The campfire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over their faces. Lyra and Alex sat beside the flames, preparing a simple meal from the herbs and fish they had gathered earlier. There wasn't much time left before dusk — the shadows around them deepened, and the sky gradually darkened.
Suddenly, Alex heard a snap.
He turned instinctively... but it was already too late.
A man leapt out from behind a rock formation. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but the way he moved, the sword at his side, and the cold, contemptuous smile left no room for doubt.
A slave hunter.
"Finally got you," he hissed, drawing his blade. "I've been chasing you for a long time."
Before they could react, he lunged. Alex heard another sound from behind — soft footsteps, a broken twig, someone's muffled breath.
The hunter struck first — with a fury Alex hadn't expected. It all happened in a flash: Lyra dodged to the side to avoid the strike, while Alex was knocked down by a brutal blow from one of the two guards accompanying the attacker.
The punch knocked the wind out of him. He hit the ground with a thud, tears springing to his eyes. He tried to breathe, but another blow to the diaphragm left him gasping silently, writhing in pain. He lay on the ground, defeated before he could even raise a hand.
One of the guards pressed a knee into his back and tightly bound his hands with a coarse, filthy rope. Alex struggled, but he was too weak to break free. Through blurred vision, he saw the hunter approaching Lyra.
The elf reached for her dagger and struck. Her movements were fast, precise — like a trained hunter. But the slave hunter anticipated her every move. He parried her blows with disturbing ease, moving with confidence, almost grace, as if fighting was second nature.
"Your attacks are pitifully predictable, elf," he hissed. "I've fought many of your kind… They all ended the same — on their knees, in chains."
Lyra clenched her teeth and attacked with renewed force. Their blades clashed with a screech of metal and a shower of sparks. They danced around the fire — she with fluid grace, he with ruthless efficiency. Steel rang out, lighting the darkness with flickering flashes.
"Did you really think you could escape?" he growled, countering with brutal strength. "Your place is in chains. All elves end up there."
"You're weaker," he added with a sneer, pressing his attack harder and harder.
Lyra fought back with rage and determination. Every movement was a fight for her life — for her freedom, and for Alex. Her eyes were focused, cold, full of fury. She fought without mercy.
The hunter never stopped smiling — he drew perverse pleasure from the battle. He mocked, provoked, testing how much strength she had left.
"Sooner or later, you'll fall. Just like all the others," he snarled. "And your friend… well, his fate is up to me. And it won't be pleasant," he spat.
The fight raged on — with each strike, each clash of swords, they pushed their limits, testing not just skill, but willpower. Neither wanted to back down. Their deadly dance unfolded in the rhythm of steel and the flickering light of the campfire. The outcome was still uncertain.
Alex lay tied behind them, face pressed into the sand. When one of the guards stood, ready to assist his leader, Lyra made a move no one expected.
She spun, slipped under his arm, and drove her dagger into his armpit.
The man howled and collapsed to his knees, choking on the pain. Lyra gave him no time to recover. She yanked out the blade and thrust it into his throat, slashing with a wet, ripping sound. A crimson fountain of blood sprayed across the sand. The guard collapsed, choking and clutching his bleeding neck, life slipping from his hands. A dark pool spread beneath him.
The second guard, who had been watching from the side, shouted and drew his sword.
And the hunter charged toward Lyra.
"Kill her! Stop playing with her!" the guard bellowed.
Lyra tried to fight, but the hunter lunged with such force that he nearly knocked her over with the first blow.
Moments later, he pinned her against the wall of a building, then struck her in the side of the head with his fist. He disarmed her and threw her to the ground.
She lay on her back, stunned, defeated. The world spun before her eyes.
Alex still lay in the sand, bound. His breath was shallow, and his mouth filled with dust and blood.
His heart pounded like a drum. He wanted to scream. To fight. But his body was restrained.
The hunter grabbed Lyra by the hair and slammed her face into the dirt. The blade in his hand rose high.
"Stupid elf. If you can't submit… we'll end this here and now."
The sword whistled through the air.
And then Alex screamed.
Terror, despair, and blind rage erupted from his throat. He couldn't lose her.
His fingers clenched into the sand.
The earth trembled.
The ground cracked with a heavy boom, and from its depths burst thorned vines — thick, dark, alive. They shot from Alex's hands and streaked across the sand like whips.
The hunter saw them too late.
Thorns wrapped around his torso and arms, slamming him to the ground, binding him completely. He roared in helpless fury, thrashing and straining against the living cords.
"Filthy mage!" he shrieked in disgust. "KILL HIM! FINISH HIM!" he roared to the last remaining guard.
Lyra, spared from death by Alex's power, didn't hesitate. She saw her chance. She grabbed the hunter's sword lying nearby and, with a shout, drove it into his gut. The blade pierced skin, muscle, organs. She pulled it upward, nearly slicing him in half.
His intestines spilled out in a steaming, bloody mass. His scream tore through the night and echoed off the rocks. His eyes widened as he watched his guts pour out. Then the light in his eyes faded.
The guard who had stood frozen with terror stepped back. One step. Then another.
And one too many.
Beyond the protective barrier.
Into the open.
From the shadows, shapes emerged.
Demons — waiting for that mistake. They had lurked near the edge, watching the fight in silence, waiting for the chance.
When the guard took that step — they pounced.
He didn't even have time to scream. They tore into him with fury — ripping, shredding his body piece by piece, snapping bones. His armor was useless against their supernatural strength, claws, and fangs. His screams echoed in the air, filled with unimaginable pain.
Alex watched it all through a haze. The world trembled.
The vines he had summoned began to wither. The thorns drooped.
Moments later, they vanished entirely, leaving no trace. The hunter's body hit the ground with a dull thud.
Alex's strength was leaving him.
With his last effort, he lifted his head.
Lyra was alive.
And she was looking at him… differently. In her eyes there was no admiration.
There was something deeper.
His eyes closed.