Willow's mind drifted into a memory, a fractured flashback of the day she wove the Crest. The details were hazy, slipping through her grasp like smoke, but one name surfaced clearly — Momon, the one to whom the assassin suit had belonged.
Before she could recall anything else, the present snapped back into focus. The skeleton knight let out a chilling cackle, the sound echoing through the camp like a death knell.
His posture shifted instantly, assuming a stance of battle, and with a swift, deliberate motion he brandished a scimitar she hadn't even noticed before. The blade gleamed menacingly, a reminder that hesitation in this place could cost her everything.
Willow observed the skeleton knight carefully, her mind racing to determine his rank in the hierarchy of soul beings. A thousand questions pressed against her thoughts: why wasn't he attacking, what kind of mysterious power did he possess, and was his scimitar enchanted like her own blade?
She weighed the safest way to take him out, the quickest strike that could end him before reinforcements arrived. Yet uncertainty gnawed at her — were any of his allies nearby, hidden in the shadows, waiting to spring a trap? Every possibility tightened the tension, forcing Willow to balance caution with the need for decisive action.
All these questions beamed straight into Willow's mind, weighing her down like chains. She couldn't bring herself to attack, trapped in her own uncertainty, only able to wonder what her next move should be.
She knew she wasn't skilled at direct confrontations, and none of her allies were here to support her. The silence of the camp pressed against her ears, amplifying her isolation.
Slowly, she raised her tooth dagger, gripping it tightly in her hand, and lifting up to her head as though preparing to aim the blade downward. It was a gesture of intent, a silent promise to herself that hesitation would not last forever.
For a while, Willow and the skeleton knight stared at each other with discerning eyes, each searching for an opening in the other's stance. Willow sensed the knight was determined to wait until his comrades arrived, which suggested he was probably weaker than other soul beings of his level.
That realization gave her pause. Her mind drifted toward the assassin suit he wore, and the question of how he had obtained it. The answer struck her with grim clarity — the knight had stolen it from the corpse of an elf who once wore it.
The thought chilled her, for the suit was not just armor, but a relic tied to her own past, now desecrated by the soul beings.
Knowing this, Willow asked herself the next best question: who was the elf the suit had belonged to? It only took an instant for the answer to surface, and immediately she remembered.
The weight of recognition burned through her hesitation, and her fury ignited. She quit waiting, no longer willing to let doubt hold her back, and surged forward. With a burst of speed, Willow ran straight toward the skeleton knight, her dagger raised high, intent on bashing his useless skull in and reclaiming the honor of the fallen elf.
Willow's mind drifted to one person — Momon. It took only half a second for her to connect the dots: the assassin suit the skeleton knight wore had belonged to him.
Memories surged forward in a flood, overwhelming her. She remembered her friend, the laughter they shared, the quiet moments of trust, and the day she delivered the finished suit to him.
She even recalled beaming lightly when Momon spoke of how the suit felt, how much he liked it, and how proud she had been of her craft. That warmth now twisted into anguish, for the suit had become a relic of betrayal, desecrated by the soul beings.
But now Momon was no more. His suit was gone, and that meant he too was gone. The assassin's garb, once a symbol of skill and pride, was now desecrated by the undead — vile beings who had chased the elves from their homeland and brought plague, fear, and pain.
As Willow looked intently at the suit worn by the skeleton knight, her heart filled with hate. A shadow of mournfulness lingered, but it only sharpened her resolve. Compelled by grief and fury, she vowed to avenge her fallen friend Momon, no matter the cost.
***
During the stalemate with the female elf, the skeleton knight felt it was finally time to prove his strength and bring his skills to light with a proper weapon. A pang of sadness struck him, for his master was not present to witness his worthiness in wielding both the weapon and the suit he had been rewarded with.
Yet despite his pride, he did not allow arrogance to cloud his judgment. When he noticed the elf was not attacking, he resisted the urge to charge headlong like a fool.
Instead, he thought rationally, maintaining his stance and waiting for his comrades to arrive, confident that patience would turn the tide in his favor.
The elf seemed to be doing the same thing, her eyes locked in the same cautious watch, and it felt as though she carried the same fears he did. She was no warrior, no mage — just like him, a rogue.
An individual who had learned to fight with whatever skills she could grasp, surviving through cunning rather than brute force. Both of them were creatures of survival, not glory or power, but driven by the instinct to outlast the competition and live to see another day.
And it looked like their standoff was less about dominance and more about endurance, each waiting for the other to falter.
As the skeleton knight watched the female elf's stance, he almost felt the weight of the trials she had endured to stand here today.
Though he could not claim to have faced the exact same hardships, something in her eyes and posture resonated with him. He sensed the echoes of survival, the scars of battles fought in silence, and the resilience carved into her spirit.
In that moment, he felt they were kindred spirits — not bound by glory or power, but by the relentless will to endure against overwhelming odds.
However, despite his fleeting sense of kindredness toward the elf, it did not mean he would spare her. Quite the contrary — the skeleton knight believed their likeness only proved that this battle would reveal who had truly overcome their trials and emerged stronger.
To him, survival was not enough; victory meant proving worth. Each desperate fight for survival was a lesson, an experience to be absorbed, and this clash would be no different.
His pride simmered beneath the surface, but he kept it contained, knowing that patience and calculation would decide which of them lived to see another day.