Captain Vane drew his sword. "Kill him. Now."
As one, the twelve soldiers moved.
Sidharth was quicker.
The first soldier - the keen young one - came in with a downward slash, straight out of a book. Sidharth sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist and, utilising his own momentum, drove him face-first into the well. The soldier's helmet rang like a bell as he dropped, unconscious.
One.
The other two charged him from different directions. Sidharth dropped low, swept the legs out from under the first, then came up inside the second's guard. His sword hilt caught the man under the jaw with a crack of breaking teeth. The soldier went down, choking on blood.
Three.
The three dangerous ones didn't rush. They circled, patient, waiting for an opening. The remaining six regulars formed a loose net, cutting off routes to escape.
"Alive!" Vane shouted. "I want him alive when we start cutting pieces off!"
A soldier lunged from behind. Sidharth heard the whisper of steel leaving its sheath, spun and caught the blade between his palms -an old technique, insanely risky, only worked if your timing was perfect. He twisted, wrenched the sword free, and now he was armed properly.
The weight was right, familiar, home.
He flowed into First Form of the Azure Blade without thinking—defence into offence, each movement precise. Blocked an overhead strike, diverted it past his shoulder, and riposted into the attacker's shoulder joint. The man screamed and dropped his weapon.
Five.
"Spread out!" the lean soldier with dead eyes ordered. "Don't bunch up, he's trained—"
Too late. Sidharth was already moving. Dancing through them like water through stones. His sword was everywhere—not killing, not yet, but hurting. Hamstrings. Sword arms. Hands. Knees. Each strike surgical, disabling.
The villagers stood and watched in stunned silence. It was not a fight; it was a demonstration.
Six. Seven. Eight.
"Enough!" Vane roared, and his sword descended like judgment.
Sidharth barely got his blade up in time. The impact drove him back three steps, arms screaming with the shock of it. Vane was strong—and skilled. Really skilled. Not just a thug with a title.
"You've got training," Vane acknowledged, circling. "More than just training. You've got the forms. The precision. You're nobility."
"Was," Sidharth panted, correcting, "breathing hard. The exertion was catching up to him. He wasn't fully healed. Couldn't sustain this.
"Was," Vane agreed. "But muscle memory doesn't lie. You're Third Order at least. Maybe higher." His eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
Instead of answering, Sidharth attacked.
Fourth Form—the Crashing Wave. A sequence of strikes that gathered momentum, each blow leading into the next. Vane parried, but with every parry, he lost ground. His defence was good, but not quite perfect. Sidharth found the gap, exploited it—
His sword scored a line across Vane's cheek, just beneath the old scar.
The Captain touched his face. Looked at the blood on his fingers. "You'll die for that."
"Get in line."
They clashed again. Steel rang in the afternoon air. The three dangerous soldiers tried to join in but Sidharth kept moving, using Vane as a shield, positioning so they couldn't attack without risking their Captain.
But he was tiring, fast. This brand on his shoulder blade felt like someone was carving through it with a hot iron; his hands shook, vision blurred at the edges.
Not enough time, he realised. Not enough strength. Not enough—
Vane's blade snaked past his guard, opened a cut along his ribs. Shallow but painful. Sidharth stumbled back.
"There it is," Vane said, breathing hard. "The weakness. You're dying, exile. The brand is eating you alive. You could barely walk a week ago and now you're fighting like a knight. That's not healing. That's desperation."
He was right. Sidharth could feel the borrowed time running out, his body reaching its limits.
Need an edge. Need something—
The shard pulsed violently against his ribs.
And the thornvines exploded.
Black roots burst from the ground around the square. Not just growing-exploding upward with violent speed. They wrapped around soldiers' legs, yanked them off their feet, and bound their arms. Silver flowers bloomed everywhere, bright as stars, disorienting.
Screams filled the air.
Sidharth stared in shock. He'd felt the thorns before, but this—this was active. Controlled. They were responding to his need, his emotion, his—
His will.
"What kind of demon are you?!" Vane shouted, hacking at the vines. But for every one he cut, two more grew.
Sidharth looked at his hands. At the faint silver tracery of light that now covered his skin like tattoos. At the thornvines that moved when he thought of them.
This was it-the power the brand had been trying to suppress, the reason they'd cursed him instead of killing him outright.
Thorn Resonance: Awakening through violence and need.
"I'm no demon," Sidharth said, his voice carrying an echo it hadn't had before. "I'm just tired of watching people suffer."
He gestured. The thornvines tightened.
Soldiers screamed as thorns pierced armor, found flesh. Not killing-not yet-but hurting. Pinning. Holding.
In a matter of seconds, eleven out of the twelve soldiers were bound. Vane remained free, cutting vines as fast as they had grown, his skill and strength keeping him mobile.
"This isn't natural!" Vane snarled. "This is n't-you're using Resonance! Only nobility has Resonance, only those with divine blood-"
"Then maybe," Sidharth said in a hushed tone, stepping forward, "you should stop assuming you know who I am."
His sword came up. Vane parried desperately. But he was tired now, fighting on two fronts-Sidharth and the vines both.
