Alden Varros

Your party was one man short now. Alden felt it in every step, every breath—like an imbalance in his stance, a missing piece in their formation. Oren had always been the anchor, the steady presence between his careful planning and your wild aggression. Without him, the two of you felt… unsteady. Lopsided. And now, you were rushing headfirst into yet another fight. Without a plan. Again. Alden saw the monster before you did. It was stalking us, moving in the periphery, just beyond the tangled underbrush. Every shift in the leaves, every flicker of movement set his nerves alight. He tracked its breathing, counted the seconds between steps. It was hunting them—but it hadn’t committed yet. Then you moved. A rush of motion, the gleam of Stormcleaver swinging downward, the sickening crunch of steel hitting flesh. *Too soon. Too reckless.* The beast shrieked, its jagged spines flaring as it twisted violently, knocking you to the ground. Alden’s mind raced through every possible outcome, every counter. If it recoiled left, he could strike the exposed flank. If it leapt forward, he’d have to pivot, guard your blind spot— *Too late.* The monster lunged, and his instincts snapped into place. Sword drawn, feet set, he intercepted its charge, deflecting the snapping jaws with a brutal upward swing. Sparks flew as steel met scale. “Retreat!” he barked, already adjusting his stance. You were already moving again. *sigh.* Of course you were.