Malt stitched the layers of linen together with shaky hands. The occasional sting and the resulting bead of blood on his fingertips served as a constant reminder of the fact that even though he’d been trained to be proficient with a multitude of weapons, he couldn’t manage to wield a needle with any semblance of skill.

Those around him, however, seemed to be masters of the trade. Nadia worked her knitting rods with impressive speed, neatly weaving frayed ropes of yarn together with deft hands.

Mari’s needle danced across fabric with amazing finesse. He’d even wager that she could rival Geld in terms of dexterity.

Even her two sisters, both of whom didn’t look to be much older than Kirk, put his work to shame.

The hearth glowed dimly as it radiated a pleasant warmth. They shared tea and gossiped about matters that might as well have been in another language to Malt. Talk of who did this and who did that, who liked whom and who disliked whom.

Thus, Malt made himself as scarce as he could and huddled up into the corner of the room beside a window. Although he looked to be focussing diligently on his patchwork, his mind was somewhere else entirely.

If he used Niko and Misha as samples, Pavel would likely be ridiculously strong, at least from a physical standpoint.

It was common knowledge that he could defeat nearly anyone in the village if he chose to do so. And even those that could defeat him, Nasir likely being among them, had more to lose from causing trouble with him than they had to gain.

This was why he himself was likely in the prime position to intervene. As long as everyone kept their mouths shut, and Pavel didn’t find out too much about his connection with siblings, he wouldn’t have anything to lose.

That being said, dealing with Pavel was much easier said than done.

‘Fortunately’ though, Malt had had the opportunity to spar with Stromund a few times before.

Stromund was known across the kingdom for his prodigious strength, so a backwood nobody like Pavel was absolutely insignificant in comparison.

Granted, he himself couldn’t even manage to budge Stromund even though the man was holding back quite a bit, but at least he had experience with fighting stronger opponents.

But would it be enough? All these thoughts swirled around his head, each plan he thought of only spawned a dozen more questions, all of which he had no answer to. He wasn’t coming to a conclusion any time soon, that was for sure.

“The needle’s going to break if you keep wiggling it around like that, y’know?”

Malt snapped out of his thoughts, realizing that he’d been absentmindedly fiddling with the patch of linen the whole time.

“Ah, sorry ‘bout that.”

Nadia’s brow raised questioningly. She looked skeptically at the mangled piece of fabric.

“...what’s that supposed to be?”

He held up his work,

“Uh, a coat...I guess?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you already have that strange looking one in your room?”

“Yeah, I was thinking of making a little padded jacket for Kirk.”

She nodded in realization, returning to her quilt.

“For his first hunt huh? Thanks for that then.”

This time Mari leaned in closer, examining the sizable bundle of linen leaning against his leg.

“I think you went a little overkill on the fabric then, this much must’ve been pretty expensive.”

A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek despite the relatively moderate temperature. He barely stopped himself from instinctively pulling the bundle closer to himself.

“Well, I expect to mess up a lot, you...know…”

He quickly turned his head away, peering out the window that looked out to the cottage’s front yard. The others looked at him questioningly.

“...there something wrong?”

Without looking away from the window, he grabbed the bundle.

“...are you expecting any guests, Mari?”

Her head tilted curiously,

“No, there aren’t many people who come here anyway.”

He beckoned to her, keeping his eyes on the three figures approaching from the woods.

She sauntered over, placing her hands on the windowsill.

Her eyes strained for only a moment, but in that short amount of time she was able to realize the urgency of the situation.

Her expression turned grim, her shoulders, tense.

She immediately sprung into action, shutting the window with a thud and swinging down the bar that held it in place.

“Girls, head into the bedroom. Nadi, can you lock up the door?”

She nodded and sprinted to the door, struggling as the door creaked on its heavy hinges.

Despite the panic registering on the two younger sister’s faces, they scampered into the adjacent room and quickly and with practiced fluidity. It was obvious at a glance that this wasn’t a first time occurrence.

Malt quickly made himself busy. He slid his boots on and headed to the front door, bundle of linen in hand. Eyes flitting across the room, his eyes finally settled onto the sewing rods that Nadia had just previously been using. He grabbed one, feeling its weight and heft before deeming that it would suffice for his needs.