The next exchange was short and brutal: Sidharth disarmed him with Second Form, sent his sword spinning away, and pressed his blade to Vane's throat.
"Yield," Sidharth ordered.
Vane's eyes were wide with fear and fury. "You can't kill me. I'm the Duke's Captain. If I don't return, he'll send an army to level this village—"
"I didn't say I'd kill you." Sidharth pressed harder with the blade, drawing a thin line of blood. "I said you'd leave. Now. With your men. And when you return to your Duke, you tell him this: Thornvale is closed to his tax collectors. Permanently. If he wants to contest that, he can come himself."
"You're insane. You're one man. One dying man."
"Maybe. But I'm a dying man with nothing to lose and a very particular set of skills." Sidharth leaned closer. "How many of your soldiers can you afford to lose? Because I promise, every time you come back, I take more of them. Eventually, you run out."
Vane's jaw worked. Fury and calculation warred in his expression.
"And if I say no? If I report this to the Duke and we come back with fifty men?"
"Then fifty men don't go home." Sidharth's voice was iron. "Test me. Please. Because right now, I'm being merciful. That won't last forever."
The thornvines pulsed around them, their silver flowers blooming brighter. The bound soldiers whimpered in fear.
Vane looked around: at his captured men, at the exile who'd dismantled them single-handedly, at the impossible thorns that shouldn't exist.
"Fine," he spat. "We'll leave. For now. But this isn't over, exile. The Duke doesn't forget insults."
"Good. Neither do I." Sidharth stepped backwards, lowered his blade. "You have five minutes. Collect your men and ride. Don't look back."
He gestured. The thornvines let the soldiers go reluctantly. They scrambled to their feet, grabbing for weapons, aiding wounded comrades. None of them looked at Sidharth directly.
Vane retrieved his sword, sheathed it with barely controlled fury. "What's your name? I'll need it for my report."
Sidharth hesitated. He had no house now. No title. Nothing but—
"Sidharth," he said simply. "Tell him Sidharth sent you running."
Vane mounted his horse, and his men followed. The wounded were hauled into saddles, groaning. In a few minutes, they were ready to ride.
"You've made a powerful enemy today," said Vane on horseback. "You know that?"
"I've had worse." Sidharth met his gaze. "Ride. Before I change my mind about mercy."
The soldiers galloped out of the town in a cloud of dust. In a moment, they were small figures vanishing toward the south highway.
The square was silent.
Then, slowly, someone clapped. The blacksmith, his mouth still bloody. Then his daughter. Then Ravi. Then the whole village, applause building like rainfall.
Sidharth said nothing. He crossed over to where Madhubala was still sitting by the well, her eyes never leaving him, her expression unreadable.
"You're insane," she said quietly.
"You spat in a Captain's face. I'd say we're even."
"I didn't make magical demon plants erupt from the ground."
"Technically, they're thornvines. And they're." He glanced down at his hands, at the fading silver light. "I don't know what they are."
Madhubala stood, winced as her split lip pulled. "Come on. Before you collapse. You're about three seconds from passing out."
She was right. Now that the adrenaline was fading, Sidharth could feel everything catching up. The pain. The exhaustion. The brand was screaming like a living thing on his shoulder.
He took two steps toward her house, and his legs gave out.
Madhubala caught him, barely. "I've got you. Come on, you ridiculous man. Let's get you inside before you bleed on my garden."
They stumbled toward her door, and Ravi approached. "That was-we ca n't-thank you doesn't-"
"Don't," Sidharth managed. "Don't thank me. I just started a war."
"You saved us."
"For now. But the Duke will come back. With more men. More weapons. I've bought you time, not safety."
Ravi nodded slowly. "Then we'll use that time to prepare. To fortify. To." He looked around at the other villagers, seeing new determination in their faces. "To stop being afraid."
Madhubala got Sidharth inside, laid him on the bed. His wound bled freely now, not deep but enough to be dangerous.
"Hold still," she ordered, already mixing treatments. "This is going to hurt."
"Everything hurts."
"Good. Means you're alive." She pressed a burning poultice to his ribs. He hissed in pain. "Though I'm honestly shocked. You just fought twelve soldiers and won."
"I had help." He reached into his pocket and touched the shard. It pulsed weakly, exhausted. "This thing. It's connected to the thorns. To me. When I needed power, it. answered."
"That's not normal."
"Nothing about me is normal anymore." Sidharth closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I've brought trouble to your village."
"You brought hope." Madhubala's hand touched his face gently, checking for fever. "For the first time in years, this village just stood up to the Duke's men. That matters."
"Hope won't stop an army."
"No. But it's a start." She pulled the blanket over him. "Rest now. We'll figure out the rest later."
Sidharth wanted to argue, wanted to plan and prepare and do something, but his body had other ideas. Sleep dragged him down like an anchor.
His last thought, before the darkness took him: I've become something I don't understand. Something thorned and terrible and necessary.
And there is no going back from this.
Outside, the thornvines cloaking Madhubala's house burst fully into flower. Silver flowers glowing in the afternoon sun. Beautiful and strange and dangerous.
The Village of Thorns had gotten its name.