The Dragon Mark

The shout also caught Kraast’s attention, and his surprise was quickly replaced by cruelty. The pest was charging at him, weapon raised, oblivious to her surroundings. A foolish way to end her life, he thought. With calculated ease, he stepped aside to prepare for her attack, keeping the Phoenix within his line of sight. He had underestimated her once—never again.

"Think you can handle the mark-bearer while I take care of the pest?"

He directed the question to his second-in-command. The man, hand picked by Kraast, was a true Îme master, one of the best at wielding magical energy in combat. If he was his second, it was only because his main mission was to watch over him, not to bring the convoy back to safety.

"Of course, but we're not here to play around, so make it quick."

Igar’s voice, devoid of emotion, replied—an unpleasant tone that Kraast had always found grating. He clenched his teeth. Someday, he’d make him eat his snide remarks by shoving a fist down his throat.

On his left, the Phoenix launched her attack, her ice blade whirling in a deadly dance. In response, several arcs of electricity lit up the surroundings with flashes. Kraast would have preferred to take down the leader first, but he had a personal score to settle with the pest. She’d be on him in seconds, her clumsy stance and laughable technique offering him no challenge.

"DODGE!"

Only his second’s shouted warning saved his life. Instinctively, Kraast threw himself to the side. The pest's blade sliced the air before embedding itself in the wood at his feet. No—before piercing right through the thick, reinforced plank that shielded them from desert hazards. A dull crack sounded as splinters of wood burst in all directions. The young woman’s furious shout echoed in the night as she wrenched her blade free from where it had lodged.

Kraast hesitated for a fraction of a second, his mind racing to process the situation unfolding before him. Contrary to appearances, he was far from stupid. His bulky frame and exaggerated muscle mass, combined with a convincing act, had allowed him to play the fool more than once. Even to earn his rank, he had used a blend of manipulation and threats to get what he wanted. His sharp mind, his most valued asset, was scrambling to understand what had happened.

His second was locked in a far more intense fight than he had anticipated. The Phoenix was dancing around the Îme master, attacking relentlessly and forcing him onto the defensive. Her ice blade cut, slashed, and sliced through everything in its path, only to be blocked at the last moment by a flash of lightning. Her martial garb swirled around her, and Kraast could almost see flames trailing from her every move.

Meanwhile, the pest had just shattered a reinforced plank that even he would have struggled to break with a hammer. She stared at him with eyes full of hatred, gripping her weapon with the clumsiness of a novice. Her loose clothing hid most of her figure, but her arms were visible. She was far more muscular than he remembered—not bulging like him, but with a density he could almost see. Bewitchment of reinforcement.

He understood. Without knowing exactly how she wielded such strength, he had deduced its source—and if he understood it, he knew how to dispose of her easily. And if that didn’t work, he had other tricks he could adapt to his needs. Adjusting his stance, he readied himself for the offensive.

Lysbelle felt nothing but fury radiating from her core to her fingertips. The man before her had killed her mother, breaking her bones one by one. She would make him pay in kind. His evasion of her charge had been sheer luck; it wouldn’t happen again. She launched herself forward once more, bringing her blade down toward him with all her might. The blade sliced through the air before meeting steel with a harsh screech, deflecting off-course and causing her to stumble. Kraast had parried her blow. Yet, the man was having trouble regaining the initiative, the power behind the blow was immense and even expecting it, he had been surprised.

Reinforced by the Îme, Lysbelle spun around with stunning speed. Another strike, another deflect. The blades scraped against each other, each repelling the other. She didn’t hesitate, attacking again. This time, her opponent sidestepped, and she felt the bite of steel cut into her flesh. Crying out in pain, she recoiled, Kraast had just slashed her side. Her anger took over her pain and she threw herself at the colossus, swinging her left fist at his midsection. Kraast narrowly dodged, then drove his knee up. The impact sent her reeling a meter back, and she spat blood as she took the hit. The pain brought clarity, fear surfacing for a moment before rage reclaimed her focus. Once again, she charged the giant.