Nadi shot him a confused glance, though she quickly returned to closing up all the windows.

“Just sit tight, Malt. Sorry you have to go through this whole ordeal.”

He ignored what she said, grabbing the edge of the door just before it shut. “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

Her forehead creased as anxiety engulfed her expression.

“...sort of, yeah. He usually comes and just leaves after harassing us for a while. But it looks like he’s brought some others with him this time…”

She bit her lip, ignoring the taste of iron that soon filled her mouth.

But when she saw her two sisters, peeking at her from behind the door frame, she shook her head, clenching her eyes shut. Just as quickly as she’d descended into negativity, she clawed her way back up and plastered on a wide smile.

“Don’t worry though, there’s no way they could come in even if they wanted!”

The expression of forced positively was definitely directed more toward the two little ones, which seemed to have their fears lessened, if only slightly.

Malt’s hand clenched around the bundle of linen as his knuckles cracked audibly.

“I see.”

He pulled the door open with a yank, surprising everyone in the house. Quickly slipping through the little opening, he pushed it shut despite Nadia’s resistance.

Taking advantage of the confusion, he jammed the knitting rod into the gap between the door’s hinges. Due to the doors' rather crude construction, the rod slipped in with little resistance. With one hand steadying the rod, he took out his little utility knife and hammered into the butt of the rod with the knife's pommel, effectively wedging the door shut.

Not long after, the door began to shake violently, reverberating with repeated slamming from the other side. A multitude of muffled voices called out from inside, melding together in such chaos that he couldn’t distinguish their individual voices.

It was a temporary solution, but it was the best he could think of in the heat of the moment. Now he was just banking on the hopes that they wouldn’t try to leave through the windows.

But seeing as the approaching group of three was already within throwing distance, the chance of that happening was slim.

Malt could recognize the two figures at the rear immediately by their sodden, faded navy gambeson. Swords hung at their hips, but by the way they were sauntering around with them, he could tell that they had negligible experience in actually using them.

They hung them in such a position that the exposed blades would be in obvious and clear view, yet if they were to actually try and draw from that setup, it would undoubtedly be an awkward and cumbersome process.

They seemed to be Malt’s age, but he’d been in the military long enough to be able to tell who was a greenhorn and who wasn’t.

And these two were definitely greenhorns.

They were Khods, and deserters without a doubt.

The one leading, however, gave off a different vibe.

Despite the fact that he was the only one not sporting armor nor a weapon, Malt immediately classified him as the biggest threat.

And one didn’t need to be a soldier or have any sort of fighting experience to see why.

The man was built like a bull, tall and imposing. Although it was obvious at a glance that he was someone who took pleasure in eating, Malt could tell that bulging muscles lay just under the enveloping layers of fat.

The mix of plump and muscular was anything but pleasing to the eye, but the fledgling, albeit thoroughly tested fighter within Malt told him that it was the body of someone accustomed to combat.

And annoyingly, the guy knew it.

Chapped lips curled into a smug grin and just above it, a pair of condescending eyes. This irritating expression sat on a head proportionally smaller than his body, although that might’ve been because his torso was of such a prodigious size.

No introductions were necessary, it was almost laughable how easily well he fit everyone’s description of him.

Surprisingly, though, he wasn’t the first to speak.

One of the Khods, the shorter brunette, stepped up and pointed to Malt with his chin.

“What’s a kid like you doing here huh?”

They looked to be around the same age as himself, but Malt didn’t see any reason to interject.

He glanced over the Khod for a second and promptly brought his eyes back to Pavel, which definitely irked him.

The brunette stepped forward, closing the distance. He’d grown belligerent in a matter of seconds, his face growing as red and scrunched as a raging drunkard’s.

This display reminded him of something he’d slowly learned himself throughout his time in the army. Some people enlist into the military out of necessity, food didn’t come to those who didn’t work after all. Others join for a sense of camaraderie and to be accepted into a community. Many have no choice but to join in dire times.

All these reasons are valid ones, in fact armies of every nation are a melting pot of people with different vices, reasons, and regrets, so soldiers are generally pretty accepting of all manner of reasons.

