Siris' grip tightens on his dagger as the scene unfolds in front of him, completely ignoring Makeen's comment.

Balathu—tough as ever—cuts down the horseman in a single brutal stroke, sending the armored rider crumpling to the ground. The man had barely hit the dirt before the crossbow bolt came.

There's a sharp whistle as it flies through the air.

Balathu stiffens, staggering slightly. For a moment, Siris thinks the bastard might just walk it off. He’s seen him fight through worse. But then Balathu falls, the blood spilling from the bridge and into the river below.

Siris doesn’t need to look to know where the shot came from—he already felt it. Felt the smugness radiating from the bastard standing right next to him.



"Stupid mercs, stupid BASTARD mercs! You always get in the way!!!"

Kurgazu doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him.

Not an insult. Not a challenge. Not even a glance. He killed Balathu in front of him, ignoring Siris as if he was a wandering ant.

Siris’ heartbeat slows. A strange, quiet fury takes hold of him. He tells himself there's no point in getting angry at Balathu's death. After all he's seen men die dishonorably, shot in the back, butchered like cattle, insulted as they died, but never like this. Never where the enemy didn’t even bother looking at him. This lowly bandit killed and insulted his comrade right in front of him and wasn't even worried. A myriad of emotions swells in Siris, all of it, focused on one man.

Kurgazu turned his back to him. To him.

A mistake.

Siris sheathes his dagger and rips his sword from its scabbard in a single, fluid motion. His shield comes up, bracing against his still burned arm, the leather straps pressing against raw skin. The pain is distant, drowned out beneath the weight of cold rage.

His first attack is not theatrical. It’s not graceful. It’s fast, ruthless, and direct.

He lunges, slamming the edge of his shield into Kurgazu’s ribs with bone-cracking force. The bandit stumbles, his cocky smirk vanishing as the air is knocked out of him. Siris however doesn’t give him the chance to recover.

His sword carves into Kurgazu’s side, slicing through the bandit’s leather armor with brutal precision. A howl of pain erupts from his throat as he staggers backward, crimson soaking his tunic.

Kurgazu, panicked and desperate, jerks his crossbow up. There’s no space to aim, no time to think—just a frantic shot.

The bolt slams into Siris’ side. Siris barely flinches.

He steps forward, ignoring the blood from his wound starting to flow down towards his leg.

Kurgazu’s eyes widen. He tries to raise his crossbow again, but Siris is already moving, swinging his blade in a savage arc with a yell.

The sword tears across Kurgazu’s chest, splitting through cloth and flesh. The bandit cries out, stumbling back, barely clinging to his weapon.

Siris exhales through gritted teeth. He should have cut him down then and there. Should have left him bleeding in the dirt like the coward he was. But surprisingly the bastard still stands. He was tougher than Siris thought.



"You're looking at me now," Siris says, his voice low, but a smirk slowly appears on his face. "Too damn late for that, isn’t it?"

His sword drips with Kurgazu’s blood. His shield is raised. He’s ready to finish this.