This wasn’t just about the battle anymore. It wasn’t just about his freedom. For Rowan, it was about something more—a line drawn in the dirt, a choice that might cost him everything.


    The healing surge had hit Rowan like a bolt of lightning, a jolt of raw power coursing through his veins, burning away the fog of pain and exhaustion that had settled over him for days. It was as if his very blood had been set alight, the fire spreading through muscle and bone, making him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in weeks. Every ache, every wound, seemed to melt away, replaced by a thrumming vitality that made his heart hammer against his ribs.


    His vision sharpened, the world coming into vivid focus. The distant cries of battle, the clash of steel, the roar of rakmen—it all faded into the background, as if some unseen force was guiding him, honing his senses to a razor’s edge. His limbs felt light, his body no longer his own but something more—something unstoppable. The air was thick with the stench of blood and smoke, but it didn’t touch him. Nothing could. He was a force of nature, unyielding, relentless.


    Yet beneath the rush, beneath the surge of power, there was something else. A twisting thread of unease, a sense that this strength was borrowed, unnatural. His grandfather Bodh had drilled it into him. There is a cost to bloodstone healing. Never trust the surge. But that price didn’t matter. Not now, not while the ferrax is chained.


    His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he made his way toward the creature. The rakmen around it were a blur of movement, but Rowan felt no fear, no hesitation. The power surging through him drowned out any doubt, any second thoughts. He was past those.


    An incendiary blast landed near him, the sound ringing in his ears. Rowan caught sight of the scrawny lad now, ducking back into the trench he was hiding in. Rowan recognised the boy’s face but not his name.


    Rowan wasn’t the only one who had noticed. One of the rak chieftains, his ghostblood mask gleaming ominously in the hazy half-light, had zeroed in on the lad’s position. reached out an extended hand to where the grenadier was hiding. Rowan didn’t need to watch to know what happened. The sound of the explosion and the boy''s anguished screams pierced the air, cutting through the smoke and fire like a knife.


    That knife tore at Rowan, he knew that he should check on the lad. He knew that he should be falling back to the trenches, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave the ferrax to its fate.


    Ahead, one of the rakmen was moving with a deadly purpose, lifting a massive scythe above his head. It was an ungainly and awkward weapon, its curved blade catching the light as it swung up. Rowan knew the design—this wasn’t a weapon meant for combat, not against men. It was a tool for wrangling beasts, for controlling their wild movements, and for putting them down when they became too much to handle. They’d evidently decided the risk of the attackers freeing the ferrax outweighed whatever corrupted purpose they had for the beast.


    He heard a bellow of animalistic rage to his side, and saw a black blurred shape leap past him, landing on one of the rakmen  tearing and ripping at the unfortunate creature as they fell to the ground. Rowan gripped his own newly acquired blade in his hand and slashed out, cutting down a rak that stepped into his path.


    He was still in the hyper-focused frenzy of the healing surge. He moved quickly, slashing hatefully at another, while the beastman leapt onto his next target.


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    The scythe-wielder edged closer to the ferrax, eyes darting, clearly not fool enough to engage in a fight with both Rowan and the beastman. The ferrax''s head was chained tight to the ground, its eyes wild with fear, its enormous body quivering with fury, muscles straining against iron bonds that clanked with each shuddering breath.


    Rowan charged with a bellow. His sword caught the scythe mid-swing, his blade shrieking in protest as the scythe''s edge slid down its length, locking against the crossguard. For a heartbeat, Rowan’s face was so near the rak''s he could smell the foul stench of its breath. The rak''s unnaturally blue eyes, burned into his, filled with a savage rage that promised murder.


    Rowan barely had time to steady his breath before the scythe-wielder threw the weight of his shoulder against him, pushing Rowan back in a stagger. The rak’s scythe came down in a wicked arc, aimed straight for Rowan’s throat. Rowan twisted aside, boots scraping on stone, feeling the rush of air as the blade whistled past.


    Rowan swung his sword in a wide slash, aiming to gut the rak, but the scythe-wielder was quick, slipping away like a shadow. Steel met steel, sparks flying as their weapons clashed. Rowan could feel the force behind each blow, the power of a creature who’d spent his life with death in his hands. The scythe was a terrible weapon for a fight, all reach with little finesse. Rowan’s sword by contrast was wicked fast and carried with the determination of a man who refused to die.


    The scythe came at him again, a blur of motion, and Rowan got his blade up in easy time but the impact shuddered through his arms, the scythe scraping down his sword with another ear-splitting screech. Rowan gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he shoved the scythe-wielder back. But the man was relentless, following up with a swift kick that caught Rowan in the gut.


    Rowan staggered, a sharp pain blooming in his chest, but he kept his feet, barely. That wound had been hastily healed by Yaref, but it was still a long way off being truly healed. The scythe-wielder pressed the attack, swinging the scythe in a deadly arc that left Rowan with little room to manoeuvre. Rowan ducked low, feeling the blade skim the air above his head, and came up with a thrust into the rak’s belly.


    The scythe-wielder gasped, the sound wet and ragged, his hands going slack. Rowan twisted the blade and yanked it free, blood pouring from the wound. The scythe clattered to the ground, the fight draining from the rak’s eyes as he crumpled to his knees.


    Rowan stood over him, chest heaving, blue blood dripping from his sword. The scythe-wielder looked up at him, eyes glassy with shock, and in that brief moment, Rowan realised he pitied this creature. He wasn’t that different from a man, looking at Rowan like that.


    In that moment, Rowan wondered what hateful and angry thing drove these creatures to fight. What the hell are they doing here… bleeding and dying… for what?


    The ferrax shuddered and Rowan’s attention was pulled back to the battle. The pain in his chest was growing. Like ice spreading from his heart. That’s not good. Everything around him was chaos. There was clashing of steel as men and rak fought only a few steps away from him.


    He turned a dazed gaze on the ferrax. It watched him, its enormous golden eyes full of ancient wisdom and raw power.


    Rowan swung his sword down onto the chains binding the ferrax’s head, each strike echoing like the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith''s hammer against steel. The blade bit into the metal, sending sparks flying in every direction as he pounded relentlessly. His sword was quickly turning into a dented mess of metal. It would be useless in a fight after this deed was done.


    With a shriek of metal on metal, the links finally snapped, the ferrax’s head reeling back in surprise. But the other chains still wrapped around its massive body. Rowan set to work on them, hammering until finally, with a resounding crack, the last of the chains broke free, and the ferrax surged upward.


    There was the sound of rushing wind. Rowan barely registered the motion—just a flash of red and gold—and the creature was free, leaping into the fray with a fluidity that made the world around him spin.


    Light caught the creature''s fur and all Rowan could see was glimmering gold and red dancing about him as the last shreds of consciousness slipped away.