Draw

The words lingered in the common room.

“…Leave them alone.”

Silence lingered for a heartbeat before the three men slowly turned toward Flint, one of them throwing back his head with a barking laugh.

“Well now.”

Another leaned lazily against the counter, looking Flint up and down.

“And who’s this, then? D’you hire a village boy to rough us up?”

“N-No I—“ the innkeeper stammered, nervously looking at the young man.

Flint ignored them, his attention settling instead on the innkeeper, whose trembling hands and frightened wife told him everything he needed to know.

They really were afraid.

Flint took a slow breath.

“You’ve taken enough.”

The tallest of the three grinned.

“Have we?”

“Yes.”

“And if we disagree?”

Flint rested a hand on the worn handle of the axe at his belt.

"Then I'll stop you."

The words lingered in the air before the three men broke into laughter.

"You?"

“I’ve chopped wood my whole life.” Flint shrugged, “…People aren’t much harder than trees.”

The laughter died just as suddenly as it had begun, not because Flint's words were frightening, but because he'd spoken them with the quiet certainty of someone stating a simple fact. The leader spat on the floor.

“You’ve got courage.”

“I’d rather have breakfast.”

That earned him another laugh.

“You’re funny.” He took a step forward, “But you’ve made one mistake already, kid.”

He jabbed a thumb toward the window.

"You only counted three."

A sharp whistle echoed from outside, and Flint's stomach sank as heavy boots answered from beyond the entrance—three sets of footsteps, each one growing louder until the inn's front door swung open.

Three more men strode inside, armed with axes, short swords, and a crossbow.

Six in total.

Isla quietly stepped beside Flint, her quarterstaff sliding into her hands.

“I’m right with you.”

There wasn't a trace of hesitation in her tone. Standing by while someone suffered simply wasn't in her nature.

Flint nodded.

“Please, don’t do this!” the innkeeper pleaded, while his wife clung to his arm, her own voice breaking as she added, “They’ll just take even more the next time they come!” Behind them, a little girl peeked timidly through the crack of a nearby doorway, her frightened eyes fixed on the men.

The leader smiled.

“Too late, fellows.”

He drew his sword.

“It’s time to see how brave village folk really are.”

Steel hissed free around the room. Flint answered by pulling the axe from his belt.

Not the Bloodblade.

Never that.

The old axe settled comfortably into his hands.

The familiar weight steadied him.

Good.

That was good.

He didn’t need the sword.

Not this time.

He had to make sure he didn’t need it again.

“Last chance,” Flint said. “Don’t make it come to this.”

One of the bandits rushed him, but Flint met the charge head-on, planting his feet as the haft of his axe crashed into the man's jaw with a resounding crack that sent him stumbling into a nearby table. Before another could reach him, Flint kicked a chair into his legs, dropping him to the floor.

A third bandit swung before Flint could recover, and he barely caught the blow on the haft of his axe, the impact rattling through his arms hard enough to numb his fingers.

The blow was strong. Much stronger than an undead, that was for sure.

He shoved the man backward.

Behind him, a burst of wind swept through the common room as Isla's spell hurled one bandit into a pillar.

“Flint!”

“I know!”

For a heartbeat, it looked manageable. Then a crossbow bolt shattered against the wall beside Isla, forcing her to duck just as another bandit crashed into her barrier from the side, the pale-blue shield shuddering beneath the impact.

“I told you. You didn’t count right.”

The leader merely smiled, wiping the blood from his brow before seizing the innkeeper's wife and dragging her in front of him, his blade settling against her throat.

“Isabella!” The innkeeper tried to stop him, but the bandits got to him first, pinning him to the wall.

“Stop!” Flint shouted, dropping his stance, “Let them go.”

The leader looked almost… bored.

“You think you can attack my men without facing the consequences, kid?”

Flint gritted his teeth, gripping his axe tighter.

“Flint.” Isla looked at him. She too was cornered, her staff having been knocked away.

“You’ve got guts, that's for sure.” The leader grinned, “But guts out in the wild get you killed.”

