Rowan's POV
"If that is the case," one of the rebels said coldly, "then there is nothing left for us to do but kill you."
Steel sang.
Blades slid free of their sheaths in perfect, chilling unison.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. My hand flew to my side—to the familiar, reassuring weight of my sword—
—and closed around nothing.
Empty air.
My breath stuttered.
My vision narrowed, the world tilting as realization crept in, slow and merciless. I stared at my bare hand as if the weapon might materialize out of shame.
...No.
No, no, no.
I turned my head—very slowly.
The thief was still bound.
Still sitting there.
Still smiling.
Smiling. Teasingly. At a time like this.
"I forgot," I hissed through clenched teeth, fury simmering beneath my voice. "My sword is with you."
"Mhm," he replied lightly, tilting his head as if this were a mild inconvenience. "Yes. I noticed that. My mistake."
My eye twitched.
"You can do it," he added with mock encouragement, his tone dripping with insincerity. "Protect me."
"I despise you," I snapped.
"Eyes forward," he said calmly.
I turned—
Slash!
A blade shot toward my chest.
I barely twisted aside in time. Steel sliced past me, grazing my sleeve as the force of the attack sent me stumbling. My feet tangled, balance shattered, and I dropped hard to one knee. The air burst from my lungs as my hand flew to my chest.
"That—was—" I gasped, sucking in a breath, "—far too close."
"Roll next time," the thief commented lazily. "You could've died there."
"I did not ask for your opinion!" I shouted, forcing myself upright as the rebels shifted, repositioning like predators.
Two of them now.
One directly in front of me.
One to my left.
My thoughts raced.
Should I call for General Voltaire?
But the moment I turned my back, they would take the thief.
"See?" the thief said pleasantly. "This is exactly why you should untie me. I could help."
"Not. A. Chance."
The rebel on my left lunged.
I ducked, snatched a fallen branch from the ground, and swung on instinct. The impact knocked his blade aside—but the vibration jarred painfully up my arm as wood met steel, the branch cracking under the strain.
"Wrong thinking," the thief sighed. "Aim for the wrist, not the sword. Honestly—do you even know how to fight smart?"
"I am currently fighting for my life," I snarled, ducking another strike. "Will you stop talking? I am busy!"
"Busy losing," he replied.
I kicked backward without looking. My heel connected solidly with someone's shin.
A yelp of pain rang out.
I spun, seizing the opening, and drove my elbow into the nearest rebel's face.
He staggered back.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Good," the thief said approvingly. "Now sweep his legs."
"I know how to fight! Stop instructing me!"
I lunged forward—
—and suddenly an arm locked around my shoulders from behind. Cold steel flashed far too close to my throat.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
"Left," the thief said calmly. "Headbutt him. Hard."
I did not hesitate.
I slammed my head back with everything I had, the pain rebounding through me as sharply as the impact itself.
The rebel screamed.
I twisted free, shoved him forward into another man, and both of them crashed to the ground in a snarl of limbs, curses, and clattering weapons.
I stood there, chest heaving, hair falling into my eyes, a thin trickle of blood sliding from my forehead down the bridge of my nose, my pulse roaring in my ears.
"Well done," the thief said, sounding genuinely impressed. "You're less terrible than I expected."
I rounded on him, pointing furiously.
"One more word," I warned, "and I will personally kill you."
His smile only widened.
"Cannot promise. I am helping you how to fight then. Without me, you'll die."
I hated him.
Thoroughly.
Passionately.
With every fiber of my being.
...And yet, I had to admit infuriatingly, he was right.
He was helping me fight.
And that realization irritated me far more than the rebels ever could.
Steel scraped against stone as more rebels closed in.
Three.
No—four.
My throat tightened as I counted them, breath slipping shallow despite my efforts to steady it.
"Ah," the thief said mildly from behind me, far too relaxed for someone bound in chains. "You're being surrounded. Unfortunate. Especially since you're alone."
"I can see that," I snapped.
"If you would simply let me go," he continued, as if proposing a perfectly reasonable solution, "we could finish them together. Untie me, let me fight alongside you. When we're done, you can chain me up again. And when Voltaire and the others return, it will be as though nothing ever happened," he said.
"I don't trust you!"
The rebel directly in front of me lunged.
I ducked low, seized his wrist mid-strike, and twisted with all my strength.
Bone cracked.
He screamed.
I shoved him forward into another rebel, sending both of them crashing into the dirt in a tangle of limbs and curses.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"Nice," the thief said appreciatively. "I didn't know you looked that good when you're actually serious."
"Stop talking," I growled, spinning just in time to block a downward strike with my forearm.
Pain exploded up my arm.
I hissed sharply.
"Don't block like that," the thief added. "You're pretty, but you're not invincible."
I kicked the attacker hard in the knee, sending him sprawling.
"I am not pretty!"
"Yes, you are," he replied easily. "Blonde hair flying everywhere while you spin. Very dramatic. Oh—behind you."
