Jolthar turned to face the newcomer, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. He sheathed his long sword into one of the scabbards at his waist with practiced ease.

"Ah, Uncle Colinus," Jolthar replied, his voice carrying a hint of warmth that had been absent during his training. "I'm sorry. It was my goal to slash this mountain, and I have accomplished that now. Shall we leave?"

Colinus's eyes widened in surprise and delight. The old man had been visiting periodically to check on his young master, but Jolthar had never before expressed a willingness to leave the mountain. This simple statement filled Colinus with joy.

As they began their journey back to Stormholme Keep, Colinus couldn't help but marvel at the young man beside him. He had seen his fair share of swordsmanship in his long life, but what Jolthar had just accomplished shook him to his core.

To possess such devastating power at such a young age—it was almost beyond comprehension. The old man found himself wondering just how strong Jolthar truly was and what fate had in store for this prodigious warrior.

The trek back to Stormholme Keep was long, but Jolthar showed no signs of fatigue. If anything, he seemed energized by the prospect of returning to civilization after his self-imposed exile in the mountains.

‾‾‾‾‾‾ * ‾‾‾‾‾‾

In the thick forest near the Stormholme Keep, a few miles from the Keep, the dense forest was alive with the sounds of desperate flight and relentless pursuit.

Leaves rustled and branches snapped as a woman in her thirties raced through the undergrowth, a five-year-old child clutched tightly to her chest; her hands held the child tightly to herself.

Her breath came as frantic and her face pale, and she was exhausted, but she never stopped. Blood stained her clothing, evidence of wounds sustained during her frantic escape, yet she pressed on with grim determination.

Behind her, closing in with every passing moment, were her pursuers—men dressed in nondescript grey clothing, their faces obscured but their intent clear in the ferocity of their chase. They couldn't be described as their faces were also covered by the grey cloth, leaving only the eyes.

For a week, this deadly game of cat and mouse had played out in the wilderness, but now it was drawing to its inevitable conclusion. Though she didn't know for how much time she had been running, she fought and killed, and their pursuers were relentless.

The woman burst out of the treeline onto a well-worn path, hope flaring in her eyes at the sight of open ground.

But fate had other plans.

A dagger, thrown with deadly accuracy, embedded itself in her upper shoulder.

With a cry of pain, she stumbled and fell, her body curling protectively around the child as they hit the ground.

In moments, the grey-clad men had surrounded her, their weapons drawn and gleaming in the dappled forest light. One man, clearly the leader, stepped forward, his voice cold and devoid of mercy.

"Woman, hand over the child and meet your death," he demanded.

Another of the pursuers, his breath coming in ragged gasps, spoke up. "Why don't we take her to the woods before killing her? She made us chase for a week, and we've been stuck in this place for days."

The leader's response was swift and harsh. "Shut up! Don't you understand we're already late?"

Despite her injuries and the hopelessness of her situation, the woman's resolve remained unbroken. "I won't give her up," she declared, her voice weak but unwavering. "Even if I die, I won't."

"Then die," the leader snarled, raising his sword for the killing blow.