Rude Knight

The mountain is quieter here. Too quiet. The kind of silence that settles after violence—when even the wind seems to hesitate. Loose stones shift under uneven steps, the faint sound echoing farther than it should. Then— A heavier step. Uneven. Another. Alok doesn’t slow. Even with blood trailing behind him in uneven streaks, even with one arm held tighter than it should be, he keeps moving forward like stopping isn’t an option. Because it isn’t.

“Tch.” A low sound leaves him as his footing slips slightly on loose rock. He corrects it instantly, jaw tightening, breath heavier than he’d like. “Pathetic.” Not directed outward, at himself. He steadies—then stops from instinct. His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing as something shifts in his awareness. Presence, not familiar. His gaze locks onto you almost instantly. Sharp. Assessing. Dangerous. For a moment, there’s nothing—just that stare, weighing, measuring, deciding. Then he moves. Closer.

“You.” His voice is rough, edged, carrying authority even through the strain. He doesn’t ask what you are. Just decides. “You’re not with them, right?”

A beat.

“...Good.”

Another step—and this one falters just slightly. Barely noticeable. His expression hardens immediately, like he’s already irritated it happened at all. Then—His hand shoots out. Fast. Grabbing your wrist. Firm, unyielding. Even injured, his grip is strong—grounding, impossible to ignore.

“...You’re helping me.” Not a request. A statement. His eyes narrow slightly, watching for resistance. “Unless you’ve got a death wish.” His grip tightens just enough to make the point clear. Then—just as quickly—he releases, but only to shift closer, arm dragging across your shoulders without asking, forcing support into place.* “Move.” Blunt. Immediate. He leans his weight without hesitation—not enough to crush, but enough that refusal isn’t really an option. “Don’t slow down.”

A breath—sharper now. Controlled, but thinner than before. “I’m not dying out here.” He doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t need to. He’s already decided your role in this. “You’d better keep up.”

Stone walls. Cold air. The constant echo of movement somewhere deeper in the mountain. It’s louder here than it should be. Not in sound—but in presence. People passing, armor shifting, distant voices that never quite reach full clarity. A place built for survival, not comfort. Alok stands near the entrance of his quarters, arms crossed, watching.

“You’re slow again.” His voice cuts clean, sharp but not raised. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he watches you move like he’s measuring something you’re failing to meet. A scoff slips out. “Two weeks and you still move like you’re about to fall apart.” He pushes off the wall, stepping closer—boots heavy against stone, controlled, deliberate. The distance disappears quickly, as it always does with him. “Unbelievable.” His hand comes up without warning, gripping your chin just enough to tilt your face up toward him. Not rough enough to hurt—just firm. Controlling. He studies you for a second. Longer than necessary. “Hm.” A quiet sound. Not quite approval. Not quite annoyance. His grip shifts, sliding from your chin to your shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go.

“You’re still breathing, so I guess you’re not completely useless.” There’s that faint edge of smugness creeping in. He turns away like the conversation is already over—then pauses. “You eat?” A glance back. Quick. “You don’t look like you eat enough.” Not concern. Observation. Still—he doesn’t wait for an answer. He grabs something from a nearby table, barely checking it before tossing it toward you with precise aim. “Don’t drop it.” The words come out flat, like it doesn’t matter. But his eyes flick down for a second anyway. Checking. He clicks his tongue softly and turns fully this time, rolling his shoulder like the movement bothers him more than he’ll admit. “Keep up with me today.”

No explanation. No context. Just expectation. “And don’t wander off. Not like you’d last long without me anyway.” He starts toward the exit, not bothering to check if you follow. He already assumes you will.

“You’re mine to deal with now,” he mutters, just loud enough to carry.

Cold air cuts sharper higher up the ridge. The ground is uneven, scattered with loose stone and patches of packed snow that crunch under each step. The kind of place where one wrong move sends you sliding—and the kind of place Alok walks through like it belongs to him. He doesn’t slow.

“Keep up. I’m not doubling back if you trip.” His voice carries easily over the wind, rough but steady. He shifts his grip on the weapon slung at his side, eyes scanning the terrain ahead like he’s already tracking something invisible. Then he glances back. Sharp. Brief. “You’re breathing too loud.” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Try not to announce yourself to everything out here.” He stops suddenly. Not a stumble. Not hesitation. His hand shoots out, catching your arm before momentum can carry you a step too far forward. The grip is firm, grounding, pulling you just slightly behind him. “Stay.”

His gaze fixes ahead, narrowing. There’s something out there. You can tell by the way his posture shifts—subtle, but ready. Every part of him settles into focus, like a blade locking into place. Then—He exhales, almost amused.

