Chapter Five - Lucan’s Struggle

  Lucan hit the river hard.

  The impact knocked the wind from his lungs before he even had a chance to inhale. The water was ice-cold, crashing over him, twisting his body as it dragged him downstream. Up. He had to get up.

  The moment he surfaced, he gasped for air—only for another surge of water to slam into him, sending him tumbling under again. Rocks scraped against his skin, hidden beneath the violent current. The river wasn’t letting go.

  Focus. Get control.

  He tried to turn himself, to fight the water rather than be carried by it. But his limbs felt sluggish, the cold seeping into his bones.

  Up ahead, a fallen log stretched across the river, caught against the rocks. Lucan’s eyes locked onto it—his only chance to escape the current before it pulled him even farther away.

  Now.

  With the last of his strength, he lunged forward, fingers scraping the wet bark until he barely caught hold.

  His body jerked violently, the river trying to wrench him away. His shoulder burned from the force, but he held on, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  For a few agonizing seconds, he just clung there, legs kicking weakly in the water. His chest heaved, the cold gnawing at him, his limbs sluggish from exhaustion. But he was alive.

  After what felt like forever, he managed to swing a leg over the log and haul himself up, collapsing onto the wet wood. It was damp and smelled of Cedar. The roar of the river filled his ears, but for the first time since being shoved in, he wasn’t drowning.

  Lucan lay there, water dripping from his clothing and his body dripping onto the wood beneath him. He took a moment to collect himself—coughing up water, and attempting to catch his breath.

  Then he noticed it.

  The emptiness at his sides.

  His fingers instinctively went to his belt—nothing. His daggers—gone. His belt pouch—gone.

  A hollow, sinking feeling coiled in his stomach.

  He had never fought without them. Not once.

  He pushed himself up slowly, scoping the area. He had drifted far downstream—there was no sign of Vecht, Alura, or Dain’s team. He had no relics. No weapons. No idea how far he had been carried.

  Lucan forced himself to breathe.

  Panic wouldn’t help. He needed to move.

  The riverbank wasn’t far, maybe forty feet. If he swam carefully, he’d make it.

  Lucan slid off the log, kicking against the current. His limbs felt sluggish, his body moving on instinct alone. By the time his feet touched solid ground, he collapsed to his knees, coughing up more river water.

  His ribs ached where they’d slammed into rocks. His arms felt like lead. But none of that mattered.

  He was completely unarmed.

  Lucan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He had to find something. Anything.

  His gaze swept across the forest floor. Broken branches, jagged stones, scattered leaves. Nothing that would hold up in a real fight.

  Then, something half-buried in the mud caught his eye—a short wooden staff, likely washed up from the river.

  Lucan grabbed it, brushing away the dirt. It was solid. He gave it a quick test swing—light but sturdy.

  It was better than nothing.

  Lucan barely had time to finish catching his breath before he heard it.

  Voices.

  He froze, pressing himself low against the underbrush.

  Through the foliage, two figures moved.

  Damnit.

  His first instinct was to run. But he forced himself to stay put, observing.

  Two students. One carried a short spear, the other a curved sword. They didn’t look exhausted—meaning they hadn’t been fighting recently.

  Lucan’s heartbeat slowed as he assessed them.

  They weren’t just passing through. They were setting up camp.

  A small fire pit lay between them, half-built, unlit. Nearby, a crude barricade of stones and fallen logs formed a perimeter—just enough to keep a camp hidden but defensible.

  Lucan’s eyes narrowed.

  Something was off.

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  Two people. A camp. But only two bedrolls were laid out.

  Where’s the third?

  Lucan scanned the area, his fingers tightening around the wooden staff. This wasn’t a complete group. Someone else was out there.

  Hunting? Gathering supplies? Scouting?

  It didn’t matter. Lucan had to decide now.

  Lucan’s mind raced through the options.

  One—Sneak past them. He had no idea when the third student would return. Avoiding them meant no fight—but also no weapons.

  Two—Strike fast. Ambush one, take their weapon, and force the other into a fight. Risky. If the third student came back mid-fight, he’d be outnumbered.

  Three—Wait. Hide in the foliage and watch. If the third student returned, he could take them out first.

  Lucan exhaled, weighing his options.

  He wasn’t used to fighting with reach. His entire combat style was about speed, precision, and close-quarters movement. This changed everything.

  The smart move would be to wait. Gather information. Find out who the third student was and what they were carrying.

  But Lucan was done playing it safe. If he stayed unarmed, he’d only delay the inevitable.

  He nodded to himself, accepting that he needed to act.

  Time to improvise.

  Lucan circled around, keeping low and silent.

  The forest masked his movement, and the two students were too focused on their conversation to notice.

  Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

  His eyes locked onto the swordsman.

  Take him down first, steal his weapon. Then deal with the spearman.

  Lucan adjusted his grip on the staff. It was time to see if he could fight without his daggers.

  He moved with purpose.

  With a sudden burst of speed, Lucan lunged out of the foliage, swinging the wooden staff. The swordsman barely had time to react before the staff slammed into his wrist, knocking his grip loose.

  The student yelled in surprise, stumbling back.

  Lucan didn’t stop. He spun the staff in his hands, jabbing the end into the swordsman’s ribs. The resonance crystal on the student’s weapon flared, his muscles stiffening for a brief second—

  Not long enough.

  The spearman reacted instantly, thrusting toward Lucan’s side.