Another rebel charged from my blind side, fast.
"Duck," the thief said.
I ducked instantly.
The blade sliced through the space where my head had been a heartbeat earlier. My heart slammed so violently I thought it might knock me unconscious.
"Spin," he continued.
"I am not taking orders from—"
"ROWAN."
I spun.
My elbow smashed into a face.
Blood sprayed.
I froze for half a heartbeat, shock rippling through me—because I had listened.
"...Stop that," I said tightly.
"Stop what?"
"Being right."
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound sent a completely inappropriate jolt of irritation straight down my spine.
"Your footwork gets sloppy when you're angry," he said. "Shorter steps. You're overcommitting."
"I fight just fine without your commentary!"
"You're alive because of my commentary. Right side," he warned calmly. "You're welcome."
I twisted just in time and slammed my shoulder into the attacker, driving him backward into a tree. The impact knocked the breath from both of us.
I exhaled hard.
"...Fine," I muttered. "But one more word and I swear—"
"Left," he said instantly.
I leapt.
The blade missed me by a breath.
"...I hate you," I said through clenched teeth.
"Strong words for someone who keeps following my advice."
"I am not following—"
"Now kick."
I kicked.
A body hit the ground.
I stood there afterward, chest heaving, hair plastered to my forehead, surrounded by groaning rebels sprawled across the dirt.
Silence fell again.
Slowly, I turned my head toward him.
"If you say anything smug right now," I warned, "I will throw you into the spring—still tied—until you drown."
His eyes gleamed.
"You'd miss me."
"I would celebrate."
"Liar."
I scoffed, wiping blood from my forehead.
"Untie me," he said softly. "We'd be unstoppable."
I met his gaze.
Too steady.
Too confident.
Too certain—of "us".
I turned away sharply.
"And let you run? I don't think so."
He smiled anyway.
The kind of smile that suggested he had already won something.
And for reasons I absolutely refused to examine—
That annoyed me far more than the fight itself.
Steel flashed from every direction.
I was barely keeping up—ducking, twisting, striking wherever instinct allowed—my breath tearing in sharp bursts as the rebels closed in. The air rang with metal and shouts, blades scraping too close for comfort.
Three in front of me.
Two behind.
They were injured—some limping, some bleeding—but they fought like cornered animals, relentless and desperate. My arms burned. My grip weakened. My energy drained far faster than my pride wanted to admit.
Truth be told, I wasn't a particularly good fighter.
And as much as it offended every stubborn bone in my body, I would have been dead already if not for the thief barking instructions at me from the side—telling me when to duck, when to strike, when to move.
I absolutely refused to acknowledge that.
If I did, his ego would swell to unbearable proportions, and I would never hear the end of it.
"Rowan," the thief suddenly called out, his voice far too bright for a situation involving imminent death.
"Look at me."
"I am a little busy fighting," I snapped, narrowly twisting aside as a blade skimmed past my ribs.
"No, really," he insisted, unmistakable delight creeping into his tone. "Look! One of them is setting me freeeee! Nice!"
My head whipped toward him before I could stop myself.
And there it was.
One of the rebels had slipped behind him, fingers already working at the chains around his wrists.
My blood ran cold.
"Hey—!" I started.
Slash.
Pain detonated across my side.
The world tilted violently.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat as all strength abandoned me at once. My legs buckled, and I dropped hard to my knees, the impact knocking the air clean from my lungs. My hand flew to my side, fingers slick as warm blood seeped through them.
"Rowan!" the thief shouted.
There was no mockery in his voice this time.
The rebels laughed.
The sound scraped against my ears, ugly and ringing.
Metal clattered.
I looked up just in time to see the chains fall from the thief's wrists, hitting the ground with a dull, final sound.
Free.
He was finally free.
And this—this was bad.
He's going to run.
My vision swam as I struggled to breathe, teeth clenched, forcing myself to stay upright through the burning pain in my side. Slowly, I lifted my head.
He was standing now.
Unbound.
Unrestrained.
Like a wild beast has been unchained.
My eyes widened as I stared at him, chest heaving, the world narrowing until everything else blurred.
For a single heartbeat, everything went quiet.
No rebels.
No shouting.
Just us.
Him—free at last.
Me—bleeding on my knees.
If he runs now...
If he leaves—
I tightened my grip over the wound, bracing myself.
The thief looked down at the fallen chains.
Then at me.
And the look in his eyes—
It wasn't smug.
It wasn't teasing.
It was sharp.
Focused.
Dangerously alive.
"Well," he said slowly, rolling his shoulders like someone finally waking from a long nap. "...that was terrible timing."
My breath shook as I stared at him.
"Don't," I rasped. "You leave now and I swear—"
He smiled.
Not playful.
Not mocking.
Predatory.
"Get the thief! Now!" one of the rebels shouted.
They rushed him all at once—the same man who had freed him lunging straight for his throat.
I barely had time to blink.
The thief moved.
Not stepped—moved.