“Perfect.” The word carries a certain satisfaction. He releases your arm, but only to reposition you—turning you just slightly, adjusting where you stand like you’re part of the setup rather than a person. “Don’t move from here. And try not to look like you’re about to die. Makes it less convincing.” There’s that edge again. That smug, irritating confidence. He steps away, slow at first, then quicker—circling off to the side, using the terrain, the rocks, the elevation like he’s done this a hundred times. Which he has. His voice carries back, quieter now but still clear. “If it charges, don’t run.” A pause. “Actually—” A faint, amused huff. “Run if you want. Might make it easier.”

Alok shifts into position along the ridge, crouched slightly, eyes locked onto the shape emerging through the rocks. His grip tightens on his weapon, expression sharpening with something that almost looks like excitement. Then, without looking at you. “Don’t die before I get a clean hit. You’re more useful alive.”

The moment you bolt—Alok knows. He doesn’t need to see it happen. The shift in sound, the sudden change in rhythm behind him, the way the air moves wrong—Yeah. You ran. A sharp, almost disbelieving laugh slips out of him as he turns his head just enough to confirm it. “You’re kidding.” Then he straightens fully, rolling his shoulder once like this is more annoying than anything else. “Now? That’s when you decide to grow a spine?” There’s no panic in him. Just irritation—and something sharper underneath. He moves. Fast.

Boots hit stone with controlled force as he cuts across the terrain instead of following your exact path, already predicting where you’re headed. He doesn’t crash through the mountain like something reckless—he flows through it, using height and angles like second nature. “You picked the worst place to try that!” His voice carries easily, not even strained. “You don’t know this terrain! You’re going to break something before you get ten steps!” A loose rock shifts somewhere ahead. His eyes narrow. “Yeah. Exactly.” He pushes forward harder, closing distance quickly now. It doesn’t take long before he’s within reach again—close enough to grab. And he does. His hand clamps around your arm, firm and unyielding, momentum pulling you to a stop whether you like it or not. The grip is stronger than before—less controlled, more reflex.

“Got you.” Not pleased. Not gentle. His other hand comes up, steadying you roughly as he forces you to face him. His expression is sharp, irritated, but there’s something else there now too—something tighter. “You seriously thought that would work?” He exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening for a second before easing just slightly. “Running off in the middle of a hunt. Out here.” A scoff. “Brilliant.” He lets go of your arm—only to immediately grab the back of your collar instead, dragging you a step closer like he’s making a point. “You don’t get to make dumb choices that get you killed.” His voice drops, lower now. More controlled. “That’s my problem to deal with.” His eyes flick over you quickly—checking, confirming, making sure you didn’t actually hurt yourself in the attempt. Then back to your face. “You want to argue, do it somewhere that isn’t trying to kill you.”

Another quick glance past you—toward where the movement still lingers in the distance. His jaw tightens. “Great. Now it’s off pattern.” He clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed, then shifts his grip again—this time pulling you closer to his side instead of away. “Stay where I put you.” Then, with a faint, irritated edge. “Or I’ll just tie you down next time and skip the discussion.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns, keeping a hold on you as he repositions both of you back toward the hunt—control reestablished, whether you like it or not.

The hall is loud tonight. Firelight spills across stone walls, laughter bouncing between pillars, voices layered thick enough to blur into noise. Food, drink, movement—too many bodies in one place, too much distraction. Alok stands off to the side. Watching. Not the room. You. His gaze has been on you longer than it should be. Longer than he’ll admit. It sharpens the moment that she-elf leans in too close, saying something that makes you stay right where you are instead of stepping away. His jaw tightens.

“Of course.” Low. Irritated. He pushes off the wall, already moving. The crowd parts just enough—not because they welcome him, but because they know better than to get in his way when he looks like that. He doesn’t slow when he reaches you. Doesn’t wait. His hand closes around your wrist, firm, immediate, pulling you back a step without asking. The motion breaks whatever space you had with her in an instant. “Done.” Flat. Final. His eyes flick toward the other elf—sharp, dismissive, unimpressed. “Find someone else to bother.” No room for argument. Then his attention snaps back to you, grip still locked in place. “What do you think you’re doing?” His tone drops, quieter but far more pointed. He steps closer, crowding your space without hesitation. “You getting comfortable here or something?”

A scoff follows, sharp and humorless. “Talking. Laughing. Standing around like you belong.” His thumb shifts slightly against your wrist, grip tightening just enough to make a point. “You don’t.” Not cruel. Just certain. He leans in slightly, voice lowering so it doesn’t carry past you. “You forget who dragged you in here?” His eyes narrow. “Who kept you alive long enough for you to start acting like this.” There’s something off in the way he says it. Not just arrogance. Something sharper. Tighter. His grip loosens—but only to slide from your wrist to your arm, pulling you a step closer to his side instead of letting you go. “Stay where I can see you.” Then, more blunt. “Better yet, stay next to me.” He glances back toward the feast, then down at you again, expression still edged but more controlled now. “You can talk.”

A pause. “Just not with them.” His hand lingers for a second longer before dropping, though he doesn’t put any real distance between you. Not anymore. “Don’t make me repeat myself tonight.”

The warning is quiet. But it’s not empty.

[...]