Her attacks, though immensely powerful, only struck empty air or the wood of the convoy. It felt like her training, the inability to land a hit, to even close the distance. The colossus maintained a safe distance between them, moving with ease. Yet there was one key difference from training with Azmiyah. She had no doubt after exchanging blows with him. This man wasn’t nearly as fast as the Phoenix.

Kraast slashed once more at Lysbelle’s protective garment. She barely dodged, her clothes paying the price. Adding insult to injury, the man taunted her.

“You’re pathetic, pest. Even your incompetent mother managed to land a blow on me.”

His sadistic smile seared itself into her mind—a face that had haunted her nights. A face that was the source of her nightmares. Hatred seized Lysbelle once more, and she lunged toward her nemesis.

Kraast’s sword slipped into her abdomen in one fluid movement, a perfect read of her attack. Lysbelle screamed in pain but gritted her teeth. As if in response, she felt the Îme reverberate within her, allowing her to ignore the agony, and in one fierce motion, she struck back at the colossus. He couldn’t dodge it; her blade cut into his upper arm, shattering bone with the impact. This time, Kraast cried out.

Her voice, filled with anger found the strength to answer his earlier taunt.

"I landed a blow too asshole..."

His arm, barely attached at the shoulder, hung uselessly. Releasing his grip on his sword, he clutched his arm with his good hand. His scream morphed into uncontrollable rage, and he lashed out, kicking Lysbelle. She couldn’t react—stunned and wounded, she merely felt the force send her crashing to the ground. The blade still pierced her through, intensifying her pain and clouding her senses. Only the relentless pulse of Îme coursing through her kept her conscious.

The colossus, a terrifying sight with his mangled arm and a face contorted by rage, charged at her once more.

“DIE!”

Just as he was about to finish her, Kraast was the one struck first. One of the Caravan’s warriors blindsided him, sending the giant tumbling to the side as he tried to shield his already useless arm. In the next moment, the warrior was beside Lysbelle.

“Don’t pull out the blade; you’ll bleed out. And don’t lose consciousness—it’ll be the end of you.”

Another shout interrupted them as if nothing could stop him, Kraast rose again. Seizing a sharp blade that had flown amidst the chaos, he approched them. Maric, the warrior who had come to her aid, turned to face him, his own weapon poised to meet the assault.

Kraast’s attack was relentless, each strike ferocious, soon pushing Maric to his limits. Though Maric handled his weapon well, he was no match for his opponent’s skill and raw power. A slash nearly blinded him, a second slashed his right arm and a third narrowly missed severing his leg. Lysbelle could only watch, helpless, as the brutal fight unfolded before her. In a few more moves, Maric would be cornered. She bit the inside of her cheek, desperately trying to regain control of her body and focus. She attempted in vain to use the Îme flowing through her to heal. But it was no use. A feint sliced Maric’s side, drawing a groan of pain as he staggered back.

As if clarity had dawned on the colossus, his hatred transformed into pure sadism. The next blow would be the last. A silver flash appeared in the corner of his eye, and he dodged a blade by leaping backward.

“Maric! With me! Together, we can take him down!”

Another warrior had come within inches of hitting him. His left arm was aching like hell, an unspeakable pain that he had forced into the back of his skull. The pest had not missed him and there was a good chance he would have to say goodbye to his member. At least she would soon bleed out.

“Rayssa! I’m with you—watch out; he got me good,” called Maric to the newcomer as he fell into line with her. Kraast took a split second to assess the situation. Up on the convoy, the warriors seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Both sides had suffered heavy losses, but time was increasingly turning the tide against him. Out in the sands, the Phoenix had driven Igar away. The Mark Bearer was proving far more capable than they had anticipated. Bolts of electricity flew through the air, yet she dodged each as if predicting her opponent’s every move. Short bursts of flame flared from the warrior as she repositioned herself to attack from another angle.

Kraast refocused on his two new opponents. The woman looked fresh, likely a skilled fighter, and he had already weakened the man. A spasm drew a grimace of pain across his face, but he ignored it, committing every fiber of his focus to the next few moments. He had no choice: to dispose of them quickly and win this battle, he would have to act fast and decisively.