One heartbeat he was standing still, chains barely settled on the ground.
The next—
He vanished.
My eyes struggled to keep up as he surged forward, body low and fast, fluid as a shadow slipping between breaths. Steel flashed—not loud, not theatrical—clean and precise.
I forgot to breathe.
I forgot—
I forgot that I was injured.
I forgot the fire tearing through my side.
I forgot the rebels surrounding us.
I could only stare.
"Relax, Rowan," he said lightly, his voice drifting back to me even as he moved. "Remember what I told you."
He twisted beneath a rebel's strike, caught the man's wrist, and snapped it with a sharp crack—never breaking stride.
"I won't leave you alone now," he added, smirking as he stepped over the fallen body.
In one smooth motion, his hand slid beneath the hem of his trousers.
A blade flashed.
A dagger.
Small.
Deadly.
My eyes widened.
"That was there the whole time?" I asked, stunned despite everything.
"I always bring a weapon with me," he replied casually, flipping the dagger once in his hand. "I just couldn't use it since that blasted Voltaire tied me up properly."
Even bleeding, even surrounded by enemies—
I had the strangest, most infuriating thought.
This thief was enjoying himself.
And somehow—against all reason—
I trusted him.
Another rebel charged him.
The thief barely seemed to notice.
He sidestepped with infuriating ease and drove his dagger into the man's thigh, twisting it deliberately before yanking it free. The scream that followed cut through the night as the rebel collapsed in the dirt, clutching his leg.
It was so precise—so vicious—that I actually felt a twinge of pity for the man.
I stared.
I hadn't known he could fight like this.
No—that wasn't right.
I hadn't known he was this dangerous when fighting.
Then—because the world apparently existed only to mock me—the thief did something utterly insane.
He stretched.
Actually stretched.
He rolled his shoulders as if loosening stiff muscles after a nap, cracked his neck from side to side, then flexed his fingers one by one, slow and deliberate.
"Ahh," he sighed, genuinely content. "Finally. That feels good after being tied up for so long," he said.
I gaped at him.
Speechless.
Horrified.
And—absolutely not—no—
I shoved the thought away the moment it surfaced, furious with myself for even entertaining the thought of being amazed at him.
"Capture the thief alive so we can still get what we need from him—and kill Lord Rowan so no one can report this!" one of the rebels shouted.
"If we take him alive, we can still use him," another muttered.
All of the remaining conscious rebel turned toward me at once.
My stomach dropped.
I was already injured, already on my knees, blood soaking into my white garments. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as stone.
I looked at the thief.
He smiled.
And then—
Chaos.
He ducked beneath the first swing, slid across the dirt, and came up behind his attacker in one fluid motion. His dagger slammed up beneath the man's ribs.
Before the body even hit the ground, the thief was gone.
He pivoted. Leapt. Spun.
He moved through them like water slipping through clenched fists—untouchable, inevitable.
A kick shattered a knee.
A blade kissed a wrist, tendons snapping.
A heel crushed a throat.
Every movement was clean. Efficient. Cruel.
This wasn't desperation.
This wasn't survival.
This was mastery.
My chest rose and fell rapidly as I watched, the pain in my body momentarily forgotten. Blood soaked deeper into my clothes, unnoticed.
So this was what he truly was.
Not a thief scrambling for scraps.
Not a criminal cornered by soldiers.
But a predator—finally allowed to bare his teeth.
He glanced back at me mid-fight.
His eyes were sharp, alive, gleaming with something dangerously close to joy.
"Don't look so shocked," he said lightly as he disarmed another rebel. "You were doing fine earlier. Maybe you just need more lessons from me," he added, smirking as one of his fangs caught the moonlight.
I swallowed.
"Don't worry," he went on pleasantly. "This one's for you, Rowan."
Slash.
Slam.
Crunch.
I had never seen anyone fight like this.
And the most terrifying part?
He was doing it—
For me.
He took on all the remaining rebels at once. Even when some tried to break away and rush toward me, he intercepted them without hesitation—redirecting their attacks, cutting them down before they could reach me.
All I could do was stare.
But I couldn't let this continue.
If I stayed like this—helpless—he would never let me forget it. He would mock me endlessly, remind me that I had been protected by a thief.
And he would enjoy every second of it.
Like he had been waiting for this exact scenario.
Two rebels rushed him head-on. One circled wide.
Another charged straight for me.
I saw it too late.
The rebel raised his sword—
—and the thief was already there.
He crossed the distance in a blink. Steel rang as he intercepted the strike meant for my throat. The rebel cried out when the dagger sliced cleanly across his wrist, the sword clattering uselessly to the ground.
"Oi, eyes on me," the thief said calmly, shoving the man away without even glancing back at me.
My breath hitched.
Another rebel lunged toward me from the side.
Before I could react—
The thief kicked a fallen body into the man's legs, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt.
"Really?" the thief muttered. "You're going to target the injured poor boy?"
"I am injured, yes, but not just a boy," I snapped, fury flaring, "and I am certainly not poor!"
