Chapter 23:

Feral Joy

Children of Mother Moon

The corridor vibrated under Lantar’s weight, each footfall a drumbeat of imminent destruction. Red-black flame clung to his skin in angry, flickering bursts, like coals caught in motion, painting the stone walls with shadows that moved and writhed unnaturally. His face twisted with glee, accentuated by the black tattoo, a mark that somehow made him look like a wolf ready to strike.

Galir’s twin swords glinted under the torchlight, the steel reflecting his steely gray eyes and the tension in his pale face. His longish red hair was tied back at the neck, leaving his vision clear. He shifted his stance subtly, boots scraping against stone, listening to Lantar’s erratic rhythm as if the man’s movements were a language he could learn.

The first attack came without warning, a sudden momentum. Lantar launched himself forward, body a blur, swinging with a wide, arcing strike of both fists, red flame leaping from the impact points. Galir rolled sideways, letting the aftershock explode into the wall behind him. Splintered stone rained down, dust choking the air, but he remained upright, blade ready.

Every move Lantar made was chaotic, unpredictable, and yet, like a predator, deliberate. He ducked mid-swing, shifted his weight, and kicked off the wall with a microburst of force that sent him flying diagonally across the corridor. His grin was wide, even as a fresh cut streaked down his cheek, bleeding freely. Pain didn’t slow him. Joy seemed to fuel his speed.

Galir’s mind raced. He cataloged each pattern, or rather, the lack of one. Lantar’s attacks were designed to be unreadable, yet there were small tells, subtle shifts before the bursts, the way his knees bent before a leap, the slight twist in his shoulders when he committed to a strike. Galir noted them silently. Observation was survival.

He lunged forward, parrying a wild overhand swing with one blade while the other cut along the edge of Lantar’s forearm, drawing a thin line of dark blood. Lantar hissed in surprise and pleasure. His black eyes sparkled with something feral, teeth bared in an expression that should have terrified.

“You’re fast,” Galir said evenly, ducking under a kick that snapped across the corridor like a whip. “But predictable.”

Lantar’s grin widened. “Predictable? You’ve been reading me?” He lunged again, each strike faster, more jagged. His limbs blurred; the flames trailing him made it impossible to see where he would strike next.

Galir countered with precision, using both swords to create overlapping lines of defense. The first blocked a shoulder strike; the second caught a spinning kick aimed at his torso. Sparks flew as steel met the residual energy of Lantar’s bursts, and stone cracked beneath their feet.

Another strike, Lantar twisted mid-leap, swinging from above in a blinding arc. Galir pivoted, letting one sword slide under the attack while the other slashed across Lantar’s thigh. Red-black energy hissed where the steel met muscle, but Lantar laughed, the sound wild, unrestrained.

“Yes!” the man roared, spinning to face Galir again. Blood dripped from cuts on his arms and chest, but he flexed his hands and pushed forward as if the injuries were nothing. “Stronger than the others! Faster! Cleverer! I like this!”

Galir didn’t respond with words. He moved fluidly, boots scraping, blades slicing, body angled perfectly to minimize exposure. Each step was measured. He rotated his stance, letting the man’s aggression carry him into counters rather than brute clashes. He wasn’t trying to defeat Lantar yet, he was studying, surviving, and preparing for the moment to exploit the briefest lapse.

The corridor was a mess of shadows and sparks. Dust and splinters hung in the air, caught in the red-black glow that seemed to radiate from Lantar’s very skin. The walls were cracked, corners splintered, and yet, Galir’s mind remained sharp.

Galir noted the oddity: Lantar’s joy increased as he hurt himself. The man had no respect for his own body. The deeper the wound, the louder he laughed. That had to be the weakness.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Galir said, voice steady even as his shoulders stung from the strength of the attack he blocked. “You think you’re invincible, but you're already half broken.”

Lantar’s black eyes flickered with amusement. “Broken? No, brother,” he said, voice guttural and teasing. “I am free. Free to burn. Free to laugh.”

The man twisted mid-leap again, body bending at an impossible angle, swinging a fist toward Galir’s ribs. Galir dropped low, letting the attack sail over him while slashing upward with one blade at Lantar’s arm. Red-black flames brightened where steel cut the edge of his energy bursts, but Lantar’s grin only widened.

“Clever!” Lantar hissed, spinning, grabbing a wall with one hand and pushing off with a microburst of magic that sent him swinging toward Galir from the side. “Faster! Yes!”

Galir sidestepped, feeling the air whip past his cheek as the man’s elbow struck a stone column, shattering it into pieces. The aftershock thudded through his boots. He rolled, barely. If even one strike hit him, he would be done for.

A blur of movement. Lantar’s hair whipped around his face, curls bouncing. His chest heaved, bare and scarred. His laughter echoed off the walls.

“Yes! Yes!” he screamed, rolling back and landing lightly, energy flaring brighter. “You fight like he should have!”

Galir didn’t flinch, though the praise carried that same tone he was beginning to recognize.

Lantar’s mind was fractured, memories of the brother he had killed, mixed with rage and delight. He used it all to fuel his speed.