“Drop the axe, woodcutter.” The bandit with the crossbow commanded.

“Don’t do this.” Flint ventured, “Why would you steal from these people when—“

“Shut up!” The leader barked, “What do you know about how the world works? When there’s corpses walking around, and one bite can end you, who the hell can tell me what to do?!”

He pressed the blade to the woman’s neck, drawing a trickle of blood. She whimpered, terrified.

“Last warning. Drop the axe.”

The little girl gasped from the tiny crack in the room door. “Mama…”

Flint felt the world around him spin. His mind, his thoughts… everything turned into a cacophony of voices and words he couldn’t comprehend.

Flint’s grip tightened around the axe until his knuckles turned white.

Think.

There had to be something.

If he rushed the leader…

No.

The blade was already against her throat.

One wrong step and she’d die before he even reached him.

The crossbow.

If he threw the axe—

Too slow.

The bolt would get to him first.

His eyes darted toward Isla.

She was still standing, but only barely.

She wouldn’t be able to help him in time.

Flint’s breathing grew uneven.

There had to be another way. There always had to be another way.

Heroes found another way.

Didn’t they?

The little girl’s frightened voice reached him again.

“Mama…”

His chest tightened.

No.

Not again!

Berthram’s face surfaced in his mind.

The old coat.

The promise he made.

That he’d become a hero.

Then…

The crimson blade piercing right through the Elder’s chest.

Flint squeezed his eyes shut.

Not again.

Please…

Not again.

He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t draw it.

Not after what happened.

If he reached for that sword now…

What right would he have to call himself a hero?

Every time he would draw it, he would prove the sword right. That lives were simply the price of victory.

That he had to borrow strength he didn’t have.

The leader pressed the knife deeper.

The woman whimpered, as another line of crimson rolled down her neck.

“Please, put down your weapon!” The innkeeper pleaded, his trembling hands raised in front of him in a form of surrender.

Flint’s thoughts shattered.

Move.

Do something.

Anything!

He hated this.

He hated the sword.

He hated that it was even an option.

But most of all…

He hated himself.

Because deep down he already knew. He wasn’t searching for another answer anymore.

He was searching for permission.

Permission to abandon the promise he’d made to himself. Permission to admit that the hero he’d dreamed of becoming…

wasn’t enough.

You can stop this.

The sword spoke again for the first time since the day Berthram died, its voice as calm as ever—devoid of mockery or triumph, carrying only cold, ritualistic certainty.

Flint’s eyes slowly drifted toward the crimson sheath at his hip.

He couldn’t save them all with an axe. He just couldn’t.

His fingers slowly loosened around the wooden handle.

Draw.

“I’m sorry…”

He wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to anymore.

Berthram.

Isla.

Or maybe himself.

His hand left the axe, clattering against the wooden planks.

“Good call, kid.” The leader loosened up just slightly, “It seems you have a logical side to you, after all.”

“Bound unto fate…”

Flint’s voice was barely a whisper.

The leader frowned.

“…What?”

“Break mortal tether…”

One of the bandits snorted.

“The kid’s praying.”

“A crimson gate…”

“Ha! He’s lost it.”

“Bind thee forever…”

The room fell strangely quiet.

Even the little girl stopped crying.

The leader narrowed his eyes.

“…Oi, the hell are you blubbering about?”

“Temper the crown…”

The air inside the common room grew strangely warmer. Isla’s eyes drifted toward the crimson sheath at Flint’s hip. Something in his expression made her chest tighten.

“…Flint?”

“For death won’t be undone…”

“Boss…” Another bandit pointed, “…That sword looks expensive.”

The leader glanced toward the sheath. The crimson lacquer almost seemed to glow, as a greedy grin spread across his face.

“…You're right.” His sword never left the woman’s throat, “Toss that over too.”

Flint slowly raised his head, eyes full of quiet sorrow.

“…Demand a sacrifice…”

His hand finally rose, settling around the hilt. For the first time since the confrontation began, the leader's smile vanished.

“…Wait.”

“…Till judgment has been won.”

SHIIIIINK