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He wouldn’t kill her; Torrin already knew that. And yet, his first instinct was to cry out and run towards her, surely just as the man wished he would.

"Nay!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and strained from the fight. He charged, and was quickly intercepted.

The man blocked his path. He was young, fast. He moved with precision, but Torrin still managed to parry the blow he tried to deliver, sending him a few steps back. With a huff, the man stared at Torrin, his jaw clenched, and then swiftly attacked again, barely taking a moment to breathe.

Once again, Torrin blocked the blow, pirouetting to the side to avoid the one that came next.

Sweat dripped down his temples and his back.

His hands were slick with it, but also sticky with the blood he had spilled.

His hair, having fallen out of the tie on his nape, now hung over his eyes, but he couldn’t take even a single moment to push it back.

The man attacked again, and Torrin met his sword halfway—but then, just as he was about to pull back and attack again, he stepped on a stone and lost his balance, the enemy’s sword sliding down against his own.

Then, just as Torrin tried to step back, the Keith soldier managed to get in a lucky blow, slicing through his side.

In return, Torrin struck back hard, driving his sword into the man’s side—but the delay had cost him.

Pain bloomed over his torso, spreading quickly all over his body. It was as though his entire side was on fire, and he could feel the blood seep through his shirt, drenching him.

Before him, Valora, still bound and gagged, tried to scream for him, tears streaming down her eyes.

Torrin, already weak from the blood loss, pressed a hand over the wound and stumbled towards her.

She was all that mattered; nothing else.

As long as he could get her out of there, out of that hellish place and back to safety, then he could die a happy man.

"I’m alright," he gasped, but he was certain Valora couldn’t hear his reassurances over the ruckus of the fight. "I’m alright, dinnae fash."

Just as he approached her, though, a different Keith man came from the side—an older man, lean and scarred, a sword held tightly in one hand and a dirk in the other.

Much like Noah, he seemed to be fighting with both weapons, and Torrin cursed his luck for having to fight the man now that he was injured.

Torrin turned just in time, parried the dirk—but the short sword was coming in fast. He was too exhausted, too dizzy to parry that too, and so instead, he tried to duck.

But the sword was still too close. Torrin could see it as if in slow motion, coming closer and closer, threatening to take his life for good.

The man raised his blade for the killing blow. Then, Noah barreled into him, unstoppable, vicious, knocking the Keith soldier back. The two clashed, Noah’s blade driving down with grim efficiency. Before Torrin knew it, the Keith soldier was dead, falling to the ground without so much as a sound.

"Can ye walk?" Noah asked.

"I can fight," Torrin snarled.

The camp had fallen into utter chaos. Dead men lay on the ground, though many Gunn soldiers still stood, despite their injuries. The Keiths, though outnumbering them, had lost cohesion, and were struggling to fall back into formation in the face of an enemy for whom they weren’t prepared.

Torrin looked for Valora again—only to find her kicked to the ground, a boot on her back.

Her screams were muffled by the gag, but the terror in her eyes was palpable.

And the moment he saw her like this was the moment he lost all control; the moment when no pain mattered as his body flooded with adrenaline and he barreled into the man, shoving him right off Valora.

Torrin didn’t hesitate; he brought his blade down, pushing it straight through the man’s ribs before he could do anything to react or stop him.

It took only moments for the man to fall to the ground, dead, and it was only then that Torrin allowed himself to collapse, too, the last of his strength leaving him.

He fell to his knees beside Valora, cutting her bonds with the dirk he held with trembling, bloodied hands.

The moment she was freed, Valora reached for him, trying to steady him, but Torrin could only fall forward, blood still gushing from his wound.

Valora, with a firm yet still gentle hand, pressed against the wound, her entire body trembling as she leaned close.

"Torrin!"

He didn’t answer; he couldn’t. He simply collapsed forward, gripping her hand.

Blood soaked her skirts. She swiftly tore a strip from her hem and pressed it to his side, her hands slick with it, her skin stained red.

In the distance, Torrin could hear Noah’s voice, ringing out loudly over the valley.

"Clear the way! Gather the wounded! We’re goin’ home!"

All around him, the soldiers scrambled to follow Noah’s orders, gathering the wounded and loading up the horses. But all Torrin could do was push himself to his feet, using every last bit of strength that remained within him to pull Valora along and guide her towards his horse.

"What are ye daein’?" she demanded. "Ye’re wounded!"

"I can still ride," Torrin assured her. "Come, let us go."

Valora looked dubiously at the hand offered to her and decided to jump on the horse on her own; Torrin would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad about it.

His strength was being siphoned out of him with every passing moment and he just had enough to pull himself onto the saddle, eager to get out of that place.

Now that he knew Valora was safe, he could finally rest.