Present – The Clearing
Rowan didn't move.
Every instinct screamed at him to fight back—to strike before Lyle lost control—but he held his ground. His grip on the axe tightened until his knuckles turned white. Slowly, his stance shifted. Defensive. Ready, but unwilling to strike first.
"Come on," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You're still in there."
Lyle stepped forward. His body flickered—unstable arcs of voltage danced across his skin like lightning seeking an outlet. His head twitched as if fighting something unseen, resisting a pressure bearing down from within. A sharp breath rattled from his chest.
Then—
A surge.
A wave of raw energy burst from Lyle's body, blasting outward in a sudden sphere. The very air warped around him. Trees lining the clearing bowed backward, scorched and cracking beneath the force. Rowan stumbled, teeth clenched as static bit into his muscles, crawling up his limbs like fire ants. His vision pulsed, blurred by the shockwave.
⸻
10 Hours Earlier
Lyle had been captured by the red-haired trio—siblings who were playing a careful game. Their leader, Geneva, pretended to follow their usual code: only act if provoked. But Lyle could see through it. She was plotting something, and he intended to use that to his advantage.
He didn't let any of it show. Calm breaths. A steady gaze. No sudden movements. If Geneva was playing the hero, it wasn't for him—it was a power play. A show of control for her followers.
Then, Aria—Lyle's sister—stood at his side, bound by more than blood. Quiet. Steady. Determined.
She reached out with a scalpel, her hands trembling only slightly as she tried to cut through his restraints. She could've freed him—but Lyle gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Don't.
The message was clear.
He wasn't thinking about himself. He was protecting her. Geneva or Genevo—or both—could return at any moment, and if she stayed close, she'd be in danger.
Aria hesitated, then slowly pulled back. Her hand curled into a fist, tight and silent. She tried to hide the motion behind her coat, but her jaw was set, her resolve burning.
Then, footsteps.
Genevo stepped into view.
Without a word, he placed a hand gently on top of Lyle's head. Something ancient and wrong pulsed from his palm—a sickly, creeping aura that sank into Lyle like ink into water.
Lyle stiffened.
He felt it instantly.
Oh, shit. What did he do?
Damn it—he got me.
His thoughts unraveled slowly, like a radio drifting between broken stations.
This wasn't part of the plan… was it?
No. He hadn't even thought it through. He just acted. Reacted.
He lost.
He never really stood a chance. He thought he could outmaneuver Genevo—outplay him—but he hadn't accounted for the strange skill, the soul branding, the unnatural twist of it. How could he? He'd never seen it used before. Never even heard the name.
Damn it, Aria…
His mind began to slip, thoughts growing distant and frayed. Like fog swallowing his consciousness.
The last thing he felt…
The last thing he thought was—
Aria… sur—
And then, silence
A strange aura erupted from Lyle, spreading like wildfire. Aria staggered back, eyes wide with confusion. His form began to shift, limbs distorting, muscles tensing unnaturally—until he dropped to all fours, snarling, transformed into a feral beast.
Geneva's eyes widened. She recognized it instantly.
No… Genevo, not now, she thought, her mind flashing back to the experiments.
She remembered standing beside him—Genevo—watching as he tested his soul skill on various beasts. Some turned feral immediately. Others retained fragments of their minds until death, when the corruption fully consumed them.
He was trying to weaponize them, to control them through fear and soul branding. Geneva knew the plan: complete the quest, and they'd escape the trial. That was the goal. Survivors.
Survive…
Because none of them wanted to meet the man with the horn.
Genevo had hoped that with enough soul branding, Varzan could tame them—bend the corrupted beasts to his will. Maybe not just one, but dozens. An army. Weapons to throw at the man with the horn.
For a while, it seemed possible. Varzan had a gift—a connection to the monsters others feared. He could calm them, direct them. Even when the branding twisted their minds, he could still reach them.
But it never lasted.
The beasts always slipped. The corruption ran too deep. Some resisted for hours. Others for days. But in the end, they all turned—feral, mindless, lost.
And some…
Some came back from death itself, more savage than before. Not even Varzan could reach them then. No command, no voice, no bond could call them back.
They weren't weapons anymore.
They were warnings.
But never—not once—had they dared to use the branding on a human.
Until now.
Geneva clenched her jaw. She knew what this meant. If Lyle's soul had been branded… he wasn't coming back.
Still, she couldn't show it. Couldn't let the others see her fear or her guilt. She took a deep breath, forced her expression into neutrality, and readied herself—for the moment Lyle turned completely feral.
Present – The Clearing
The smoke from the scorched earth hadn't cleared before Lyle moved again.
He launched forward in a blur of limbs and snarling fury, his eyes glowing with that twisted, unnatural light. His claws tore furrows in the dirt as he charged.
Rowan didn't flinch.
He couldn't.
One wrong move—one twitch—and Lyle would lose whatever thread of himself he was clinging to.
"I know you're still fighting it," Rowan muttered, barely audible over the crackling static that clung to Lyle's body like a second skin. "Don't make me be the one to end it."
Lyle lunged.
Rowan deflected the first swipe with the flat of his axe. Sparks flew. The impact shuddered down his arms. He twisted, let Lyle's momentum carry past him, then pivoted hard.
Not to attack.
To breathe.
Every strike was stronger. Wilder. More erratic. The brand was deepening—infecting him further. There wasn't much time left.
Rowan's boots skidded across the dirt as Lyle came again, faster now, jaws snapping, voltage sparking from his fingertips like claws made of lightning.
Still, Rowan didn't counter. Not fully. Just redirects. Parries. Dodges.
But even restraint had a breaking point.
A sudden jab caught Rowan in the ribs—an explosion of pain that sent him sprawling. He hit the ground hard, axe knocked from his hand. His breath fled him in a grunt.
Lyle was already in the air above him, teeth bared, eyes glowing like shattered suns.
And for the first time—
Rowan saw it.
A flicker.
Right before the killing blow.
Regret.
Buried deep in those blazing eyes—just for a second—Lyle hesitated.
That was all Rowan needed.
With a grunt of effort, he rolled, grabbed a fistful of dirt, and flung it into Lyle's face. It wasn't elegant, but it bought him a heartbeat. Just one.
Enough to retrieve the axe.