Lastlight's Revenant #29

Vorric's single eye locked onto Garran, gleaming with manic amusement even as blood streamed from his broken nose.

"Ah, there you are," he crooned, his voice thick with gore but still dripping with mockery. "The second son. Trembling like a—"

CRACK.

A Dornblade soldier stepped forward, driving the pommel of his sword into Vorric's face.

The bandit's head snapped back—but his grin only widened, his teeth now stained crimson as blood poured from his nostrils.

"At least your brother didn't flinch..." Vorric spat a glob of blood onto the stones. "Even when I—"

Another soldier seized him by the hair and slammed his face into a raised knee. Bone crunched. Vorric staggered back—only to collide with the shield of another warrior, who bashed him between the shoulder blades, sending him crashing to his knees.

Yet still, his eye never left Garran.

"Come down..." Vorric wheezed, his breath bubbling through broken teeth. "Come down and face me, little lordling... unless you fear meeting the same—"

Two soldiers descended on him with brutal kicks, their boots cracking ribs.

"ENOUGH!"

Garran's voice cut through the violence like a whip. The soldiers froze, turning as he descended the ruined steps, his boots kicking up dust with each measured stride.

Vorric chuckled wetly, dragging himself upright on trembling arms.

Garran stopped before him, his blade glinting in the pale light. "If you wish to die by my hand, then so be it," he said, his voice colder than winter steel. "But know this—your end will not be kind."

Vorric tilted his head, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

"Oh," he whispered, "I'm counting on it."

The soldiers shifted uneasily, their grip tightening on their weapons. Jorrik stepped forward, his face twisted in disgust.

"This bastard doesn't deserve the honor, young lord," he growled, spitting at Vorric's feet. "And we don't know what filth he's still scheming. Let us beat the life out of him like the rabid dog he is."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the men. More than one hand twitched toward sword hilts, eager to deliver vengeance.

Garran shook his head. "You may be right."

His gaze drifted to Torvain. The Lord of Dornblade stood motionless, his armored form as still as the statues of their ancestors. His visor remained lowered, revealing nothing—but Garran knew.

The quiet tremble in his father's gauntleted fists, the rigid set of his shoulders—beneath that steel shell, Torvain was a storm barely contained.

That gnawing feeling returned—the sense that Vorric's taunts, his goading, were all part of some deeper scheme. Yet even so, Garran couldn't back down now.

Torvain, as Lord of Dornblade, could not stoop to executing a disgraced knight turned bandit, no matter how much he might crave it. The honor of their house demanded otherwise.

But Garran?

He was just the second son.

And this—this was his duty.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and removed his helmet. The cool air bit at his sweat-slicked face as he cast the helm aside, letting it clatter against the stones.

"Either way," he said, his voice carrying across the silent ruins, "this is what I must do. For my brother's sake."

He raised his sword, the steel catching the pale light.

"Open the way."

The soldiers hesitated, then reluctantly stepped back, forming a wide circle around the two men. Only Torvain remained unmoved—a silent sentinel watching his son become the executioner their house needed.

Vorric chuckled, dragging himself to his feet with effort.

Blood dripped from his ruined nose, his single eye alight with something beyond madness.

The circle of soldiers parted reluctantly, their boots scuffing against the bloodstained stones. Jorrik lingered a moment longer, his gaze darting between Garran and Lord Torvain, hoping—praying—the old wolf would intervene.

But Torvain remained still as a statue, his visor giving no hint of emotion, his silence louder than any command.

With a resigned sigh, Jorrik stepped back, his grip tightening on his axe. Fine. If the young lord insisted on this folly, he’d be ready. No second son would die on his watch.

Garran stopped before Vorric, his breath steady despite the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. Without a word, he turned to the nearest soldier, yanked the man’s sword from its sheath, and tossed it at the bandit’s feet.

"Take it," he said, voice flat. "Defend yourself."

Vorric stared at the blade for a heartbeat before bending to retrieve it, his movements slow, deliberate. When he straightened, his grin was back, wider than ever.

"Finally," he rasped, spreading his arms in mock welcome. "Let’s give your brother a show he’d have loved to see."

Garran didn’t dignify that with a response. He simply raised his sword and stepped forward, his stance measured, his focus absolute.

