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these years, excitement. It was a
feeling of familiarity. Of the killing machine he was about to become. It was
always what happened when he went into battle—his own, private battle. In his
version of battle, he killed his opponent face to face; he didn’t have to hide
behind a visor or armor or a crowd’s applause like those fancy knights. In his
view, his was the most courageous battle of all, reserved for true warriors
like himself.
    And yet as he
ran, something felt different to Merk. Usually, Merk did not care who lived or
died; it was just a job. That kept him clear to reason, free from being clouded
emotionally. Yet this time, it was different. For the first time in as long as
he could remember, no one was paying him to do this. He proceeded of his own
volition, for no other reason than because he pitied the girl and wanted to set
wrongs right. It made him invested, and he did not like the feeling. He
regretted now that he had not acted sooner and had turned her away.
    Merk ran at a
steady clip, not carrying any weapons—and not needing to. He had in his belt
only his dagger, and that was enough. Indeed, he might not even use it. He
preferred to enter battle weaponless: it threw his opponents off-guard.
Besides, he could always strip his enemy’s weapons and use them against them.
That left him with an instant arsenal everywhere he went.
    Merk burst out
of Whitewood, the trees giving way to open plains and rolling hills, and was
met by the huge, red sun, sitting low on the horizon. The valley spread out
before him, the sky above it black, as if angry, filled with smoke, and there,
aflame, sat what could only be the remnants of the girl’s farm. Merk could hear
it from here, the gleeful shouts of men, criminals, their voices filled with
delight, bloodlust. With his professional eye he scanned the scene of the crime
and immediately spotted them, a dozen men, faces lit by the torches they held
as they ran to and fro, setting everything aflame. Some ran from the stables to
the house, setting torches to straw roofs, while others slaughtered the
innocent cattle, hacking them down with axes. One of them, he saw, dragged a
body by the hair across the muddy ground.
    A woman.
    Merk’s heart
raced as he wondered if it was the girl—and if she were dead or alive. He was
dragging her to what appeared to be the girl’s family, all of them tied to the
barn by ropes. There were her father and mother, and beside them, likely her
siblings, smaller, younger, both girls. As a breeze moved a cloud of black
smoke, Merk caught a glimpse of the body’s long blonde hair, matted with dirt, and
he knew that was her.
    Merk felt a rush
of adrenaline as he took off at a sprint down the hill. He rushed into the
muddy compound, running amidst the flame and the smoke, and he could finally
see what was happening: the girl’s family, against the wall, were all already
dead, their throats cut, their bodies hanging limply against the wall. He felt
a wave of relief as he saw the girl being dragged was still alive, resisting as
they dragged her to join her family. He saw a thug awaiting her arrival with a
dagger, and he knew she would be next. He had arrived too late to save her
family—but not too late to save her.
    Merk knew he had
to catch these men off-guard. He slowed his gait and marched calmly down the
center of the compound, as if he had all the time in the world, waiting for
them to take notice of him, wanting to confuse them.
    Soon enough, one
of them did. The thug turned immediately, shocked at the sight of a man walking
calmly through all the carnage, and he yelled to his friends.
    Merk felt all
the confused eyes on him as he proceeded, walking casually toward the girl. The
thug dragging her looked over his shoulder, and at the sight of Merk he
stopped, too, loosening his grip and letting her fall in the mud. He turned and
approached Merk with the others, all closing in on him, ready to fight.
    “What do we have
here?” called out