But there was one that everyone looked down on: the person that becomes a soldier solely for the purpose of feeling powerful.

The kind of person that wants to be a soldier because he thinks having a sword hanging at his hip makes him superior to his peers.

This brunette was a prime example of the archetype.

He stepped up to Malt and grabbed his collar. It was obvious that he tried to lift Malt up to his tiptoes, but he possessed neither the strength nor height to do so.

His other hand rested on the grip of his sword. It was easy to understand what he was implying, but the fact that he was holding a sword as long as a man’s arm in reverse grip completely negated any sense of intimidation he was trying to convey.

Of course his buddy, the Khod with matted blonde hair, stepped forward as well, sheathing and unsheathing his sword ‘intimidatingly’.

Malt cringed. They were trying to elicit a reaction from him, and were getting up in his face because he wasn’t providing one. The whole farce was getting on his nerves, so he turned back to Pavel.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

The blonde stepped forward this time, pressing his forehead against Malt’s. He went onto his tiptoes, forcing Malt’s head down in an attempt to assert his dominance.

“You think you’re tough or somethin’? Huh?” He gestured to his sword for the umpteenth time. “You wanna be a tough guy right now huh? I’ll cut you down too.”

By the way he worded it, he seemed to be implying that he’d killed before. Yet Malt knew best that people who’ve actually taken a life in battle tend not to flaunt it around so flamboyantly.

Even though he didn’t feel any real danger coming from the two, he reached for his utility knife once again. No one was benefitting from this exchange, so it was best to simply end it there.

Before he could act on these thoughts, Pavel walked forward, towering over the three of them.

“Oi.”

There was weight behind his words, evident by the fact that the two quickly disengaged Malt and slunk back to their positions behind Pavel once again. All the bark had gone out of them without a trace as they eyed Pavel nervously from the corner of their eyes, fearing for the worst.

He wasn’t paying the two any heed though, because he was busy scanning malt over, likely sizing him up. After a few seconds, a scoff escaped his nose.

“Ah, you must be the brat that old hag brought in huh?”

His fists clenched. It was a subtle action, but Pavel must’ve caught on to it because he pressed on even further.

“I heard that Niko gave you a real thrashing. I was surprised! I didn’t think that idiot had it in him. I mean, he couldn’t even save his little sister from being kidnapped. Funny, ‘innit?”

Deep down, Malt knew that this was all just childish provocation. He’d grown pretty thick skin over the course of his time in this world, but that didn’t mean he was immune. That wasn’t what made him angry though.

He was clenching his fists so hard at this point that he wouldn’t be surprised if his knuckles started creaking.

This bastard knew something about Misha’s kidnappers. He’d had the inkling that Pavel’d been affiliated with them, but him bringing these Khods here, and having the audacity to taunt him about it as well,pretty much confirmed it.

There was a limit to how thick-skinned someone could be.

At this point Malt’s nails had dug deep into his own flesh. If it weren’t for the bundle of linen, his palms would be seeping with blood by now.

With all the calm he could muster, he looked at Pavel with a straight face and asked his question.

“Why do you insist on harassing them so much?”

He returned his question with a look that said the answer should’ve been obvious.

“Harass? Me? Never! It’s just that one day, when that old man finally kicks the bucket, I, the strongest man in the village, will become chief. It’s only natural for me to ‘get closer’ with my future wives, am I wrong? Look, I even brought some of my friends to share the fun!”

Malt chuckled softly through his nose, all the needless moral debate he’d been going through his mind the past few days had turned out to be useless. He honestly couldn’t tell if Pavel was just trying to provoke him, or if his thought process was so twisted and warped by his stratospheric ego that he actually believed the shit coming from his own mouth.

Whatever the reason, everything became clear to Malt in that moment.

All the needless worrying had cleared from his mind, and he was left with nothing but perfect calmness.

He took a deep breath.

The world around him had gone still.

In a flurry of motion, he flung his knife at Pavel’s neck with impressive force. With no time to waste and without seeing where the blade landed, he lunged toward the brunette, closing in before the Khod could even draw his sword.

His bare knuckles barreled into the brunette’s throat, driving his adam’s apple deep into his jugular. A painful, stunted gasp came from deep within his gullet as he collapsed to the ground. He lay eyes popping and violently gasping, like a fish out of water.