He smirked.
And every time someone aimed for me—
He stopped them.
Redirected them.
Hunted them down before they came close.
Like I was an anchor he refused to let go of.
Like I was his precious treasure—
No.
I cut that thought off immediately.
The way he moved was effortless. Cruel. Almost—
Absolutely not.
I clenched my jaw and forced my focus back to the fight. I was injured, yes—but I could still stand. Still fight.
I had to prove that to him.
I would not allow this.
I could already hear it—the smug tone, the mocking grin.
"Oh? Rowan? Protected by a thief?"
Never.
I pressed a hand against my wound, pain flaring sharp and white.
And forced myself up anyway.
No.
Not on my watch.
I grabbed a fallen sword from the ground, the hilt slick with blood as I staggered forward.
The thief noticed instantly.
His head snapped toward me.
"Oh no," he said mid-fight, sounding almost amused. "You should stay down. This is my moment to make you feel weak and helpless—protected by a lowly commoner like me."
"I am not letting you fight alone!" I snarled, lifting the blade despite the tremor in my arms. "Or you will never let me hear the end of it!"
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
Even as he ducked under another swing and drove his dagger cleanly into a rebel's throat.
"Smart," he said. "You've only been with me for a short time, and you already know me so well. What's this—are you memorizing every detail about me?"
"Don't be so full of yourself," I shot back.
His grin widened.
And somehow—insanely, impossibly—we fought on like that while bickering with each other.
One of the rebels staggered toward me—wounded, bleeding, and utterly desperate.
I didn't hesitate.
I stepped forward and drove the sword straight through his chest.
The impact jarred my arm to the bone. The resistance—then the sickening release—sent a shock through my entire body as the rebel collapsed at my feet.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
Pain came roaring back all at once, blazing through my side, my shoulder, my ribs—
—but I stayed standing.
I refused to fall.
The thief glanced at the body, then lifted his gaze to me.
For the first time since the fight began, his smirk softened.
Just slightly.
"See?" I said between breaths, gripping the sword to keep myself steady. "I don't need protecting. I can still fight—even if I'm injured."
"Didn't say you couldn't," he replied, twisting smoothly away from another attacker.
Another rebel rushed me.
Before the thief could react—
I slashed.
The blade connected cleanly. The rebel fell without another sound.
The thief's eyes gleamed.
"Well," he said, spinning the dagger lazily in his hand as the last rebel hesitated, "look at you."
The final rebel turned to run.
He didn't get far.
The thief moved once more—swift, silent—
—and the battlefield went still.
The silence that followed rang louder than the clash of steel ever had.
I stood there, chest heaving, blood soaking into my clothes, the sword suddenly heavy in my hand. My limbs trembled—not from fear, but from the aftermath of everything crashing down at once.
The thief turned toward me slowly.
Looked me up and down.
Then smiled.
"You know," he said lightly, "for someone bleeding on his feet, you're incredibly stubborn."
I scoffed weakly.
"And for someone who just saved my life several times," I shot back, "you talk too much."
His grin widened.
"Oh, Rowan," he said softly. "Did you just admit that I protected you?" he teased.
"I did not say that," I snapped.
Then—
He looked away.
Not at me.
At the path behind him.
Open.
Clear.
Inviting.
Freedom lay right there—just a few steps away.
I tightened my grip on the sword with both hands, knuckles white. I knew it then, with terrifying clarity.
He could run.
I was injured. Exhausted. Slower.
If he bolted now... I wasn't sure I could stop him.
The thought tightened something ugly in my chest.
But instead of running—
The thief turned back.
And to my utter shock, he walked toward the tree where he had once been tied.
I froze.
He picked up the chain.
Then, clumsily, awkwardly, he began wrapping it around himself.
I stared.
Stunned. Confused. Completely unprepared for this.
"W-what are you doing?" I asked, disbelief slipping into my voice.
"I may be a thief in your eyes," he said calmly. "A lowly commoner. I steal. I run." He tugged at the chain, struggling slightly. "But I keep my word. I don't run from what I've already said," he added.
I frowned deeply, watching him wrestle with the chain as if it were mocking him now that he was doing this by choice.
"...Are you going to help me tighten it," he demanded, glancing at me, "or are you just going to stand there staring?"
Slowly, step by step, I walked toward him.
When I stopped in front of him, I didn't move right away. I just watched him bind himself—hands steady despite the chaos we had just survived.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked lightly. "I did exactly what I said I would."
A pause.
"Did you think I was lying?"
"You had the chance to run," I said quietly, my voice thick with confusion. "Why didn't you?"
"Hehe..." he chuckled softly, that familiar, infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.
And in that moment—
I had the sudden, terrifying realization that I had crossed a line I could never uncross.
I didn't know what it meant.
I didn't know what it would cost me.
But somehow, instinctively, I knew this—
That smile was far more dangerous than any explanation he could have given.
