The Wolf And The Witch

THE ROGUE’S ATTACK

Serenya’s legs ached from days of walking. Her hands still bore the memory of stone walls and torches, of faces that had spat on her as she fled her village. Every step forward was an effort, but she could not stop, not until she found a way to undo Selora’s curse.

A c***k from the underbrush snapped her attention. She froze. Every nerve screamed. Her hand went instinctively to the dagger at her belt, the only weapon she had managed to carry out of her coven’s hall. Heart hammering, she crouched slightly, ears straining for the next sound.

A figure dropped from the shadows ahead, landing on all fours like a predator, silent and swift. Serenya’s breath caught. Another followed. Then another. Three. Four. Five. A band of rogues, eyes glinting with feral hunger, their movements jagged but precise, converging on her.

Her grip tightened around the dagger. She swung it toward the first figure lunging at her. The blade met resistance—metal clashed against metal. Pain flared up her arm as a hidden blade slashed across her forearm. She hissed, twisting her body, jabbing the dagger again.

One rogue barreled into her from the side, shoulder ramming into her chest. She stumbled backward but recovered quickly, spinning, swinging her weapon. The rogue ducked low, barely avoiding the tip, and retaliated with a quick jab toward her stomach. She blocked just in time, pain shooting through her ribs.

Another came at her from the rear, dagger drawn, silent as death. She twisted, knocking it aside with her dagger’s hilt, but the impact sent her staggering forward. Her boots slipped on loose stones; she cursed under her breath.

They were fast. Too fast. Their attacks came in waves, overlapping, impossible to anticipate. Every time she struck one down, two more took his place. Her breathing became ragged, every muscle screaming. Cuts streaked her arms and legs, blood hot and stinging. Her chest ached, ribs bruised from relentless blows.

A rogue feinted low, then swept high, catching her across the shoulder. She yelped, barely managing to dodge the next strike aimed for her throat. Her dagger found another’s chest, a quick jab that made him stumble, but he didn’t fall. They were relentless, feral, moving like a single pack, calculated and vicious.

She lashed out with both hands, striking and kicking, twisting, ducking. Pain flared across her side where a rogue had elbowed her a moment before. Her dagger scraped along another’s arm as she twisted to break free, knocking him into the underbrush. A brief second of space opened, enough for her to breathe, but only just.

One rogue circled low, knife flashing. He lunged. She spun, blade slicing across his chest, drawing a grunt, but another appeared from the shadows, catching her side with a glancing strike. Pain exploded, hot and sharp. She stumbled, barely keeping her footing.

Her heart pounded, adrenaline screaming through her veins. Each strike drained her energy faster than she could recover. She ducked under a swing, kicked out, tried to jab, but the rogues were everywhere at once. Every step she took was anticipated, every motion countered.

A sharp jab caught her thigh. She screamed, twisting, feeling the knife slice through flesh. She tried to bite back a cry as another rogue grabbed her wrist, wrenching the dagger from her hand. She kicked, scrambled, rolled, but two of them had her trapped now.

Her vision blurred. Pain mixed with panic, her breath came in shallow bursts. She tried to strike, but every move was met with counter, parry, dodge. They worked together, striking from angles she couldn’t predict, forcing her back, back toward the trees.

A punch slammed into her stomach, knocking the wind from her. She doubled over, knees weak, trying to shake off the blows. Another rogue grabbed her hair, yanking her back, twisting her toward the edge of the path. She struggled, arms flailing, but the pressure was too much.

The dagger had been lost. Her hands were raw, bleeding from scratches and cuts. Every attempt to fight was met with two more blows. They pressed her relentlessly. A knee caught her side, hard enough to buckle her, and she fell onto the dirt path.

Pain flared in her ribs, sharp and unyielding. She rolled to her side, trying to crawl away, but a hand grabbed her ankle, pulling her back. Another rogue landed a swift punch to the back of her head. Stars exploded across her vision.

She tried to rise. Tried to fight. Tried to make them bleed. Every strike she delivered was deflected. Every step she took was blocked. Her strength was waning, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. The rogues showed no mercy, only hunger in their eyes, teeth gritted, blades poised to strike again and again.

She kicked wildly, caught one across the knee. He fell to the side, only to rise immediately and rush her again. Another jab across her shoulder sent her sprawling. Pain radiated from every joint, every cut, every bruise forming like a map of the attack.

Her breath was ragged, shallow, rasping. Blood streaked her arms, dirt smeared her face. Every instinct screamed to keep fighting, but the rogues were too many, too fast, too coordinated. One grabbed her by the hair, yanking her upright, and the others circled. She tried to strike, but they moved as one, cutting off her attacks, forcing her back.

Her vision narrowed, only the rogues’ faces visible, feral, unblinking, relentless. She swung at one, knocking him into another, but they barely staggered. They advanced again, forcing her to the edge of the path, toward the underbrush.

She tried a desperate jab at the nearest one. He twisted, caught her wrist, twisted it painfully, and the dagger slipped from her grasp. She cursed through gritted teeth. Bare hands, no weapon. She had nothing left.

They pressed closer. One stepped forward, knife flashing, aiming for her side. Another raised a blunt steel rod. She twisted, trying to roll away, but the edges of the path offered no escape. Her chest heaved, every muscle trembling, limbs heavy with exhaustion and pain.

The blows kept coming. A kick to the stomach. An elbow to the ribs. Her head snapped back from a glancing strike. Every time she tried to rise, to fight, to push back, another strike forced her down. She could barely think, barely breathe, barely move.

Blood and sweat stung her eyes. Cuts and bruises lined her arms and legs. Every joint screamed with pain. She tried to crawl, tried to bite, tried to scratch, tried to kick—but the rogues had her surrounded.

Her vision blurred. Staggering, she tried to twist and escape, but one rogue caught her shoulder, yanking her to the ground. Pain exploded across her side. She tried to scramble, tried to fight, tried to strike back, but the rogues were relentless.

Another landed a punch to her jaw, snapping her head to the side. Stars danced across her vision. She collapsed fully, hands pressed against the dirt, crawling backward as best she could, but one stepped on her leg, pinning her.

She tried to kick, to bite, to elbow, anything. But the rogues pressed closer, knives and rods raised, eyes glinting with feral intent. Her body ached, her strength waning, and finally she sank fully to the ground, gasping, overpowered, every blow leaving her weaker.

Pain and exhaustion swallowed her. The rogues closed in, pressing her down. Her fingers dug into the dirt, trying to hold on, but it was useless. She had fought as hard as she could. She couldn't perform witchcraft at the moment and when she needed her curse most to fight, it was not available.