Chapter 12—Braving the Storm

“Courage shared is fear divided”

Rain still fell, but it was no longer thunder that pressed hardest—it was the clash of survival.

Raiden’s boots splashed through mud, his breath tearing raw in his throat. The whip coiled slick in his hand, useless against the storm of spears falling from Weldin’s staff. He had to keep moving—angles, always angles—circling, lunging, sliding as shards burst in the muck. His arms stung with cuts, his shoulder screamed where a spike had grazed deep, and still he pushed forward, only to veer away again. Every step was a choice: advance or live another second.

Tadari was nowhere near the fight at first. He was half-buried under the fallen Stormfoot, forcing himself up through sucking mud, Ophelin crumpled across his lap. He pressed his palm to her thigh, blood hot beneath the rain. The cut was deep, near the bone. Her right arm hung twisted, white splinter of bone pushing against torn flesh. Tadari’s jaw tightened. “Out of the fight… worse if I don’t hold her together.”

He stripped his tunic with one hand, teeth tearing at the seams, binding her thigh as tight as the mud-slick cloth would hold. His sword lay forgotten in the mire; now his hands were weapons of a different kind. He braced her broken arm against the snapped haft of his wooden blade, wrapping her own sash around it until her groans quieted into a fading rasp.

“Don’t you quit on me,” he muttered, not knowing if she heard.

Ophelin stirred weakly, lashes fluttering. Her mouth worked, but only a hoarse whisper came: “Still… fight…” Her hand groped for the pitchfork she no longer held. The will burned in her eyes, but her body refused. She sagged again, breath shallow, caught between stubbornness and the black veil of unconsciousness.

Tadari shoved his shoulder against the Stormfoot’s flank. The beast, as though sensing his desperation, strained with him. Muscles trembled, hooves scrabbled, and with a grunt the horse crawled forward, freeing him. Tadari heaved Ophelin onto the saddle, slapped the hind, and watched the Stormfoot lunge into the storm, carrying her away.

He turned back. Raiden was still alive, but only barely.

The boy darted in wide circles, rain and blood mingling on his face. His eyes flickered strangely—frames overlapping, stuttering visions pressing against reality. A sense of déjà vu clawed at him, as if he’d fought like this before, as if every dodge and slip echoed something long buried. He blinked, and for a heartbeat the fight wasn’t mud and storm—it was somewhere else. A blur of leaves, a clash of steel. Then it was gone. But he didn’t have time to wonder. Another ice spear shrieked past, clipping his ribs, and he staggered sideways, nearly toppling.

The Barowen lackeys closed in, shapes converging through the storm. Tadari’s fists clenched. Weaponless, exhausted, he charged to Raiden’s side.

Their eyes met for one fleeting second, a wordless pact.

Together they rushed Weldin. Tadari first, slipping past a spike that shattered against the mud, closing distance with relentless steps. Raiden came from the opposite flank, his path jagged but steady, forcing Weldin to split his focus.

The mage adapted with vicious grace. Ice bloomed from the ground, jagged walls rising to block their charge. Thin sheets formed underfoot, slicking the earth until Raiden skidded sideways, barely catching balance. Tadari vaulted the rim of a fresh wall, only for a crystalline gauntlet to erupt around Weldin’s arm, catching Tadari’s punch and twisting it aside.

The melee devolved into chaos. Tadari pressed, striking with knees and shoulders, raw bodywork honed by habit. Raiden struck from angles, whip cracking like a lash, more distraction than weapon. Weldin kept them both at bay with conjured spikes, icy bursts flaring with every movement, his face locked in grim concentration.

And still, the Barowen lackeys came. Ten, nine, eight, charging through mud to surround them.

Then the night blinked.

A glint in the storm—small, feathered. One fell. Another. Two more in the next breath. Bodies toppled into the muck, arrows sunk deep where shields should have been.

Raiden’s heart lurched. “You’re late,” he thought, a half-crazed smile breaking through his bloodied face. “But thank the gods you’re here.”

Tadari glanced, eyes widening as more of the pursuers dropped. He caught the fletching at a distance, faint against the lightning. Damn fine archer. His focus snapped back, but his chest eased.

Rad pushed harder than the rest, sprinting against the rain. His shield raised, his spear lunging again and again—endurance personified. But as the last of his comrades fell to feathered shafts, Rad stumbled, knees sinking into the mud. He did not cry out. He simply sat there, shoulders shaking, shield planted in the earth before him. He would not rise again.

And Weldin faltered.

His breath ragged, his stance unsteady. Spells had flown too fast, too often. Conjuring from nothing tore at the mind, and the cracks showed in his wavering step. Tadari saw it. Raiden felt it.

They struck as one.

Tadari lunged low, tackling Weldin square in the gut, driving the air from his lungs. Raiden swept behind, whip discarded, his arms locking around the mage’s throat. Weldin clawed, ice bursting weakly at his fingers, but his strength was gone. The three wrestled in the mud, rain plastering their hair, breaths coming in animal gasps. At last, Weldin sagged, eyes rolling, body limp.

Silence rushed in—broken only by the hiss of rain.

Raiden staggered back, chest heaving, legs trembling as though they would give. He dropped to his knees, mud splashing, a laughless sound rattling his chest. “We almost died…”

“Check Ophelin.” Tadari’s voice cut through, sharp despite his ragged breath.

The reminder jolted him. Raiden lurched upright, gaze snapping toward the path where the Stormfoot had fled.

Randall emerged then, stepping from the storm’s veil, bow lowered, rain streaking his face. He said nothing—his eyes alone spoke patience, clarity, the calm of a man who did what needed to be done. Raiden and Tadari passed him, urgency burning their battered bodies.

As they rushed by, Tadari spared only the briefest words: “Ophelin’s bad. Randall—we’ll explain on the way.”

The three moved together into the storm, chasing the trail of hoofprints and blood, hearts heavy with one thought.

Would she still be alive when they reached her?