End of Chapter 50
Rowan's POV
"If that is the case," one of the rebels said coldly, "then there is nothing left for us to do but kill you."
Steel sang.
Blades slid free of their sheaths in perfect, chilling unison.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. My hand flew to my side—to the familiar, reassuring weight of my sword—
—and closed around nothing.
Empty air.
My breath stuttered.
My vision narrowed, the world tilting as realization crept in, slow and merciless. I stared at my bare hand as if the weapon might materialize out of shame.
...No.
No, no, no.
I turned my head—very slowly.
The thief was still bound.
Still sitting there.
Still smiling.
Smiling. Teasingly. At a time like this.
"I forgot," I hissed through clenched teeth, fury simmering beneath my voice. "My sword is with you."
"Mhm," he replied lightly, tilting his head as if this were a mild inconvenience. "Yes. I noticed that. My mistake."
My eye twitched.
"You can do it," he added with mock encouragement, his tone dripping with insincerity. "Protect me."
"I despise you," I snapped.
"Eyes forward," he said calmly.
I turned—
Slash!
A blade shot toward my chest.
I barely twisted aside in time. Steel sliced past me, grazing my sleeve as the force of the attack sent me stumbling. My feet tangled, balance shattered, and I dropped hard to one knee. The air burst from my lungs as my hand flew to my chest.
"That—was—" I gasped, sucking in a breath, "—far too close."
"Roll next time," the thief commented lazily. "You could've died there."
"I did not ask for your opinion!" I shouted, forcing myself upright as the rebels shifted, repositioning like predators.
Two of them now.
One directly in front of me.
One to my left.
My thoughts raced.
Should I call for General Voltaire?
But the moment I turned my back, they would take the thief.
"See?" the thief said pleasantly. "This is exactly why you should untie me. I could help."
"Not. A. Chance."
The rebel on my left lunged.
I ducked, snatched a fallen branch from the ground, and swung on instinct. The impact knocked his blade aside—but the vibration jarred painfully up my arm as wood met steel, the branch cracking under the strain.
"Wrong thinking," the thief sighed. "Aim for the wrist, not the sword. Honestly—do you even know how to fight smart?"
"I am currently fighting for my life," I snarled, ducking another strike. "Will you stop talking? I am busy!"
"Busy losing," he replied.
I kicked backward without looking. My heel connected solidly with someone's shin.
A yelp of pain rang out.
I spun, seizing the opening, and drove my elbow into the nearest rebel's face.
He staggered back.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Good," the thief said approvingly. "Now sweep his legs."
"I know how to fight! Stop instructing me!"
I lunged forward—
—and suddenly an arm locked around my shoulders from behind. Cold steel flashed far too close to my throat.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
"Left," the thief said calmly. "Headbutt him. Hard."
I did not hesitate.
I slammed my head back with everything I had, the pain rebounding through me as sharply as the impact itself.
The rebel screamed.
I twisted free, shoved him forward into another man, and both of them crashed to the ground in a snarl of limbs, curses, and clattering weapons.
I stood there, chest heaving, hair falling into my eyes, a thin trickle of blood sliding from my forehead down the bridge of my nose, my pulse roaring in my ears.
"Well done," the thief said, sounding genuinely impressed. "You're less terrible than I expected."
I rounded on him, pointing furiously.
"One more word," I warned, "and I will personally kill you."
His smile only widened.
"Cannot promise. I am helping you how to fight then. Without me, you'll die."
I hated him.
Thoroughly.
Passionately.
With every fiber of my being.
...And yet, I had to admit infuriatingly, he was right.
He was helping me fight.
And that realization irritated me far more than the rebels ever could.
Steel scraped against stone as more rebels closed in.
Three.
No—four.
My throat tightened as I counted them, breath slipping shallow despite my efforts to steady it.
"Ah," the thief said mildly from behind me, far too relaxed for someone bound in chains. "You're being surrounded. Unfortunate. Especially since you're alone."
"I can see that," I snapped.
"If you would simply let me go," he continued, as if proposing a perfectly reasonable solution, "we could finish them together. Untie me, let me fight alongside you. When we're done, you can chain me up again. And when Voltaire and the others return, it will be as though nothing ever happened," he said.
"I don't trust you!"
The rebel directly in front of me lunged.
I ducked low, seized his wrist mid-strike, and twisted with all my strength.
Bone cracked.
He screamed.
I shoved him forward into another rebel, sending both of them crashing into the dirt in a tangle of limbs and curses.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"Nice," the thief said appreciatively. "I didn't know you looked that good when you're actually serious."
"Stop talking," I growled, spinning just in time to block a downward strike with my forearm.
Pain exploded up my arm.
I hissed sharply.
"Don't block like that," the thief added. "You're pretty, but you're not invincible."
I kicked the attacker hard in the knee, sending him sprawling.
"I am not pretty!"
"Yes, you are," he replied easily. "Blonde hair flying everywhere while you spin. Very dramatic. Oh—behind you."
Another rebel charged from my blind side, fast.
