The First Cut

The rain blurred everything, but Aren’s focus had never been sharper.

Time seemed to stretch thin, drawn tight like a wire about to snap.

The masked man lunged first.

His twin daggers moved like fangs in the dark, slicing at the air with a speed Aren barely had time to register. He twisted his body, the broken katana catching one of the blades with a sharp metallic clang that echoed across the ruined bridge.

Pain flared across Aren’s shoulder as the second dagger found its mark — a shallow cut — but enough to paint the rain with a thin line of his blood.

Aren stumbled back, boots skidding on the slick concrete. The masked man smiled beneath the fabric, sensing the weakness, pressing forward without mercy.

But Aren was not a boy hiding in the rain anymore.

He was something else now.

Something the storm itself had tried — and failed — to drown.

With a growl low in his throat, Aren pivoted on his heel, bringing the blunt edge of his broken katana crashing into the masked man's side. The force of it sent the man staggering sideways, nearly losing his footing on the crumbling bridge.

Aren didn’t wait.

There was no time for hesitation.

Hesitation was death.

He closed the distance between them with brutal efficiency, swinging again. This time, the masked man blocked with crossed daggers, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal. Their faces were only inches apart now, eyes locked — predator against predator.

“You should have stayed hidden,” the masked man hissed through gritted teeth.

Aren didn’t respond. Words meant nothing here.

Only survival.

He broke away suddenly, feinting left, then whipping around with a sharp, low sweep of his sword. The masked man jumped, avoiding the blade by a breath, but Aren had already shifted his momentum, bringing his elbow up hard into the man's ribs.

A sharp grunt escaped the masked man as he stumbled, dropping one of his daggers with a clatter.

For a split second, Aren saw vulnerability.

And he took it.

Driving forward, Aren slammed his broken katana straight into the masked man’s chest — not deep enough to kill, but enough to knock the air from his lungs.

The man crumpled to one knee, gasping, clutching at the wound.

Aren stood over him, rain streaming down his face like tears he refused to shed.

“Who sent you?” Aren asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

The masked man chuckled through the blood bubbling in his mouth.

“You already know,” he rasped.

And then, without warning, he drove a hidden blade from his sleeve upward, straight at Aren’s heart.

Aren barely twisted in time, the blade grazing his ribs instead. Pain burned down his side, but he didn’t falter.

With a snarl, he grabbed the man's wrist and wrenched it backward until he heard the sickening snap of bone.

The masked man screamed — a raw, animal sound — before Aren silenced him with a savage strike from the hilt of his katana, sending him sprawling unconscious across the broken bridge.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rain and Aren’s ragged breathing.

He stood there, shaking, the broken katana hanging loose at his side. Blood, both his and the masked man’s, mixed with the rain at his feet, forming small rivers that slithered into the cracks of the bridge.

Aren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting iron.

There would be others.

He knew that now.

This was not random.

This was a hunt.

And he was the prey.

But Aren wasn’t ready to die yet.

Not while the storm still called his name.

Without another glance at the broken body behind him, Aren turned and walked deeper into the mist, the rain swallowing his silhouette whole.

In the distance, unseen eyes watched him go.

The war had only just begun.

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