Page 60 of Fourth

MAYA RAN.

Riv’En watched her disappear into the trees, knowing every breath, every heartbeat now counted. Then he turned, eyes locking onto Brotha.

“Do not follow her,” Riv’En said, voice low and absolute. His muscles taut, stance widening, the heat of Final Flight burning just under his influence. He waited, eyes steady, breath slow, giving Brotha a single chance to decide how this wouldend.

For a moment, nothing moved. Only the wind in the leaves and the steady push of air in Riv’En’s lungs. Like the universe itself held its breath.

The world narrowed to a single line of focus. Maya’s scent—wild and alive—faded into the background as Riv’En stepped directly between the path she’d taken and Brotha. His awareness sharpened, steady and sure. The heat of Final Flight burnedbeneath his skin, but it no longer directed him. This was choice. Intention.

Brotha stood opposite him, bronzed skin streaked with dirt and sweat. Naked. Ready. Apredator waiting for the moment to strike. His sharp teeth flashed with unmistakable threat. “Thought you could keep up, Fourth? Iam surprised you still stand.”

Riv’En moved first. One clean strike. His knuckles cracked against Brotha’s jaw, followed by a second blow that drove into his ribs. The jarring crack traveled up his arm, but there was no hesitation, no regret. This wasn’t about pain or advantage—it was about sending a message. Brotha had crossed a line, and there would be a cost. The crack of bone echoed through the clearing.

Brotha staggered back, spitting blood, but that grin stayed carved across his face. His hand pressed to his ribs, fingers digging in as if sheer defiance could mend the damage. “You cracked my rib, youvexxinghalf-blood,” he rasped, his voice a jagged scrape.

Riv’En’s voice came cold as iron. “That makes us even for what you pulled on the platform.”

The memory hit as hard as any blow. The sharp jolt of impact from earlier combined with the sting of humiliation twisted through his ribs just as vividly now as it had then, asilent echo pulsing beneath his skin. Brotha’s cheap shot had been ablatant strike from behind that had knocked Riv’En to one knee while everyone stood waiting for the Chase to begin. It had been out of line, witnessed by all, yet unanswered.

Until now.

Brotha tilted his head, rubbing his jaw. “Still holding onto that?Kibl, Fourth. Thought you’d have let that go by now.” His gaze sharpened, the smile turning cruel. “But then... you are slowing down. Late stages, hmm? Final Flight creeping up your spine. Ican see it.”

Riv’En’s mouth twisted, voice dark with warning. “One blow to remind you where the line is, Brotha, and what happens when you cross it. And a second blow to drive it home, to make sure you feel it in every breath, every step that follows.” His knuckles ached from the strikes, but the weight in his chest wasn’t pain. It was satisfaction, cold and clean.

Brotha bared his teeth, shoulders rolling like a predator preparing to strike. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a slow breath, savoring the sting of pain and the taste of blood in his mouth, as if both only fed the fire already burning in hisgut.

“Two pathetic hits, and you think that changes anything? Anything you do to me, Fourth, I’ll pay back double—on her.” His eyes glittered with savage promise, like he meant every word. Then Brotha stepped forward, voice dropping. “Why make it harder than it needs to be? Let me take you out. Fast. Clean. Awarrior’s end. No need to burn. No need to suffer.”

Riv’En exhaled slowly, his voice low and steady. “You want me gone that badly, Brotha? Too afraid to let this play through?” Inside, heat coiled tight beneath his skin, not just from Final Flight but from the quiet certainty that he would not let it end likethis.

Brotha lunged unexpectedly. His fist swung—

But Riv’En was gone.

One heartbeat he stood in front of Brotha, solid and real, his muscles tense, heat scalding beneath his skin as every part ofhim screamed to strike. The next he vanished. It was not reflex—it was intentional. Achoice honed by decades of training and centuries of practice. He let Brotha see him, let him believe he had the advantage, and then he was gone. Camouflage engaged by sheer will, every molecule of his skin shifting to match the forest around him. Where once he’d stood, now there was only air, his form dissolving into the forest like smoke swallowed by thewind.

Brotha’s strike cut through emptyair.

“You asshole!”

He swore viciously, spinning in place, scanning the trees. His muscles bunched, his stance tightening, every line of him ready to strike. His breath came fast, uneven through clenched teeth, frustration pulsing under his skin as he pivoted again, eyes slashing through shadow and light.

Riv’En’s voice ghosted from the shadows. “You will not touch her.”

Brotha snarled into the empty air. “Run all you want, Fourth,” he called, voice sharp with challenge. “You cannot protect her forever.”

Muscles flexing, still clutching his side, Brotha pivoted hard and drove forward, pounding after Maya. Each step landed with brutal force, more than just rage. There was calculation in it too. He wasn’t charging blindly. He was pacing himself, adjusting his breath, conserving strength for when it counted.

Beneath the fury, Brotha moved like a predator who knew exactly when to strike and how long he could afford to chase. His breath came harsh and fast, every step churning the earth beneath him as he tore into the trees. The shadows swallowedhim whole, but his fury burned bright enough to leave a trail even without light.

Riv’En did not hesitate. Aflicker of heat tightened across his spine, that sharp pulse of Final Flight threatening to rise again. But he forced it down, channeling everything into movement, into purpose.

As soon as Brotha vanished into the trees, he followed, silent, invisible, the heat of his own body muted beneath full camouflage. He moved with lethal certainty, each stride silent, planned. His entire awareness narrowed to the cadence of Maya’s scent—bright, alive, laced with adrenaline and fear. Beneath it, the faint, fading heat signature of Brotha pounded ahead.The burn of Final Flight simmered beneath his skin, but it was a distant ache now, secondary to the sharper pulse of intuition and the bond guiding his everystep.

A flicker of motion cut through the trees ahead. Brotha. Bronze skin smeared with dirt and blood, shoulders shifting with each stride as he ran. Riv’En stayed parallel, camouflaged, ghosting through the jungle’s skeletal undergrowth, each muscle held tight on the edge of attack.

Then Maya’s scent flared stronger, closer, a mixture of strength and raw defiance. Riv’En’s pulse kicked, tendons flexing as he cut right, weaving through bent saplings and tangled brush, overtaking Brotha with silent, lethal precision. The heat shimmering beneath his skin sharpened, not a distraction but a focus, connecting every movement to one singularfact.

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