Vorric’s eyebrow arched. "Not much for words, eh? Your brother had plenty to say—"

Another step.

Vorric’s smirk faltered. The boy wasn’t rising to the bait. No anger, no recklessness—just cold, relentless advance.

"Tch."

With a sudden snarl, Vorric lunged, his blade a silver streak in the dim light.

Garran didn’t flinch. He planted his feet, sword raised high—

—only for Vorric to hurl his weapon straight at Garran’s face.

Gasps erupted from the soldiers. Steel flashed as Garran twisted, his own blade lashing out to bat the thrown sword aside with a ringing clang.

His eyes snapped back to Vorric—

—just in time to see the bandit already closing the distance, empty-handed but grinning like a madman.

Garran's blade flashed downward—

—only for Vorric's wrist to snap up in a blur of motion. A metallic click sounded from his leather bracer, and suddenly a hidden dagger was arrowing toward Garran's face.

Garran's eyes widened. Instinct took over.

He twisted aside, but not fast enough. The blade grazed his brow, splitting skin. Blood cascaded into his left eye, painting his vision crimson.

Vorric didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Garran's chest with the full weight of his armored body.

The impact sent them both crashing to the ground. Garran's skull struck stone with a sickening crack, his sword clattering from his grip. Stars exploded across his vision.

Above him, Vorric's grin was a grotesque slash of triumph as he straddled Garran's waist.

"Typical Dornblade whelp," the bandit spat, raising a gauntleted fist. "Always expecting a fair fight—"

The first punch landed like a hammerblow. Pain erupted across Garran's cheekbone.

CRACK.

A second strike. His nose gave way with a wet crunch.

Half-blind and disoriented, Garran barely managed to raise his arms, blocking the third blow with his forearms. The impact sent fresh jolts of agony through his already battered limbs.

Vorric leaned in, his breath reeking of blood and rot. "Forget about a show. I'll just send you to your brother, and you can entertain him yourself—"

A gasp rippled through the watching soldiers. Jorrik took a step forward, his axe rising—

—when Vorric's next punch stopped mid-swing.

Garran's blood-slicked hand had closed around the bandit's wrist like a vise.

"You talk too much," Garran growled.

His other fist rocketed upward, crunching into Vorric's jaw with enough force to send teeth flying.

Vorric's world exploded into white-hot pain as Garran's fist connected with his jaw. The impact rattled his skull, sending stars dancing across his vision. For a heartbeat, his mind went blank—only to be violently dragged back to reality by another crushing blow to his temple.

The world spun. Suddenly, he was on his back, the cold earth pressing into his armor, Garran's weight pinning him down.

Garran's hands found his throat like iron manacles, fingers digging into flesh with brutal precision. Vorric's breath died in his windpipe, his vision darkening at the edges.

But the bandit leader refused to die quietly. His hands shot up, clawing at Garran's face, thumbs jabbing toward his eyes—

Garran barely flinched. One hand released Vorric's throat just long enough to slap the attack aside with a sharp crack, then returned to its deadly work.

Vorric wheezed, his remaining eye bulging as Garran reared back—

—and brought his forehead crashing down onto Vorric's nose.

CRUNCH.

Blood sprayed. Another headbutt. Another.

Vorric's struggles grew weaker, his kicks losing their force, his hands flailing like a drowning man's. Yet even as suffocation turned his lips blue, even as his shattered teeth rattled in his mouth, that hideous grin never left his face.

"I...meet...death..." he choked out between gasps, "knowing... I've... fulfilled... my... purpose..." His fingers twitched toward the sky. "Can... you... say... the... same...?"

Garran's grip tightened. He could feel the man's pulse fluttering beneath his fingers like a trapped bird.

Vorric's eye rolled back, his voice dropping to a whisper only Garran could hear:

"Oh... Queen... of... Lost... Innocence... with... golden... all-seeing... eyes... I—"

SNAP.

The bandit's neck gave way with a sound like wet kindling breaking. His arms fell limp to the dirt, fingers uncurling in final surrender.

Silence.

Then—

A slow, wet chuckle bubbled from Vorric's ruined mouth.

Even in death, he laughed.