Galir’s eyes narrowed. This man was no ordinary threat. He wasn’t just fast, strong, or deadly. He was chaos incarnate. And yet, he could be studied. He could be anticipated, enough to survive.

Galir shifted again, blades crossing defensively, then striking quickly at Lantar’s wrist and shoulder. Lantar stepped back in delight.

“Brilliant!” Lantar screamed. “Fight back! Make me laugh!”

Galir allowed himself the tiniest of smiles beneath his concentration. He wasn’t afraid. He can win this. He was reading, analyzing, living within the storm, measuring every beat of that feral heart.

For now, understanding was the weapon. And Lantar… the wolf, the fire, the chaos incarnate… was the puzzle that would determine if they all lived another hour.

*****

Galir’s chest heaved, lungs burning, sweat matting his long red hair to the back of his neck. His swords were streaked with blackened marks from brushing Lantar’s flames, though none of his steel had broken yet.

A sudden lurch of movement, a forward surge with impossible speed, sent Galir skidding across the stone. He slammed a sword into the wall to slow down and roll, but pain tore along his side where a fist of red-black flame had connected. His vision blurred momentarily as the aftershock rattled his teeth. Lantar didn’t pause. He laughed, a raw, animalistic sound, voice echoing off the shattered walls, and came at him again.

“You’ve got fire, brother,” Lantar hissed, wild eyes alight behind the stark black tattoo. “You’re stronger than I thought! But not enough!”

Galir pressed his teeth together, spinning and slashing with both blades, deflecting a swipe of claws that carried the heat and force of a battering ram. Red cracks pulsed outward with every blow, aftershocks erupting from the corridor floor and walls like miniature earthquakes. Galir dodged them, weaving and rolling, but each misstep left him bruised and bleeding. He couldn't keep this up. He needed to end this fight as soon as possible.

“Well, then,” Galir muttered under his breath, sidestepping a strike that would have cleaved through his torso, “I guess I’ll just have to show you what I can do.”

Lantar lunged again, a blur of red-black flame. Galir tried stopping it with his crossed blades. A mistake. He fell back hard, sliding along cracked stone, gritting his teeth as pain shot up from his arms and side. Lantar’s grin widened, glinting teeth in the dark light.

“Beautiful!” the man yelled. “I want to see more pain.”

Galir rose slowly, feeling every muscle screaming, every joint bruised. His swords were heavy, sweat and blood making the grips slick. He measured Lantar carefully, heart steady despite the creeping exhaustion. Each of the man’s motions carried a pulse of the Flame of Will, a burst of energy that could knock him off balance if misjudged. Yet Galir adjusted, blocking, parrying, countering just enough to stay upright.

But Lantar was learning him as much as he studied Lantar. The wild motions were deliberate in their madness; there was a rhythm between bursts, a subtle weight shift before each leap. Galir saw it, predicted it. And yet, the sheer force, the raw acceleration… it was overwhelming.

A clawed swipe grazed his torso, ripping through cloth and skin. Pain flared; a hiss escaped him. Lantar didn’t slow. Flipping, spinning, pivoting at impossible angles, strikes raining down like jagged comets.

Galir caught a brief glimpse of his own face on his blade: pale, streaked with blood, eyes steely and focused.

He gritted his teeth, backing away, assessing. The corridor was no longer wide enough to allow full swings.

Lantar pressed him relentlessly, pushing, striking at angles that shouldn’t exist.

Then a sudden pause. Lantar’s black eyes locked onto the warded room behind Galir. He emitted a low, thrilled growl, and the energy in the air thickened.

Galir’s heart sank. Lantar jumped over his head with a fast burst of energy, and slammed into the reinforced ward with a force that splintered the shield magic instantly. Light flickered, sigils cracked. Dust and splinters flew from the walls like shrapnel.

The safe room beyond was no longer safe.

Galir’s stomach dropped.

Lantar had turned his attention.

To the people inside.

“No,” Galir yelled, stepping between Lantar and the safe room. “You fight me.”

“I am,” Lantar said.

Then he moved.

Not at Galir.

At the door.

“No!”

Galir leapt, blade driving into the sorcerer’s back.

A normal man would have fallen.

Lantar just turned and slammed into him with full force.

Galir hit the wall. His sword flew from his hand. Stars burst across his vision. He couldn't move for several moments.

When he finally managed to open his eyes…

A blur.

Lantar grabbed a servant who had stepped out of the safe room, maybe to help, maybe to flee, Galir would never know. A boy, barely older than Galir himself. Pale hair, eyes wide with fear.

Lantar’s hand wrapped around the servant’s throat.

Galir screamed.

“Don’t!”

Too late.

Lantar’s grip crushed.

A single twist, violent and efficient.

A sound echoed through the corridor. A sharp, wet crack.

Then silence.

And then the screaming started.

It was the kind of scream that tore at the walls.

No words. Just horror. Raw and human.

From inside the safe room. He heard Bilia shouting his name, her voice choked and distant under the weight of it all.