"Duck," the thief said.
I ducked instantly.
The blade sliced through the space where my head had been a heartbeat earlier. My heart slammed so violently I thought it might knock me unconscious.
"Spin," he continued.
"I am not taking orders from—"
"ROWAN."
I spun.
My elbow smashed into a face.
Blood sprayed.
I froze for half a heartbeat, shock rippling through me—because I had listened.
"...Stop that," I said tightly.
"Stop what?"
"Being right."
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound sent a completely inappropriate jolt of irritation straight down my spine.
"Your footwork gets sloppy when you're angry," he said. "Shorter steps. You're overcommitting."
"I fight just fine without your commentary!"
"You're alive because of my commentary. Right side," he warned calmly. "You're welcome."
I twisted just in time and slammed my shoulder into the attacker, driving him backward into a tree. The impact knocked the breath from both of us.
I exhaled hard.
"...Fine," I muttered. "But one more word and I swear—"
"Left," he said instantly.
I leapt.
The blade missed me by a breath.
"...I hate you," I said through clenched teeth.
"Strong words for someone who keeps following my advice."
"I am not following—"
"Now kick."
I kicked.
A body hit the ground.
I stood there afterward, chest heaving, hair plastered to my forehead, surrounded by groaning rebels sprawled across the dirt.
Silence fell again.
Slowly, I turned my head toward him.
"If you say anything smug right now," I warned, "I will throw you into the spring—still tied—until you drown."
His eyes gleamed.
"You'd miss me."
"I would celebrate."
"Liar."
I scoffed, wiping blood from my forehead.
"Untie me," he said softly. "We'd be unstoppable."
I met his gaze.
Too steady.
Too confident.
Too certain—of "us".
I turned away sharply.
"And let you run? I don't think so."
He smiled anyway.
The kind of smile that suggested he had already won something.
And for reasons I absolutely refused to examine—
That annoyed me far more than the fight itself.
Steel flashed from every direction.
I was barely keeping up—ducking, twisting, striking wherever instinct allowed—my breath tearing in sharp bursts as the rebels closed in. The air rang with metal and shouts, blades scraping too close for comfort.
Three in front of me.
Two behind.
They were injured—some limping, some bleeding—but they fought like cornered animals, relentless and desperate. My arms burned. My grip weakened. My energy drained far faster than my pride wanted to admit.
Truth be told, I wasn't a particularly good fighter.
And as much as it offended every stubborn bone in my body, I would have been dead already if not for the thief barking instructions at me from the side—telling me when to duck, when to strike, when to move.
I absolutely refused to acknowledge that.
If I did, his ego would swell to unbearable proportions, and I would never hear the end of it.
"Rowan," the thief suddenly called out, his voice far too bright for a situation involving imminent death.
"Look at me."
"I am a little busy fighting," I snapped, narrowly twisting aside as a blade skimmed past my ribs.
"No, really," he insisted, unmistakable delight creeping into his tone. "Look! One of them is setting me freeeee! Nice!"
My head whipped toward him before I could stop myself.
And there it was.
One of the rebels had slipped behind him, fingers already working at the chains around his wrists.
My blood ran cold.
"Hey—!" I started.
Slash.
Pain detonated across my side.
The world tilted violently.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat as all strength abandoned me at once. My legs buckled, and I dropped hard to my knees, the impact knocking the air clean from my lungs. My hand flew to my side, fingers slick as warm blood seeped through them.
"Rowan!" the thief shouted.
There was no mockery in his voice this time.
The rebels laughed.
The sound scraped against my ears, ugly and ringing.
Metal clattered.
I looked up just in time to see the chains fall from the thief's wrists, hitting the ground with a dull, final sound.
Free.
He was finally free.
And this—this was bad.
He's going to run.
My vision swam as I struggled to breathe, teeth clenched, forcing myself to stay upright through the burning pain in my side. Slowly, I lifted my head.
He was standing now.
Unbound.
Unrestrained.
Like a wild beast has been unchained.
My eyes widened as I stared at him, chest heaving, the world narrowing until everything else blurred.
For a single heartbeat, everything went quiet.
No rebels.
No shouting.
Just us.
Him—free at last.
Me—bleeding on my knees.
If he runs now...
If he leaves—
I tightened my grip over the wound, bracing myself.
The thief looked down at the fallen chains.
Then at me.
And the look in his eyes—
It wasn't smug.
It wasn't teasing.
It was sharp.
Focused.
Dangerously alive.
"Well," he said slowly, rolling his shoulders like someone finally waking from a long nap. "...that was terrible timing."
My breath shook as I stared at him.
"Don't," I rasped. "You leave now and I swear—"
He smiled.
Not playful.
Not mocking.
Predatory.
"Get the thief! Now!" one of the rebels shouted.
They rushed him all at once—the same man who had freed him lunging straight for his throat.
I barely had time to blink.
The thief moved.
Not stepped—moved.
One heartbeat he was standing still, chains barely settled on the ground.
