Whispers out of Time

Chapter 13

─────⋅˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋅─────

"Hey!" Amren yelled, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the night air. Her outburst was a beacon, drawing the attention of the guards and halting their harassment.

Elian, taken aback by her sudden action, felt a surge of both admiration and dismay.

"Amren, no," he hissed under his breath, understanding the risk she was taking, the potential repercussions of challenging the guards.

But Amren was beyond caution now, her eyes blazing with a righteous anger.

"Leave them alone!" she demanded, striding towards the scene with a determination that made the guards pause in their actions.

The burly guard, the ringleader of the torment, turned to face Amren, his sneer morphing into a look of surprise and then anger.

"And what's this? You think you can tell us what to do?" he spat, his hand still gripping the club tightly.

Amren stood her ground, her posture defiant. "I'm telling you to stop. This isn't justice; it's cruelty. And I won't stand by and watch it happen."

The tension in the air was palpable, a standoff between the authority of the guards and the moral conviction of a single individual. The other victim, momentarily forgotten by the guards, took advantage of the distraction to slip away, their fearful glance lingering on Amren as their unexpected savior.

The guard took a step towards Amren, his expression one of bemused contempt. "You're in over your head, girl. Best walk away before you regret it."

But Amren didn't flinch, didn't back down. Her voice, when she spoke again, was laced with a steely resolve. "I'm not going anywhere. And if you have any sense of honor, you'll put that club down and leave these people in peace."

The guard's sneer deepened at Amren's challenge, his contempt for her defiance clear.

Instead of backing down, he saw it as an opportunity to assert his authority, to show this bold intruder the place of those who dared to defy the guards in the lower city.

With a grunt of disdain, he lunged towards Amren, club raised for a strike. Amren, poised and focused, reacted instantly. Her training with Varock, though still in its early stages, had honed her instincts and reactions.

As the guard swung his club, Amren deftly sidestepped, her movements fluid and precise. She drew a dagger from her belt, its blade glinting in the dim light.

With a swift motion, she parried his next attack, the clash of metal ringing through the night air. Her other hand gestured subtly, a faint glow emanating from her fingertips – the beginnings of a spell taking shape, a manifestation of her burgeoning arcane abilities.

A small burst of arcane energy shot towards the guard, momentarily stunning him. It was a simple spell, but cast with precision.

Elian, meanwhile, embodied the essence of agility and cunning. As the second guard turned to engage him, Elian darted forward, his movements a blur. He was a whirlwind, his dagger an extension of his body, aimed not to kill but to incapacitate.

He ducked under a wild swing from the guard, using his momentum to roll behind his opponent and deliver a swift strike to the back of the guard's knee.

The guard stumbled, and Elian used the opening to disarm him, his dagger flicking out to knock the weapon from the guard's hand. Elian's combat style was a dance of shadows, each move calculated to outmaneuver and outwit his opponent.