” he mused, as if commenting on a curious new species of insect.

Hector’s voice cut in, sharp and immediate, deliberately steering the conversation. “So, the state assigned you to guard the transport.”

Lucas let out a dry, humorless laugh that grated on the ears. “You know me, Hector. The only thing that ever matters is the price offered.”

The words hung in the humid air, an unambiguous declaration that this conflict could only be settled with blood. Hector needed no further confirmation. With a movement too fast to properly track, he swept the longbow from his back. In a single, fluid motion that spoke of a thousand repetitions, he nocked an arrow, drew the heavy string back to his cheek, and released. A sharp, lethal thrum vibrated through the air, followed an instant later by a wet, choked grunt from the shadows behind Lucas. A dark shape crumpled to the forest floor without another sound.

“Now!” Lucas roared, and his men exploded from the treeline.

Hector spun to Nicolas, his expression a mask of grim urgency. “Protect yourself!” he yelled, immediately turning to meet the vicious, downward slash of Lucas’s own sword. The night air shrieked with the clang of steel on steel.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized Nicolas as two men charged directly at him. His analytical mind, the mind of a journalist who dealt in facts and evidence, simply shut down, replaced by a storm of white-noise terror.

This is it. This is how I die.

He had no weapon, no training, nothing but the inadequate clothes on his back. The man on the right grinned, revealing stained teeth, and raised a crude short sword for a killing blow.

And in that moment, the world fractured.

It wasn't a thought, or even a sight. It was a phantom sensation, a jolt of ice-cold certainty that bypassed his brain entirely. A ghostly, shimmering overlay of the man’s arm appeared in his vision, tracing the exact arc the sword would take. His body, acting on this impossible foreknowledge, threw itself sideways in a clumsy, desperate scramble. The movement was ugly and devoid of grace, but it was effective. The man’s blade sliced through the empty air, precisely where Nicolas’s throat had been a fraction of a second before.

Thrown off balance by his own momentum, the second attacker lunged, his fist leading. Again, the strange sense flared. This time, the trajectory of the punch burned itself onto Nicolas’s vision like a faint, violet tracer, a ghostly echo of the light that had consumed him in that abandoned studio. He ducked under the blow, the man’s knuckles grazing his hair. His legs tangled beneath him, and he crashed to the wet ground, the impact knocking the wind from him, but he was still breathing. He was still, impossibly, alive.

Sparks flew in the darkness as Hector and Lucas exchanged a furious series of blows. Lucas was all aggression, his ornate sword a blur of powerful, sweeping attacks, while Hector was a study in grim efficiency, parrying each strike and seeking an opening, his movements always keeping him between the fight and Nicolas. For a split second, Hector’s gaze flickered to Nicolas on the ground, and a look of sheer, unadulterated shock flashed across his face.

The skirmish ended as quickly as it had begun. Having lost two men and seeing his intended captive inexplicably evading trained soldiers, Lucas made a tactical choice. With a final, furious parry that sent Hector stumbling back a step, he created distance. His eyes, burning with a cold, frustrated hatred, locked onto Nicolas. “This is not over,” he snarled, and the look in them was no longer just contempt; it was a flicker of sharp, analytical curiosity. Then, he and his remaining man were gone, swallowed once more by the impenetrable darkness.

Hector remained poised for another long moment, his chest heaving, scanning the silent trees before finally slinging his bow over his shoulder. He strode quickly to Nicolas’s side.

“Their return is inevitable,” he said, his voice tight with a strained urgency. “We need to be far from here before they regroup.”

Nicolas, trembling from a bizarre cocktail of adrenaline and a profound sense of violation at his own body’s strange autonomy, pushed himself up from the damp earth. “After,” he panted, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “After we’re safe… are you going to tell me what’s happening to me?”

Hector met his desperate, questioning gaze. He said nothing, but gave a single, heavy nod. It was more than a simple confirmation; it was a solemn promise.