The next—
He vanished.
My eyes struggled to keep up as he surged forward, body low and fast, fluid as a shadow slipping between breaths. Steel flashed—not loud, not theatrical—clean and precise.
I forgot to breathe.
I forgot—
I forgot that I was injured.
I forgot the fire tearing through my side.
I forgot the rebels surrounding us.
I could only stare.
"Relax, Rowan," he said lightly, his voice drifting back to me even as he moved. "Remember what I told you."
He twisted beneath a rebel's strike, caught the man's wrist, and snapped it with a sharp crack—never breaking stride.
"I won't leave you alone now," he added, smirking as he stepped over the fallen body.
In one smooth motion, his hand slid beneath the hem of his trousers.
A blade flashed.
A dagger.
Small.
Deadly.
My eyes widened.
"That was there the whole time?" I asked, stunned despite everything.
"I always bring a weapon with me," he replied casually, flipping the dagger once in his hand. "I just couldn't use it since that blasted Voltaire tied me up properly."
Even bleeding, even surrounded by enemies—
I had the strangest, most infuriating thought.
This thief was enjoying himself.
And somehow—against all reason—
I trusted him.
Another rebel charged him.
The thief barely seemed to notice.
He sidestepped with infuriating ease and drove his dagger into the man's thigh, twisting it deliberately before yanking it free. The scream that followed cut through the night as the rebel collapsed in the dirt, clutching his leg.
It was so precise—so vicious—that I actually felt a twinge of pity for the man.
I stared.
I hadn't known he could fight like this.
No—that wasn't right.
I hadn't known he was this dangerous when fighting.
Then—because the world apparently existed only to mock me—the thief did something utterly insane.
He stretched.
Actually stretched.
He rolled his shoulders as if loosening stiff muscles after a nap, cracked his neck from side to side, then flexed his fingers one by one, slow and deliberate.
"Ahh," he sighed, genuinely content. "Finally. That feels good after being tied up for so long," he said.
I gaped at him.
Speechless.
Horrified.
And—absolutely not—no—
I shoved the thought away the moment it surfaced, furious with myself for even entertaining the thought of being amazed at him.
"Capture the thief alive so we can still get what we need from him—and kill Lord Rowan so no one can report this!" one of the rebels shouted.
"If we take him alive, we can still use him," another muttered.
All of the remaining conscious rebel turned toward me at once.
My stomach dropped.
I was already injured, already on my knees, blood soaking into my white garments. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as stone.
I looked at the thief.
He smiled.
And then—
Chaos.
He ducked beneath the first swing, slid across the dirt, and came up behind his attacker in one fluid motion. His dagger slammed up beneath the man's ribs.
Before the body even hit the ground, the thief was gone.
He pivoted. Leapt. Spun.
He moved through them like water slipping through clenched fists—untouchable, inevitable.
A kick shattered a knee.
A blade kissed a wrist, tendons snapping.
A heel crushed a throat.
Every movement was clean. Efficient. Cruel.
This wasn't desperation.
This wasn't survival.
This was mastery.
My chest rose and fell rapidly as I watched, the pain in my body momentarily forgotten. Blood soaked deeper into my clothes, unnoticed.
So this was what he truly was.
Not a thief scrambling for scraps.
Not a criminal cornered by soldiers.
But a predator—finally allowed to bare his teeth.
He glanced back at me mid-fight.
His eyes were sharp, alive, gleaming with something dangerously close to joy.
"Don't look so shocked," he said lightly as he disarmed another rebel. "You were doing fine earlier. Maybe you just need more lessons from me," he added, smirking as one of his fangs caught the moonlight.
I swallowed.
"Don't worry," he went on pleasantly. "This one's for you, Rowan."
Slash.
Slam.
Crunch.
I had never seen anyone fight like this.
And the most terrifying part?
He was doing it—
For me.
He took on all the remaining rebels at once. Even when some tried to break away and rush toward me, he intercepted them without hesitation—redirecting their attacks, cutting them down before they could reach me.
All I could do was stare.
But I couldn't let this continue.
If I stayed like this—helpless—he would never let me forget it. He would mock me endlessly, remind me that I had been protected by a thief.
And he would enjoy every second of it.
Like he had been waiting for this exact scenario.
Two rebels rushed him head-on. One circled wide.
Another charged straight for me.
I saw it too late.
The rebel raised his sword—
—and the thief was already there.
He crossed the distance in a blink. Steel rang as he intercepted the strike meant for my throat. The rebel cried out when the dagger sliced cleanly across his wrist, the sword clattering uselessly to the ground.
"Oi, eyes on me," the thief said calmly, shoving the man away without even glancing back at me.
My breath hitched.
Another rebel lunged toward me from the side.
Before I could react—
The thief kicked a fallen body into the man's legs, sending him crashing face-first into the dirt.
"Really?" the thief muttered. "You're going to target the injured poor boy?"
