Villain stood at the edge of the Templeâs main court, hands loosely clasped behind their back, gazing out over the valley below. Moonlight illuminated the sea of dark treetops growing down the mountainside, painting the world in silver and shadow. It was almost peaceful.
Behind them came the sound of a struggle, quickly followed by the dull sound of a body hitting the ground.
Their old Mentor knelt there, held in place by armored hands, robes dirtied, gray hair disheveled but eyes as sharp as ever. Still defiant.
A slow smile spread across the Villainâs face.
Mentor said nothing. Even in the dim light, that glare hadnât dulled. The kind that meant to wound.
Once, perhaps, it might have.
Villain didnât mind. They stepped forward, spreading their arms as though welcoming an old friend back into their home.
âWell?â they asked lightly, tilting their head in curiosity. âWhere are they? Where is the chosen one destined to destroy me? From the way your people talked, it sounded like theyâd be ready to face me soon. So?â
Mentorâs lip curled. âThe chosen one is long gone. Youâll never find them.â His voice, though aged, carried iron certainty. âAnd once they complete their trainingââ
Villain scoffed. âPlease.â Their tone sharpened just slightly. âYour temple guards were no match for my people. This place fell faster than I expected. Itâs only a matter of time.â
As if summoned by the words, movement stirred in Villainâs periphery. From behind one of the tall stone pillars, Right Hand emerged, silent as ever.
She spared Mentor a brief glance before turning her attention to Villain.
Villainâs smile widened, slow and satisfied. They cast a sideways glance at Mentor. âSee?â
But something in Right Handâs expression caught their attention. Villain looked her over more carefully now, eyes tracing the lines of her stance, the set of her shoulders.
There were specks of blood across her sleeve, and by the looks of it, it wasnât hers. She wasnât hurt.
She nodded once, then said quietly, âJust beâŠâ She hesitated, searching for the right word. Her jaw set. âJust be moderate about this.â
Villain raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She waved her hand somewhere into the darkness. Two henchmen emerged, dragging a struggling figure between them. It was kicking and twisting, heels scraping desperately against the stone floor. All useless effort. The henchmen barely slowed.
Villain blinked, their gaze fixed on the captive.
Hero â if that was what this was â couldnât have been older than twelve.
They wore a white nightgown, the fabric smeared with uneven red smudges. Thinking back to Right Hand, the blood mustâve come from the temple guards; most likely from those tasked with getting Hero away to safety. Heroâs arms were quite thin for their age, slim but not frail.
Villainâs eyes narrowed.
Either Mentor had taken Hero from some poorer than poor village just recently, or⊠or they had already begun the Trials.
The realization hit sharp.
Villainâs surprise curdled into something colder, a flicker of anger breaking through the amusement.
Now the look on Right Handâs face made perfect sense.
Villainâs gaze slid from the child to Mentor. The old man wasnât even looking at them anymore. His eyes were fixed on Hero. All that defiance, all that stubborn pride had shifted into concern.
Hero, trembling, met his gaze.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that silent exchange of fear and reassurance passing between them.
Something in Villain snapped.
They scoffed, the sound cutting clean through the stillness. âSeriously?â they asked, humorless smile appearing on their face. âA child? You thought a mere child could face me?â
Truth be told, they shouldnât have been surprised. This was exactly the sort of thing Mentor would do.
Mentor tore his gaze away from Hero. âThe prophecyââ
âOh, spare me.â Villain cut him off with a flick of their hand and turned away, turning back toward the valley. A quiet world slept beneath them, oblivious. They wondered, not for the first time, if the people down there had any idea what kind of fools they placed their trust in.
âYou always go on about that prophecy,â Villain said, facing Mentor once againâ
âand realized, too late, their mistake.
They caught a single, subtle nod toward Hero. The child stiffened, then braced.
Mentor surged to his feet with startling speed and precision his age had no right to possess. Fire bloomed in his hands, arcing outward in a sweeping flare that forced the guards back.
Then Right Hand was there.
She moved like she always did. Fast, efficient, merciless. She caught the opening in the fire the instant it came into existence, stepping in and striking Mentor hard with the hilt of her sword.