Lysbelle watched as the two warriors launched a coordinated, practiced assault that soon put Kraast on the defensive. While Rayssa attacked, Maric covered her, deflecting the colossus’s blows and maneuvering around him to divide his attention. Like a snake, Rayssa’s blade struck with precision, finding an opening and embedding itself in his already shattered shoulder. With a violent jerk, he pulled free, using his momentum to swing his dangling arm into the path of Maric’s next attack. Startled, Maric reflexively severed the limb with a swift stroke. At that instant, Rayssa seized the opportunity to drive her sword deep into the giant’s throat.

The sound of metal.

A gasp of shock.

A scream of terror.

The colossus’s sword, its edge slick with blood, protruded from Rayssa’s chest. He yanked it free to evade another swing from Maric, and she collapsed limply to the ground. Motionless. Dead.

The scream of terror drowned deep in Lysbelle's throat. Shock and disbelief assaulted her senses. She had to do something—anything—to help. Maybe with quick treatment, they could save her. Lysbelle tried to stand, but the pain was unbearable, and the sword in her side hindered her movements. Her blood-soaked clothing weighed her down. In a reckless move, she tore part of her clothing and pulled out the blade. The sucking sound as it left her wound was covered only by her own scream of agony. Her head spun. Blood flowed faster now, what she had done was stupid, she knew it, it even went against what she had just been ordered to do. But perhaps by instinct, or sheer impulse, she had acted. Soon, blinded by pain and the cold spreading through her, all she could feel was the wound.

The Îme, spread throughout her body, rushed to the gaping hole. A soothing warmth filled the injury, the pain fading a little with each pulse.

In a grim spectacle, her flesh knit together and her organs repaired themselves. Her hand closed around Kraast’s sword, which had pierced her moments before. She felt pain disappear that she was no longer even aware of and without waiting for her healing to finish; she charged.

A weak charge, with no added strength, all of her Îme already occupied mending her battered body. She rammed her shoulder into the colossus as he was about to strike Maric. The giant cried out in pain, stumbling back a few meters to recover. She had hit him in the area of ​​his missing arm, right in the bruised flesh.

Maric, exhausted and wounded, fell to the ground. Finding the strength only to move towards Rayssa. The woman lying inert on the hard wood of the convoy.

A familiar pain clawed at Lysbelle’s heart, an agony she had felt far too often since her mother’s death. She looked away, back to the colossus, who had frozen, staring at her.

His eyes were wide, shock painted across his face as if he’d seen a ghost. He was staring—no, not directly at her, but at Lysbelle’s side, where the dragon-shaped tattoo was resting.

"YOU…”

Though he shouted, he hesitated, his words faltering. His condition was horrifying—barely standing, his left arm torn off at the bicep, blood streaming down his body. A sword in his right hand, he was a terrifying sight.

“You bear it's mark! Why do you wear the Guide’s mark?”

Madness filled his gaze, as if this revelation had overturned everything he believed. He stood there, frozen. Lysbelle, though she didn’t understand what he was saying, remained focused. She had an opening, a chance she couldn’t waste. Kraast, weakened and stunned, was only a few steps away. Tightening her grip on the hilt, she took a step forward.

For the first time, she saw fear in Kraast’s eyes. And though she knew she shouldn’t, she savored it. The colossus took a step back.

“Why? Answer me! Since when have you been blessed by the Guide?”

Too filled with fury to hear him, she ignored his questions and took another step forward.

“ANSWER ME!”

Panic finally set in, and Kraast stepped back again as Lysbelle advanced.

“STOP! Stay back!”

His plea went unheard, and Lysbelle quickened her pace. Kraast stumbled back, tripping. Instinctively, he tried to catch himself with his missing arm, falling to the ground with a groan of pain. Lysbelle closed in, raising her arm for a killing blow.

“If you kill me, your brother dies!”

The words hit her like a hammer. The young woman froze as if struck, a spasm of worry crossing her face as she stepped back. Her arm hovered inches from Kraast’s scarred face.