A sharp whistle tore through the air.
'Arrows!'
Brann moved again, before Gaël even understood. A sharp step. A swirl of pebbles flung skyward. Metal clanged as the projectiles deflected mid-air.
'Hunters.'
A shadow detached itself from the tree line. Silent. Slithering. Like a ghost standing upright.
Gaël drew his sword. His fingers closed around the hilt with tense, shaky resolve.
But Brann didn't move.
His hand stayed resting on his hip, still as stone. His voice, however, was glacial.
"Show yourselves. Or I'll drag you out myself."
A low chuckle answered him. Then they stepped out from the woods. Three figures. Long, rain-soaked coats. Bows in hand. Their faces, masked by hoods of black leather, looked as if they'd been carved from shadow.
One of them strode forward calmly, boots tapping against the wet stone. His voice was hoarse, broken, but nonchalant.
"Not very polite to interrupt a hunt."
He tilted his head slightly.
"We'd been tracking that beast for three days. You scared it off."
Gaël felt his blood hammering in his skull. A surge of pure, instinctive fury.
"You were trying to kill a Blessed Beast?! Its very existence is sacred, it's a miracle! A blessing of the Lumen, and you... you...!"
The hunter shrugged, as if it meant nothing.
"What's a miracle, if not a poorly exploited resource?"
Brann didn't flinch. Didn't so much as blink. But something in his gaze shifted. Hardened. A cold spark. Razor-sharp.
"And now?"
A silence followed. Long. Oily. The hunter smiled.
"You owe us. So you're going to pay up."
Brann sighed. A weary sigh. Almost sorrowful.
"You should've chosen your words more carefully."
The attack came without warning. Three arrows sliced through the night, loosed with lightning speed. But Brann was already gone. In the blink of an eye, he was among them.
The first didn't even have time to open his mouth. An elbow crashed into his jaw with brutal force. He crumpled into the mud with a muffled cry. The second drew a dagger.
Brann slid to the side, an inhuman, liquid motion. His foot slammed into the back of the man's knee with ruthless precision. A sickening snap echoed as the hunter collapsed, screaming, leg shattered in a single, clean strike.
The last hunter turned to flee, realizing far too late that they were outmatched. Too late.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned his head. Brann was there.
A fist slammed into his gut, folding him in half. The man collapsed to the ground, gasping, shaking from the blow.
Then… silence.
Three bodies lay scattered in the mud, groaning or unconscious. The entire fight had lasted less than five seconds.
Gaël stood frozen, throat tight. He hadn't even had time to move.Brann, meanwhile, straightened slowly, as if it had all been a tiresome chore. He planted one boot on the chest of the last conscious hunter, the one who had spoken, the one who seemed to be their leader, pressing down just enough to rob him of breath without finishing him off.
"You."
The man, panicked, raised a hand in surrender, pleading, trembling. Brann didn't even glance at it. He turned to Gaël, and in his eyes burned a silent command.
"This one's yours."
Gaël felt his breath hitch.
"What?"
Brann lifted his foot and stepped back, arms crossing over his chest.
"You wanted fights, didn't you?"
He nodded toward the man on the ground, still dazed, but too terrified to move.
"Then prove to me you can cut more than stone."
Gaël looked from the hunter… to Brann.
And he understood.
This wasn't just another lesson.
It was a test.
If he failed now… Brann might walk away. Might leave him behind.
Gaël took a deep breath, but the air felt heavy, thick with iron and fear. Each step he took toward the man sank into the wet earth like he was trudging through the mire of his own doubt.
The hunter whimpered, hand still raised, shaking, pleading without words.His eyes were those of a cornered animal, torn between pain and terror. And in that gaze, Gaël saw a brutal truth: he wasn't a monster. Just a man. A predator turned prey.
The sword in Gaël's hand grew heavier, not from magic, but from conscience.
Behind him, Brann remained silent. Unmoving. But his gaze burned, like an ancient fire that refused to be ignored. He wasn't judging.
He was watching. Waiting.
'Prove to me you can cut more than stone.' He'd said that.
It wasn't a command.It was a question Gaël had to ask himself. And it was time to answer. Gaël clenched his jaw.
He didn't want to kill. Not like this. Not a man disarmed, on the ground, broken. And yet, deep within him, something stirred. A cold, steady voice that whispered: 'He wanted to kill a Blessed Beast. He would've killed Brann. He could've killed you.'
He raised the blade.
And this time, it didn't shake.
Starlight glinted along the edge for a heartbeat, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.
Then he struck.
A straight line. Controlled. Silent.
Steel sliced through the man's throat in a breath of flesh and blood. No scream. Just a wet gurgle, a hand lifted in a final reflex. And eyes, wide open, frozen in sheer terror.
Gaël stepped back, breath short.
Warm blood splattered his hand, slid down his palm, soaked into the hilt of his blade.The scent of iron filled the air, heavy and merciless.
The man collapsed and didn't move again.
A thick silence fell over the lakeside.
Brann said nothing, but in his gaze, something had changed. Not joy, not approval, but recognition. A hard-edged form of acceptance, devoid of comfort.
"You chose," he said simply.
Gaël nodded. Slowly. He looked at his hands. The blood. The blade.
"I chose the Severance… not to kill. I must not make this easy."
Brann stepped closer, laying a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"No cut ever is. The Severance offers no comfort, only naked truth. What must be separated… must be cut."
The young man didn't move. He didn't cry. He didn't tremble. But something inside him had shifted.
A new weight, imperceptible but deep, had settled in his chest. Like a shard of blade driven into the soul.
The man lay at his feet. His head had rolled a few steps away, eyes still wide open, locked in a nameless stupor. Blood formed a thick stream, trailing slowly through the dark moss, painting crimson arcs across the cold earth.
Gaël stared at what he'd done.
There was no glory and no thrill of victory. Only… silence. Heavy. Absolute.
Something had died within him. Perhaps an innocence he thought long lost. Perhaps the last piece of the child he once was. Or maybe… something had been born. Something sharp.
His inner voice rose, clear as a honed edge:
'Of course the Severance doesn't only cut the inert, the dark, or the nameless. What did you think, you fool? It cuts what I choose to cut. It separates, without judgment.'
Gaël looked down at his sword. The metal was still streaked with crimson. But the blade didn't seem stained. It seemed sharper. Clearer. As if it were… satisfied.
He drew in a deep breath.
"The Severance isn't the path of a hero," Brann said. "It's raw truth, bare as death itself. It doesn't kill for pleasure. It doesn't forgive either. It simply removes what no longer belongs in this twisted world."
Gaël raised his head. His gaze met that of the man whose path he had chosen to follow.
"You've cut," Brann said.
Gaël nodded slowly.Then he turned his eyes to the forest beyond the water's edge. The place where the Blessed Beast had vanished.
'Had it seen? Would it judge him guilty, lost, fallen?'
He would never know.
And maybe… that was for the best.