Seeing that everyone was froze, Joltar saw the opportunity.
He moved like a shadow, swift and silent, closing the distance between himself and Remon in the blink of an eye.
Remon barely had time to react before Jolthar's blade came down in a clean, precise arc, severing the hand that held the sceptre.
The limb fell to the ground, the sceptre still clutched in its lifeless fingers.
He took a moment to realize what just happened, and Remon stared in shock, his mouth opening in a soundless scream as he looked from his severed arm to the hand lying on the ground. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel•fire.net
"YOU!! What do you think you are doing? Do you know who I am?"
Jolthar scoffed, "Ask your mother!"
Jolthar didn't give him a chance to recover.
With a swift kick, he sent Remon sprawling onto his back, his foot pressing down on the man's chest with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
"Argh! You can't do this to me. My sister will kill you."
The beasts, now without the sceptre's corrupting influence, began to falter. Their movements grew sluggish, their snarls fading into whimpers as they turned and fled back into the forest, disappearing into the shadows from which they had come.
They were intelligent enough to tell that drake was strong, and they couldn't fight against the drake. So they had no choice but to escape.
Remon writhed beneath Jolthar's boot, his face contorted with pain and rage. He reached out with his remaining hand, clawing at the air as he tried to grab the sceptre.
Jolthar's blade flashed again, and Remon's other hand fell to the ground, severed at the wrist. The man let out a blood-curdling scream, his body convulsing as he stared at the stumps where his hands had been.
Jolthar leaned down, his expression cold and unyielding. "So," he said, his voice calm but laced with menace, "who are you again?"
Remon spat curses at him, his voice trembling with pain and fury. "You fucking bastard! You'll pay for this!" he shrieked.
"You have no idea what you've done! They'll come for you! They'll—"
Jolthar's blade silenced him mid-sentence, slicing through his throat in a single, fluid motion. Remon's body went limp, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky as blood pooled beneath him.
Jolthar straightened, wiping his blade on the edge of his cloak. "Know your enemies before you start a fight," he muttered, his tone almost dismissive.
"It's a waste of time to question idiots."
The clatter of hooves on cobblestones announced Count Hamen's arrival.
As soon as he arrived, he surveyed the scene with calculating eyes—the dissipating shadows where the licaolfs had fallen, the shattered stable stalls, and most importantly, the glowing sceptre still clutched in Remon's trembling hands.
The Count's presence seemed to fill the space, his authority evident in every measured movement as he dismounted.
Behind him, a group of soldiers stood at attention, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.
They could see the licaolfs lying dead; one was half burnt with its insides fleshed out, and the other one was cut.
Hamen's gaze lingered on Remon's lifeless body before shifting to Jolthar. He watched the young man with a measuring gaze, the long blade, which seemed unique, and his aura, unlike anyone he had seen before. There was a flicker in his eyes, which only lasted for a few seconds before it disappeared.
Without ceremony or hesitation, Hamen strode toward the sceptre.
Hamen leaned down and took the artefact.
With a single, purposeful motion, Hamen crushed the glowing stone that crowned the sceptre, its power dying with a final, sickly pulse of green light.
"I said not to touch the pillar," Hamen's voice carried both disappointment and ironclad authority as he addressed Remon, "but still you did. Look where it got you." His attention shifted to Jolthar, who still stood battle-ready, the knashii's runes casting their silver glow across his features.
"Yes," Jolthar's response was simple and direct.
Jolthar could tell that he knew the man, and he mentioned a pillar.
'Were there more of those stones?' Jolthar thought.
Myron was still at the back, watching with patience. He observed the count, and he could tell that he harboured no ill intent towards Jolthar even after seeing the mess.
Hamen's gaze moved between Jolthar, the impressive drake at his side, and the void-touched sword in his hand.
The Count's expression revealed nothing, but his careful assessment spoke volumes.
This young man had not only survived an encounter with a licaolf but had managed to kill it—a feat few could claim.
The drake, too, showed signs of being far more formidable than ordinary mounts. He heard it clearly and felt the second roar himself. It indeed lived up to its name as the fiercest creature—the Velkynirs.
Hamen recognized the race of the drake with a single glance at its crimson scales and its rare features.
"Who are you?" The question carried weight beyond mere curiosity. Hamen's memory flickered with recognition—he had seen this youth among Wymar's men, but the boy's identity had escaped his notice until now.
"I'm Jolthar, from the Barony of Tekkora." The young man's response was respectful but unafraid.
Hamen nodded slowly, absorbing this information. "What happened here?"
Jolthar saw that there was no need to hesitate. So far, Hamen hasn't shown any hostility towards him.
Jolthar's explanation was succinct but complete, laying out the sequence of events that had led to this confrontation. Throughout the telling, Myron remained in the background, his presence almost forgotten in the wake of such momentous events. The Count listened without interruption, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.
When Jolthar finished, Hamen's response was surprisingly measured. "I think you should just leave. Seeing that it was this man's fault for poking at you."
Hamen showed no emotions on his face and said nothing about the mess that Jolthar had caused. If at all, it seemed like he was interested in Jolthar, but who would argue?
A frown crossed Jolthar's features, but he chose not to dwell on it.