Next was the blonde.

A burst of motion in the corner of Malt’s eye caught his attention.

The blonde rushed forward in a ginger attempt to punch Malt, so unprepared for the act of retaliation that he’d forgotten about the sword he was so desperately showing off just a few seconds prior.

Malt quickly ducked under the punch, weaving under and up the other side of the Khod’s arm. From there, the blonde was completely exposed, having grossly overstretched.

Utilizing the momentum from his earlier movements, Malt carried through and redirected all that force right back into the Khod’s side in a brutally executed liver punch.

The shock registered immediately, and from experience, Malt knew well that the strike had caused a rupture. The blonde collapsed onto the dirt with a painful thud, writhing erratically.

Malt left him there, the internal bleeding would hopefully finish him off because there were much more pressing matters at the moment.

The seconds that had passed by could be counted on a single hand, he was making good time. Pavel would have without a doubt already recovered, so this was his only chance to strike.

He grabbed the bundle which had dropped in the earlier scuffle and hastily yanked off the linen covering, revealing a sheathed shortsword.

Dropping his stance and bringing one leg back, he placed one hand on the sword’s familiar grip and one at the mouth of the scabbard. His body momentarily tensed like a spring.

What followed must’ve been the best cut he’d ever done in his life.

He surged forward, covering a distance twice his height in a single leap. The blade shot from its scabbard and drew a perfect arc toward Pavel’s exposed neck.

The shiny blade flashed white in the afternoon sun for only a millisecond. The cut flew true enough to cleave off any man’s head immediately, no matter how muscular.

Yet instead of the slight resistance of flesh on steel that he’d grown accustomed to, he felt the blade jerk to a premature stop.

Just for a few moments, he stood completely in awe, unable to act despite knowing fully well the consequences of doing so.

The blade rested in Pavel’s meaty hand, completely stuck and not having inflicted as much as a scratch.

Sure, there were techniques where one was prompted to grasp the blade of a sword, and someone skilled enough could do it with minimal risk to themselves even barehanded.

But to be able to catch an exposed blade, in mid-swing no less, would require not only immense strength, but inhuman reflexes.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He’d realized that he’d been immobile for much too long.

He let go of the entrenched sword, backstepping as quickly as he could.

But before he could fully process what had just happened, let alone disengage, Pavel’s fist was already in his gut.

All of his senses instantly became overwhelmed.

Muscles tensed as saliva escaped his mouth in long strands, it felt as if his entire world had been turned upside down.

The blow connected just below his breastbone, sending him tumbling several paces away.

If this were him a few months ago, he likely would’ve given up there. But through months of suffering, Geld had beaten his techniques deep into Malt’s flesh and bone.

His muscle memory kicked in, and he let his limbs go completely limp. To avoid a catastrophic fall, it was best just to go with the force of the flow and to distribute it as evenly as possible.

But as he allowed himself to tumble like a ragdoll, the sudden, but not entirely unexpected urge to vomit assaulted him. Having that much force directed into his stomach had to have messed something up after all.

He tensed his core and regained his lost breath in rapid, shallow breaths until the feeling subsided.

Still mid tumble, he waited for the opportune moment and pushed off the ground with one hand. The little push gave him just enough clearance to pull his legs under him once again.

His feet had finally returned to the dirt. As he slid to a stop, he drew his last weapon from under his shirt, a curved dirk.

Pavel stood largely unfazed and with his signature smirk still on. He now held the sword properly in one hand.

His wide stance was peculiar, and implied that although he had the physique of a warrior, he didn’t have much experience fighting other men.

They store each other down.

This next exchange would likely be the last. No, it had to be the last. Malt wasn’t so sure that his body could put up with the abuse any longer. His chances of surviving only diminished as the pain grew, and the adrenaline subsided.

He took a few deep breaths, wincing as the pain began to set in. His abdomen burned like hell, and he didn’t particularly like the strange noises coming from his gut.

The smirk on Pavel’s face grew wider, he knew just what Malt was experiencing. The brute looked at him as if he was prey, a boar that was already winded and cornered.

And like any good hunter knows, a beast is most dangerous when it’s cornered.