The fury of battle still coursing through his veins, Arran rushed through the valley, chasing the remaining raiders with an insatiable thirst for blood. Where he found them, they died, and each death further fed his rage.
The bloodlust grew stronger with every kill, and the stronger it grew, the more eagerly he killed. Even with an army of a hundred thousand before him, he would have attacked without hesitation.
Yet here, the enemy numbers were limited. And with each enemy he killed, it took him longer to find the next one. The search frustrated him, and he ran faster, killed more quickly, fearful of losing even a single one of his prey.
When he reached the mouth of the valley, he could see tracks leading in all directions. Impatient to continue the massacre, he chose one at random, then rushed forward with the boundless strength that surged through his body.
He caught the man who left the tracks within moments, then cut him down in seconds. When he heard muffled voices in the distance, he immediately set off again, blood-soaked blade already raised in anticipation of the next kill.
The enemy force was long since broken and the woods were filled with the fleeing remnants. Arran bounded between them with hurried steps, chasing down the enemy fighters even as they retreated.
Some fought back, while others fled. It mattered not. Wherever he found them, they fell, their deaths further adding to his strength and bloodlust.
For hours, he rampaged through the woods, the hunt consuming his mind until he lost all sense of time or place.
But when evening fell, there were no more raiders to be found. They had fled in all directions as he chased them through the woods, and now, none could still be seen or heard.
The lack of enemies infuriated him, and he frantically continued his search, looking for someone — anyone — to fight. It was no use. If any of the raiders still lived they were long gone, and within the dense woods, finding them was a near-impossible task.
Still, he did not let up. Although starved of fuel, his rage was nowhere near extinguished, and he scoured the woods relentlessly.
As the night grew darker, however, his bloodlust finally began to weaken. And now, he could feel that there was something that mattered other than killing — something important, a reason to kill.
He stopped in his tracks, deep within the forest.
For a time, he stood motionless, trying to gather his thoughts and suppress the yearning for more blood and slaughter. As he did, he felt something at the corner of his consciousness, as if a thought was trying to break through.
Then, with a start, he remembered it — the battle, Snowcloud, Stoneheart. The very reason he had fought in the first place.
It was as if a veil was suddenly lifted from his mind. Though the bloodlust was still there, reason now forcefully subdued it, seizing back the control it had lost during the battle.
Now, he remembered his plan to defeat the raiders, and the bloody battle that followed.
He recalled being wounded in the battle, but when he checked, he found no injuries on his body. And even after what must have been hours of battle, he felt no exhaustion — if anything, he was stronger than before.
But then, he felt a surge of panic when he realized that in his rage, he had left the battleground behind. Taken with bloodlust, he had rushed into the woods in search of more enemies, abandoning both the valley and his allies.
He set off at once, back to the valley, desperately hoping that his absence had not caused a disaster. Although he had slain hundreds of raiders, his memories of the battle were hazy, and he did not know how many more there had been.
Finding his way back to the valley was difficult, but the bodies that littered the forest floor formed a rough trail that he followed using his Shadowsight.
Even so, it took him several hours before he neared the valley again. It seemed that in his rage, he had ventured many miles into the forest, pursuing the raiders long after they fled the battle.
When he finally arrived at the mouth of the valley, the first light of dawn was already starting to appear on the horizon.
Here, the aftermath of the battle was much clearer than in the forest. Dozens of bodies were scattered across the ground, and even many of the trees were torn and broken.
Yet amid the devastation, a single lone figure stood. Short and thin, unmoving, a calm expression on her pale face. It was Snowcloud.
When she saw him, her eyes went wide instantly, and she rushed over to him at once.
"You're still alive," she said when she reached him, relief in her voice. After giving him an examining look, she added, "And unharmed, from the looks of it."
Arran nodded in response. "I'm fine. But what happened here? Did you suffer any losses?"
Snowcloud shook her head. "Only a few dozen ever made it to the clearing. Stoneheart suffered some injuries, but he'll recover in a few days. But…" She hesitated before continuing, giving Arran a troubled look. "He said that when you saved him, he didn't know whether you were there to rescue him or kill him."
"I don't think I knew, either," Arran replied. "Something came over me during the battle, an uncontrollable rage. When I fought the raiders, it was like my mind was taken over by bloodlust, and all I could do was slaughter as many of them as I could find."
"You killed them," Snowcloud said, her eyes briefly resting on the bodies around them. "But you saved us."
Arran gave her a short nod, though, in truth, he didn't need the reassurance.
The death of the raiders didn't bother him, nor the manner in which they died. The raiding party had come to kill, and that they had fallen so easily was something he felt no guilt about. If anything, the easier they fell, the better it was.
Rather, what troubled him was how he had lost control of himself.
The bloodlust had completely enveloped his mind, leaving him barely able to even distinguish friend from enemy. And not just that — hazy though his memories of the battle were, he knew that in his rage, he was unable to recognize threats or traps, much less avoid them.
Had the raiders been prepared, they could have easily goaded him like a wild bull, leading him into a trap and then skewering him with a barrage of arrows.
While he would have welcomed the power itself, the loss of control was too large a price to pay. Against a clearheaded enemy, the strength it brought could easily be turned into a fatal weakness.
Only if he found a way to command it would it be a boon rather than a burden. And without even knowing what it was, there was no way for him to do that.
"There's something I need to tell you about," Arran said after a moment. "Something that happened at the deserters' fortress."