"I am injured, yes, but not just a boy," I snapped, fury flaring, "and I am certainly not poor!"
He smirked.
And every time someone aimed for me—
He stopped them.
Redirected them.
Hunted them down before they came close.
Like I was an anchor he refused to let go of.
Like I was his precious treasure—
No.
I cut that thought off immediately.
The way he moved was effortless. Cruel. Almost—
Absolutely not.
I clenched my jaw and forced my focus back to the fight. I was injured, yes—but I could still stand. Still fight.
I had to prove that to him.
I would not allow this.
I could already hear it—the smug tone, the mocking grin.
"Oh? Rowan? Protected by a thief?"
Never.
I pressed a hand against my wound, pain flaring sharp and white.
And forced myself up anyway.
No.
Not on my watch.
I grabbed a fallen sword from the ground, the hilt slick with blood as I staggered forward.
The thief noticed instantly.
His head snapped toward me.
"Oh no," he said mid-fight, sounding almost amused. "You should stay down. This is my moment to make you feel weak and helpless—protected by a lowly commoner like me."
"I am not letting you fight alone!" I snarled, lifting the blade despite the tremor in my arms. "Or you will never let me hear the end of it!"
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
Even as he ducked under another swing and drove his dagger cleanly into a rebel's throat.
"Smart," he said. "You've only been with me for a short time, and you already know me so well. What's this—are you memorizing every detail about me?"
"Don't be so full of yourself," I shot back.
His grin widened.
And somehow—insanely, impossibly—we fought on like that while bickering with each other.
One of the rebels staggered toward me—wounded, bleeding, and utterly desperate.
I didn't hesitate.
I stepped forward and drove the sword straight through his chest.
The impact jarred my arm to the bone. The resistance—then the sickening release—sent a shock through my entire body as the rebel collapsed at my feet.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
Pain came roaring back all at once, blazing through my side, my shoulder, my ribs—
—but I stayed standing.
I refused to fall.
The thief glanced at the body, then lifted his gaze to me.
For the first time since the fight began, his smirk softened.
Just slightly.
"See?" I said between breaths, gripping the sword to keep myself steady. "I don't need protecting. I can still fight—even if I'm injured."
"Didn't say you couldn't," he replied, twisting smoothly away from another attacker.
Another rebel rushed me.
Before the thief could react—
I slashed.
The blade connected cleanly. The rebel fell without another sound.
The thief's eyes gleamed.
"Well," he said, spinning the dagger lazily in his hand as the last rebel hesitated, "look at you."
The final rebel turned to run.
He didn't get far.
The thief moved once more—swift, silent—
—and the battlefield went still.
The silence that followed rang louder than the clash of steel ever had.
I stood there, chest heaving, blood soaking into my clothes, the sword suddenly heavy in my hand. My limbs trembled—not from fear, but from the aftermath of everything crashing down at once.
The thief turned toward me slowly.
Looked me up and down.
Then smiled.
"You know," he said lightly, "for someone bleeding on his feet, you're incredibly stubborn."
I scoffed weakly.
"And for someone who just saved my life several times," I shot back, "you talk too much."
His grin widened.
"Oh, Rowan," he said softly. "Did you just admit that I protected you?" he teased.
"I did not say that," I snapped.
Then—
He looked away.
Not at me.
At the path behind him.
Open.
Clear.
Inviting.
Freedom lay right there—just a few steps away.
I tightened my grip on the sword with both hands, knuckles white. I knew it then, with terrifying clarity.
He could run.
I was injured. Exhausted. Slower.
If he bolted now... I wasn't sure I could stop him.
The thought tightened something ugly in my chest.
But instead of running—
The thief turned back.
And to my utter shock, he walked toward the tree where he had once been tied.
I froze.
He picked up the chain.
Then, clumsily, awkwardly, he began wrapping it around himself.
I stared.
Stunned. Confused. Completely unprepared for this.
"W-what are you doing?" I asked, disbelief slipping into my voice.
"I may be a thief in your eyes," he said calmly. "A lowly commoner. I steal. I run." He tugged at the chain, struggling slightly. "But I keep my word. I don't run from what I've already said," he added.
I frowned deeply, watching him wrestle with the chain as if it were mocking him now that he was doing this by choice.
"...Are you going to help me tighten it," he demanded, glancing at me, "or are you just going to stand there staring?"
Slowly, step by step, I walked toward him.
When I stopped in front of him, I didn't move right away. I just watched him bind himself—hands steady despite the chaos we had just survived.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked lightly. "I did exactly what I said I would."
A pause.
"Did you think I was lying?"
"You had the chance to run," I said quietly, my voice thick with confusion. "Why didn't you?"
"Hehe..." he chuckled softly, that familiar, infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.
And in that moment—
I had the sudden, terrifying realization that I had crossed a line I could never uncross.
I didn't know what it meant.
I didn't know what it would cost me.
But somehow, instinctively, I knew this—
That smile was far more dangerous than any explanation he could have given.
End of Chapter 50