CHAPTER 62: SOLVING THE PROBLEM

"Kill them!" the leader shouted, his voice filled with desperation rather than bravery.

The order came like a bolt of lightning, breaking the brief spell of fear that had paralyzed the group.

The bandits charged with a dissonant roar, shouting too loudly, trying to hide their cowardice behind their practiced fury. The shadows of their cloaks fluttered in the wind, and their weapons—cracked spears, bent iron clubs, dull axes—rose against the gray sky.

The first came charging with a raised club, his gaze fixed on Damon.

But the black horse, as if sensing the intention, raised its front hooves with a thunderous neigh. The impact against the man’s chest echoed like thunder. The grotesque crack of breaking bones reverberated through the gorge. The body was thrown backward and fell lifeless, blood staining the snow in jagged patches.

Damon barely had time to breathe. Another was already coming from the side, a makeshift spear in hand, the rusted metal aimed straight at his throat.

He reacted on pure instinct: he leaned in, the bolt passing close to his shoulder, feeling the sting of the wind. He swung his own spear in a wide arc, aiming for the man’s neck. The wood creaked, the flesh split in almost elastic resistance. Blood gushed in hot jets, staining Damon’s gloves. His body fell, convulsing, his mouth trying to form a scream that never came.

The smell.

The iron heat against the afternoon chill.

The damp thud of flesh and snow.

Damon didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Something in him demanded to see, to feel every detail.

"Damon!" Ester’s voice cut through the field. Firm, but distant.

She hadn’t moved. She remained motionless, mounted with the coldness of a statue, watching. Assessing. Testing.

And he understood. She wanted to see how far he would go.

Another bandit lunged, an axe raised. Damon tried to block, but the blow landed heavily on the shaft of his spear, nearly ripping it from his hands. The impact echoed through his arms, and for a moment he staggered in the saddle.

The man smiled, his teeth grimacing with rot. He charged again, the axe slicing through the air.

Damon yanked hard on the reins. The black horse spun, the blow missing, chipping away at the nearby rock. Before the man could regain his balance, Damon drove the spearhead into his thigh. The scream was sharp, maddened, and the bandit fell to his knees. Damon pulled upward, tearing through the flesh to his groin. His body writhed, and blood gushed out in a hot wave.

The leader, desperate, threw the spear to the ground and drew a crossbow. His trembling fingers tried to nock the bolt, the rusty mechanism creaking. He aimed straight at Damon’s chest.

The shot rang out.

But the black horse reacted before him. It spun like a shadow, its muscles twisting violently. The projectile whizzed past, disappearing into the gray afternoon. Damon didn’t think: he leaned forward, launched himself into the advance, the tip of his weapon piercing the leader’s abdomen.

The shock in the man’s eyes was almost childish—as if he had never imagined his own violence would turn against him. Damon pushed until he heard the crack of his vertebrae. His body shuddered, spitting hot blood from his mouth.

When he pulled the spear free, his body fell like a sack of rags, staining the snow red.

The silence lasted only a moment.

There were three left. They retreated, their eyes wide, their courage crumbling. One dropped his weapon and ran, stumbling down the slope, disappearing into the pines. Another tried to follow, but Ester, who had remained motionless until then, moved with almost inhuman precision.

His hand slid to his waist, and the dagger flew. A flash of light against the gray. The blade dug into the base of the man’s neck, and he fell facedown, dead before he hit the ground.

The last man hesitated. His eyes darted between the leader’s body and Damon, covered in blood spatter, astride the black horse that snorted like a beast from hell. For a moment, he seemed ready to drop everything and run.

But desperation made him charge, brandishing a short spear. He screamed loudly, trying to convince himself there was still courage in his chest.

Damon felt the world slow down.

The man’s boots crunching the snow.

The white breath escaping his mouth.

The tremor of the spear’s tip.

And then, the sharp thud as Damon deflected the blow with a swift movement and plunged his weapon into his enemy’s stomach. His body jerked, his eyes widened in shock, and the scream died away in a muffled gurgle.

Damon thrust deeper, until he felt the spearhead emerge from his back. The bandit’s mouth arched silently, his hands reaching for the shaft as if he could rip it out.

And finally, he fell.

Silence returned.

Only the wind and the heavy breathing of the horses filled the field.

Damon, still mounted, looked around. His chest rose and fell too quickly; the cold was gone. Only the feverish heat inside him, burning. Blood trickled down his spear, dripping in tiny droplets that formed red stains on the pristine snow.

He stared at the scene. The bodies. The mouths open in frozen spasms. The death spread in grotesque contrast to the icy peace of the afternoon.

His lips parted in a brief, almost involuntary smile.

And then, slowly, he raised his eyes to Ester.

She watched him with an unreadable expression. There was no surprise, no shock. Just a cold, calculating silence.

She knew.

"You liked it," she said finally. Not as an accusation, but as a statement.

Damon took a deep breath. His dry throat felt like it was on fire. His heart was still pounding. He wanted to deny it, to say anything. But the words died.

Because, deep down, it was true.

He had liked it.

And that frightened him more than death itself.

The black horse snorted, whinnying as if confirming it.

Ester turned her face slowly, the reins firm in her hand. "Then it’s no longer a question of if you’ll kill," she said, her voice firm, without a trace of emotion. "But when. And why."

She pulled the chestnut horse forward, resuming the road as if nothing had happened.

Damon stood still for a few moments. His breath was labored, blood dripping from the gun, the snow tinged red. The icy wind blew hard, taking away some of the feverish heat that burned in his body, but failing to extinguish the flame that now burned in his chest.

He wiped the tip of his spear against the snow, clicked his tongue, and the black horse charged after her.

And as he followed, Damon realized something had changed.

It wasn’t just survival.

It wasn’t just blood.

It was the taste of being alive for the first time.

And he feared how much he craved it.