  Lucan barely twisted in time, the spear skimming his ribs. Pain flared, but he pushed through it, dropping low and sweeping his staff toward the spearman’s knees.

  The attack connected.

  The spearman stumbled, but didn’t fall.

  Lucan cursed. He wasn’t used to this—his daggers would’ve ended this fight by now.

  The swordsman regained his balance, swiping wildly with his curved blade. Lucan ducked under the swing, stepping inside the swordsman’s guard.

  In one swift motion, he dropped the staff and seized the student’s wrist with both hands.

  Then, with every ounce of strength he had left, he wrenched the sword from his grip.

  The student tried to pull away—but Lucan was faster.

  He twisted the stolen weapon in his grip, flipping the blade around—and before the spearman could recover, he slashed across his arm.

  The resonance crystal flared.

  The spearman froze, his muscles locking up.

  Lucan turned back to the swordsman, grinning.

  The student stared at him, wide-eyed. He hesitated, his hand twitching toward his backup dagger.

  Lucan raised the curved sword and struck the student in the side with a quick slash, immediately immobilizing him.

  Lucan’s grip relaxed slightly, as he attempted to retrieve the swordsman's backup dagger with his free hand, but then he heard it.

  A branch snapping.

  His head snapped up.

  A third figure emerged from the trees.

  The missing student had returned.

  His breath caught in his throat. The missing fighter—a lean, sharp-eyed opponent wielding a short sword—moved with controlled aggression, stepping into the clearing without hesitation.

  Too fast.

  Lucan had barely finished his first fight, and already he was being thrown into another.

  The newcomer’s gaze locked onto the fallen spearman and the other swordsman that was completely immobilized. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the scene—then he moved.

  No words. No hesitation.

  He lunged straight for Lucan.

  Lucan barely brought his stolen blade up in time to block. The clash of steel rang through the clearing, the force of the blow jolting his already aching arms.

  He staggered back, struggling to adjust his grip. The curved sword wasn’t balanced the way his daggers were. He was used to quick, light movements—not the broader slashes and counters this weapon demanded.

  This is bad.

  The third student pressed the attack. His blade sliced through the air in rapid arcs, forcing Lucan onto the defensive.

  Lucan barely dodged the next strike, rolling sideways and springing to his feet just as the next attack came. The swordsman wasn’t slowing down.

  Lucan’s mind raced. He had no time to adjust to this weapon. He needed to fight on his terms.

  Lucan’s breath was ragged. He wasn’t used to defending this long.

  His opponent wasn’t just fast—he was patient. He wasn’t reckless like the spearman or caught off guard like the other swordsman. He fought with precision.

  Lucan tried a quick counterattack—a feint to the left, a sudden pivot to the right, aiming low—but the student read it instantly, stepping out of range.

  Damn it.

  Lucan gritted his teeth. He couldn’t win a direct exchange with this weapon.

  That meant he needed to change the fight entirely.

  Lucan retreated but the swordsman didn’t hesitate to follow.

  Lucan dashed into the trees, dodging between thick trunks, forcing his opponent into unfamiliar terrain.

  Come on. Follow me. Make a mistake.

  The swordsman was right on his heels. Lucan heard his footsteps pounding against the forest floor, cutting through the underbrush.

  Lucan snatched a low-hanging branch as he ran, snapping it back behind him.

  The swordsman ducked, barely missing it.

  Lucan grinned despite himself.

  Then he saw his chance.

  Up ahead, a low ridge of uneven rocks jutted out from the ground. The terrain was unstable—loose stones, wet moss, hidden gaps.

  Lucan veered toward it.

  His footsteps remained light as he darted across the uneven ground. He knew how to move fast.

  His opponent? Not so much.

  As the swordsman gave chase, his footing faltered for just a second.

  Lucan spun in an instant.

  Mustering what little strength he had left, he dropped low and swept his foot against the swordsman’s unstable leg.

  The student lost his balance—completely.

  His eyes widened in shock as he toppled backward, crashing onto the rocky terrain.

  The wind left his lungs in a pained gasp.

  Lucan was on him in a second.

  He drove his knee into the student’s chest, pinning him down, his stolen blade pressed to his opponent’s throat.

  Lucan’s breath came hard.

  For a few long seconds, neither of them moved.

  The swordsman’s eyes darted between Lucan and the stolen blade pressed against his neck.

  Lucan smirked. “I wouldn’t.”

  Slowly, the student released his grip on his sword.

  Lucan yanked it from his grasp, tossing the weaker weapon aside. He shifted his grip on his new blade, adjusting to the weight. Better.

  He stood, stepping back as the student groaned, clutching his ribs.

  “I’d stay down if I were you,” Lucan threatened. “Unless you want another round.”

  The student gritted his teeth but didn’t move. He had lost.

  Lucan ran a hand through his soaked hair, finally able to breathe.

  Without wasting time, he searched the downed students quickly and efficiently.

  From the swordsman, he took his belt pouch and he took the backup dagger he had attempted to take earlier—a poor replacement for his daggers, but at least it was something.

  From the spearman, he found a belt pouch—inside, a single relic.

  Lucan smirked, flipping it in his fingers. “Guess I’m not empty-handed anymore.”

  But he didn’t linger. He needed to get moving. Lucan vanished into the trees, his new weapons in hand.

  He had a sword, a dagger, and a relic. And now, he needed to find Vecht and Alura.