Chapter 86 : The Weight of a Cut

The night pressed heavily over Arkwyn’s dockside.
Moonlight spilled weakly across the crooked rooftops and warped planks, shimmering on pools of stagnant rainwater that reflected the dull amber glow of far-off lanterns. The river whispered against the pier, dark and slow, carrying the scent of salt, rust, and something faintly metallic — like blood that had long seeped into the wood.


Ian crouched behind a row of stacked barrels, breath shallow, heart pounding so hard he feared the guards would hear it. Beside him, Lio trembled, clutching his wooden toy with one hand as though it were a charm that could protect him. Neither boy spoke. They didn’t need to. The fear between them was loud enough.


The sound of boots echoed closer — rhythmic, precise, the sound of men who didn’t hesitate. Ian peered around the edge of the crate.


Three guards marched along the dock, their armor catching faint moonlight. Between them shuffled three prisoners in chains, heads bowed, wrists bound behind their backs. One of them — Lio’s father — stumbled, earning a sharp blow from a guard’s spear-butt. The dull thud of metal on flesh rang out, followed by a muffled groan.


Lio’s hand shot to his mouth to stifle a cry.
Ian grabbed his shoulder, whispering sharply, “Stay quiet.”


Tears welled in Lio’s eyes, but he nodded.
They watched as the guards dragged the prisoners toward a small transport barge tethered near the end of the pier. The barge itself looked crude — wooden, flat-bottomed, its hull reinforced with iron bands. Two black-robed figures stood aboard, their faces hidden beneath hoods. The air around them felt wrong — cold, even in the stillness of the night.


Ian’s grip tightened on the dagger hidden beneath his coat. Aren’s words echoed through his mind:


“Power isn’t a reward; it’s a conquest. The world doesn’t hand it over—you take it, or you’re crushed beneath it. We decide"
" I already decided it "
“Sometimes all it takes is a single step forward.”


His pulse throbbed in his ears. He could almost feel the blade whispering in his hand — a voice not his own, urging, daring, promising.


“We can’t let them take him,” he breathed.


Lio’s voice was a broken whisper. “But what can we do? There’s too many—”


Ian’s hand trembled as he pressed the dagger’s hilt to his chest, breathing hard. “We wait. For a chance.”


They crouched there for minutes that felt like hours. The guards exchanged terse words, one stepping away to check the chains. Another leaned lazily against a post, yawning — bored. It should have been the perfect moment to slip away, but Ian didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t. His chest burned with something between fear and defiance.


The dagger’s cold weight reminded him of Aren’s eyes — calm, sharp, and merciless.
Would Lord Aren have waited?
Would he have run?


No. He’d act.


A breeze swept through the dock, stirring the river mist around their ankles. One of the guards turned suddenly, his lantern cutting through the darkness. The beam swept over the crates — and froze.


“Hey!”
The man’s voice sliced through the night.


Ian’s blood turned to ice.


“Someone’s there!” the guard barked, raising his spear. Boots thundered against the planks as the others turned.


Lio gasped. “Run!”


But Ian didn’t.
He stood up.


The dagger gleamed faintly in his trembling hand. His heart screamed for him to flee, but his mind — twisted with desperation and pride — refused. If I run, I’ll lose everything. I have to act.


The nearest guard strode toward him, expression darkening as he saw the small figure of a child with a blade. “What in the—?”


Ian lunged.


It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t planned. Just raw, reckless instinct.
The blade slashed forward, cutting across the guard’s sleeve, grazing his skin. The man staggered back more from shock than pain, a curse leaving his lips. “You little—!”


Then came the retaliation.


The guard’s hand shot out, striking Ian across the face. The world spun. He hit the planks hard, the dagger clattering out of his hand and sliding across the dock. Lio screamed his name.


Ian barely had time to breathe before the guard grabbed his collar, hauling him up like a ragdoll. “Who sent you?!” he roared, his eyes flashing. “Thieves’ brats, are you?!”


“I—” Ian choked, trying to speak, his lip bleeding. “I was just—!”


The man raised his fist again, fury overtaking discipline.


Then something moved in the darkness.


Something shifted behind him — a whisper of motion, a shadow slicing through the dark.


Narissa appeared soundlessly behind him, her palm snapping sharply against the side of his neck. The blow wasn’t perfect — the man staggered, half-dazed, struggling to keep his balance as his hand groped for his sword.


He turned, fury twisting his face. “You—!”


Before he could draw, Narissa’s leg moved in a swift, controlled arc — her knee driving into his back, forcing him forward — then a clean strike landed again at the base of his neck. This time, his body went still and collapsed, face-first, onto the planks.


Ian blinked, dazed. The faint silhouette that stood before him was cloaked in the moonlight.


Narissa.


Her eyes burned gold in the dark, fierce and controlled. “You’ve got courage,” she said flatly, “but no sense.”


Ian flinched, clutching his bruised face. “I… I was just trying to—”


“Get yourself killed?” she snapped. “Congratulations. You almost succeeded.”


The other guards shouted, realizing something was wrong.


There was no time to breathe.
The other two guards had already closed in, spears leveled.


Narissa ducked under the first thrust. The tip hissed past her cheek, close enough to stir her hair. She rolled aside, feeling the rush of air as the second spear struck the wooden pier where she had stood a moment before.