The fire was gone in an instant.
Mentor hit the ground hard, and she followed him down, driving her knee into his back, pinning him there. Her bloodied blade was still in her hand, waiting if needed.
The sharp thud of bodies hitting stone snapped Villainâs attention away. They turned to find the henchmen sprawled where they had fallen.
Hero was already scrambling upright, slipping free and running. Small feet slapped against the stone as they bolted across the courtyard, past the broken threshold, toward the dark line of trees beyond.
For a moment, Villain simply watched. They lifted their hand, stopping a few of their people who moved to give chase.
Silence fell again, thinner now.
Villain turned back to Mentor, expression settling into something almost amused again. âThat,â they said, âwas stupid.â Then their gaze shifted to Right Hand. An unspoken understanding passed between them. âHave fun,â Villain added. âBut donât kill him.â
They both knew better than to waste this.
Mentor deserved to see everything he had built come undone.
âSet this place on fire.â
And before the words had fully faded, Villain turned and moved, crossing the courtyard and slipping into the treeline where Hero had vanished.
Running through the woods was almost nostalgic.
Villain moved easily between the trees, barely breaking stride as branches brushed past them and roots twisted underfoot. They knew this forest. Every winding path, every dip in the earth, every hollow tucked between old roots and stone. They and Right Hand had spent hours here as children, hiding, chasing, learning the terrain long before they ever learned how to fight.
They were fairly certain they could navigate it blindfolded.
Ahead, the forest betrayed Hero with every step.
Branches snapped. Leaves rustled too loudly. Breath came sharp and uneven, dragging in the cold night air in panicked bursts.
Villain didnât need to see them to picture the frantic glances over a shoulder, the desperate hope that no one was there. In that scattered, panicking mind, there was no room for awareness.
No room for the slope that lay ahead.
So inexperienced. Still so⊠untouched. Innocent.
Better to end this now, before Mentor had the chance to twist that into something dangerous.
A startled shout tore through the night.
Branches snapped in quick succession, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body rolling and striking earth again and again. The air rushed out of small lungs in pained, broken grunts.
Villain reached the edge of the slope just as Hero struggled to their feet, favoring one leg, limping forward with stubborn, uneven steps.
Didnât know when to quit, did they?
Villain slid down after them, controlled and effortless, boots finding purchase where the ground gave way. The soft scrape of their descent was enough to cause Heroâs panic to spike.
They pushed forward harder, choking on breath, forcing their injured leg to move faster than it should. It wouldnât help.
Villain followed at an unhurried pace, almost casual, closing the distance step by step without needing to rush.
Then Heroâs good foot caught on a root, falling face-first into the dirt.
Still, they tried to crawl.
Villain sighed and closed the last stretch between them. They crouched, placing a firm hand between Heroâs shoulder blades and pushed them back into the ground.
âYouâre done?â they asked.
Heroâs response was immediate. A hand grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it backward.
From the angle, most of it scattered uselessly, some of it falling right back onto Heroâs own back.
Villain wiped at their cheek with mild annoyance. âLook,â they said evenly, âwe can do this the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.â
Heroâs breathing broke completely, collapsing into sharp, uneven gasps. They started to thrash around.
Villain sighed under their breath. He wished Right Hand was here. She was better at this.
âHard way it is,â they muttered.
They struck the back of Heroâs head in one precise, controlled, and hard enough strike.
The small body went slack instantly.
Silence returned to the forest, save for the whisper of leaves overhead.
Villain shifted their hand from Heroâs back to their neck, fingers resting against the pulse point.
They hadnât overdone it.
Satisfied, Villain slipped an arm beneath Hero and lifted them with ease. Up close, the damage was clearer. The nightgown, once white, was now dulled to brown with dirt and streaked with drying blood. Their skin was marked with shallow cuts. Bruises would appear by morning.
That, however, was a problem for later.
Villain adjusted their grip and turned back the way they came.
Through the trees, faint at first, thin trails of smoke curled upward into the night sky, catching the moonlight in pale, shifting ribbons.