Her hand lit with a brief flicker — a spark of flame bursting forth. A small fireball shot forward, slamming into one guard’s chest. The blast wasn’t powerful, but it was sudden — enough to send him reeling backward with a curse, smoke rising faintly from the singed fabric.


The second guard lunged again. The spear grazed her arm — not deep, but sharp enough to tear the edge of her sleeve. The cloth caught on the weapon’s shaft, jerking slightly as she twisted her wrist.


Narissa used it.
She yanked the torn fabric back, pulling the spear with it. The man stumbled forward, his stance broken — and she spun with precision, her elbow cracking into his neck. He dropped instantly, eyes rolling back.


The last guard, still recovering from the fireball, growled and charged.


Ian froze — then, with trembling determination, snatched up his dagger. The blade gleamed faintly under the moonlight as he slashed at the man’s side. It barely cut the armor, but it made him falter, his stance breaking for an instant.


Narissa moved like lightning. She slipped past the guard’s defense, twisted, and struck his neck in a clean, decisive blow. The man slumped to the ground beside the others.


Silence returned — the soft lap of the river and the sound of Ian’s ragged breathing the only things left.


Slyvie rushed out from the shadows, panting. “Narissa! Are you okay?!”


Narissa glanced over her shoulder, irritation flickering in her eyes. “I told you to stay back.”


Slyvie pouted. “I did— mostly.”


She knelt beside Ian, who was staring at the unconscious guard, trembling. The dagger in his hand, its silver edge smeared faintly with blood.
Not his. The guard’s.


Slyvie hesitated, then reached out, placing a small hand on his arm. “Hey… it’s okay. You’re safe now.”


But Ian didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the dagger — the way it caught the moonlight, the way it looked at him.


He’d drawn blood.


And deep inside, something twisted — not guilt, but disbelief. It had been real. The blade worked.


Lio stumbled over, eyes wide, face pale. “Ian— you— you stabbed him!”


“I didn’t mean to,” Ian whispered. “He— he saw us, and I—”


Narissa crouched down, gripping his chin and forcing his gaze up to hers. “Look at me.”


His eyes flickered to hers, dazed and tear-streaked.


“You think this makes you strong?” Her voice was low but hard. “This is what happens when you try to play hero without knowing the rules.”


He shook his head frantically. “I just wanted to save him— Lio’s father— they’re going to kill him!”


Narissa’s eyes softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. “What happened to him, Ian? Why were you even here?”


Before he could answer, Slyvie knelt beside him, her small hands glowing faintly with a gentle blue hue. “You’re bleeding. Let me heal you.”


Ian shook his head quickly. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”


Slyvie frowned. “That’s what everyone says before fainting.”


“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, sharper this time. His voice trembled, but there was defiance in it — something older than his years.


Narissa exhaled slowly, crouching to meet his gaze. “You nearly died tonight for something you barely understood. That’s not bravery — that’s foolishness.”


Ian’s jaw tightened. “Then what should I have done? Watch them take him? Pretend it doesn’t matter?”


Narissa paused. His words cut deeper than expected. “You should have lived long enough to make a difference,” she said finally. “Charging into death doesn’t change the world.”


Ian looked down at the dagger resting beside him. “Maybe not… but doing nothing makes me worse.”


The way he said it — quiet, but cold — sent a chill through her. This wasn’t a child’s guilt. It was something else.


Slyvie’s hand hovered uncertainly between them. “He just wanted to help, Narissa.”


“I know.” Narissa stood, brushing dirt off her gloves. “But good intentions don’t erase consequences.” She looked at Ian again, expression unreadable. “You’re lucky it was us who found you — not the wrong people.”


Ian didn’t respond. His eyes lingered on the blood-stained edge of the dagger, and for a moment, his reflection wavered across the steel — small, fragile, and yet… eerily calm.


He thought of Aren’s voice again.
“Power doesn’t protect. It decides.”


He clenched the dagger tightly, as if holding on to something that could explain what he felt. The world had finally reacted to his will — even if it struck back harder than he expected.


Narissa stood over the fallen guards, boots planted firmly on the damp wood. The air was thick — the kind of silence that hangs after chaos. She turned toward Ian, who still sat there clutching the dagger, his hands trembling but his eyes… strangely steady.


“Now Talk,” she said. “What were you doing here? Why would you risk this?”


Ian swallowed hard. His voice came out hoarse. “Lio’s father… he— he made a deal.”


Narissa’s brow tightened. “A deal?”


Lio nodded miserably beside him. “They said… they’d spare my family if he agreed to go with them. They— they gave him coin. He— he told me to run.” His voice broke. “He said it would be okay.”


Narissa’s jaw hardened. “Money for a life.” She let the words sit between them like a verdict. “So they bought him.”


Slyvie’s eyes widened. “That’s horrible…”


Narissa’s gaze slid to one of the unconscious men at her feet — a city guard, his helmet dented, his breath shallow. She crouched and checked him quickly: no sigils, no strange markings — just the plain, utilitarian armor of Arkwyn’s watch. “City guards,” she muttered. “Not some masked cult. That explains the uniforms.”


Slyvie peeked over her shoulder. “Then… what do we do?”


Narissa looked up, a plan forming. “We make him tell us.” Her tone was flat, efficient.


Slyvie’s face brightened with childish glee. “Interrogation time!”


Ian blinked. “Wait, what are you going to—”


“Information gathering,” Narissa said. “Standard procedure.” She already had the rope in her hand.