The sun had already settled in the sky when the northern gate began to fail.
There was no clear rupture in the lines — only a point where the advance ceased to exist as it should.
At the front.
One man.
Two blades.
And still—enough.
The soldiers did not fall back by order.
They fell back because they couldn't hold it.
The formation tried to close around him, but each approach created a new opening.
Where they advanced, they lost ground.
Where they pressed, they gave way.
A knight stopped beside the unmoving figure.
He hesitated before speaking — not out of doubt, but because something there demanded care.
"My lord… the lines are not managing to contain him."
No response.
The man at his side remained still, watching.
The white cloak rested still over his shoulders, too heavy to yield to the wind.
Beneath it, the impeccable cut of the silver-gray attire remained untouched — too out of place for that field.
Black, wavy hair fell to his shoulders in a restrained disarray, as if even his chaos knew its bounds.
Pale skin made the austere face even more rigid under the sunlight, almost sculpted, detached from any trace of emotion.
Crimson eyes remained fixed on the field.
The knight held his posture.
Tension already weighed on his voice when he spoke again:
"If it continues like this… morale won't hold."
A slight movement.
The gaze finally shifted, tracing in the distance the irregular line left by the blades.
"A single individual…"
Low.
Controlled.
"forcing an army to retreat."
"This is not a failure of formation."
"It is a failure of perception."
The knight did not interrupt.
"Until orders arrive…"
The voice remained steady.
"They will hold position."
No space for discussion.
The knight hesitated for an instant — minimal.
"Even with the impact on morale, my lord?"
Now the gaze came.
Cold.
Direct.
"Their morale was already compromised…"
"the moment they began to measure the field by a single man."
A short pause.
"To retreat now… would only confirm that."
Silence.
"Hold position."
The knight nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
The mist behind them gave way.
Not in rupture.
In concession.
The nearby horses adjusted their steps.
Some knights slightly inclined their heads.
"My lord."
"Lord Bragança."
The voices did not rise.
It was not an announcement.
It was recognition.
Viscount Bragança advanced without haste.
He stopped beside the man in the white cloak.
His gaze swept the field.
Bodies scattered.
Formation compromised.
And, in the distance—
the continuous motion of the blades.
"A single man…"
The voice came low. Almost light.
"and still, enough."
A short pause.
"Not something you see every day."
The man beside him did not respond.
"Acasto."
The name came without emphasis.
As if it had already been there before being spoken.
"Tell me…"
A slight tilt of the head, almost imperceptible.
"is this carelessness…"
"or intent?"
Silence.
Only then did Acasto respond.
"Intent."
The voice came low.
Steady.
"The advance was interrupted."
"Morale has already begun to give way."
A brief glance at the field.
"But it has not collapsed yet."
The Viscount nodded, minimal.
His gaze returned to the field, following the irregular advance of the blades.
"A single man… placed where he cannot be ignored."
Now, a slight shift of attention.
"Acasto…"
"what exactly is he buying with this?"
Silence.
The gaze remained on the field.
"He advances… and retreats."
Low.
Controlled.
"He does not lose rhythm."
His eyes followed the distant movement of the blades.
"He chooses where he strikes."
"And whom."
The Viscount did not interrupt.
"It is not random."
"There is intent… but that is not what matters."
A slight narrowing of the eyes.
"There is… method to how he kills."
Short pause.
"It is not haste."
His eyes did not leave the field.
"It is impact."
Silence.
"Each strike does not open space…"
"it closes it."
A slight adjustment of the cloak.
"Too fast for response."
"Too heavy to ignore."
Short pause.
"And still… repeated."
His eyes remained on the field.
"He is not seeking only to kill."
A minimal shift.
"He seeks to break what comes after."
The Viscount nodded, minimal.
"Gradual reduction."
The voice came light.
"Nothing particularly rare."
A brief silence.
Acasto replied:
"I agree."
"But it is not the tactic that draws attention."
Now, a slight weight in his speech.
"It is the consistency."
His eyes returned to the field.
"There is no waste."
"Nor deviation."
A short pause.
"Nothing but execution."
The Viscount inclined his head slightly.
"Numbers."
No pressure.
No haste.
"Out of the two thousand five hundred…"
"around four hundred have already fallen."
The wind passed between them.
The Viscount observed the field for a moment longer.
"In how much time?"
"Since the first advance…"
A short pause.
"around six hours."
His eyes did not leave the field.
"The sun had not yet settled when it began."
Silence.
The Viscount began to move.
Without haste.
"Six hours…"
The voice came low.
Distant.
"That reminds me of Baelis."
"The campaign of the Varn Lowlands."
His eyes moved forward, no longer fixed on the field.
"There was a man…"
"who decided to advance alone."
A slight shift in breath.
"And by the end of the day…"
"more than a thousand had fallen."
Silence.
Acasto replied without changing tone:
"They were not only enemies."
The Viscount nodded.
"No."
"They were not."
He continued walking.
The mist was already beginning to open ahead.
"And still…"
"he won the field."
Acasto replied:
"And lost control shortly after…"
"not a pattern I care to repeat."
The Viscount did not break stride.
Then, already near the mist:
"I will return to my position."
The voice came light.
"until the plan behind this reveals itself."
He stopped for an instant.
Without looking back.
"Do not advance, Acasto."
"Do not interfere."
The wind passed.
But did not touch.
"Even if the numbers reach zero."
Silence.
"Observe."
"That is all."
One last step.
"When the field speaks…"
"then we will decide."
The mist enveloped him before there was a response.
And, within moments—
there was nothing left there.
On the walls, the silence did not hold for long.
One of the knights kept his gaze fixed below, as if still trying to follow something.
One of the knights broke the silence:
"Lord Doros… has he always been like this?"
A short pause.
"One man… holding back the entire advance."
The other did not respond immediately.
Eyes still distant.
"No."
Dry.
"Before… he fought like any other."
The first frowned slightly.
"And now?"
The second took a moment.
"Since he returned from the underground prison…"
The voice dropped a degree.
"there is something in him."
The first returned his gaze to the field.
"I felt it."
A pause.
"When he entered the castle."
The second nodded, minimal.
"It is the same weight."
The wind passed through the battlements.
"Then why isn't he here?"
Now there was real tension in the question.
"If he can do that…"
"why let another fight in his place?"
Before the answer came—
"That's enough."
The voice came firm.
A third knight approached, his gaze hard.
"We are not here to speculate."
The two fell silent.
"Hold position."
"If there is an order, we act."
A short pause.
"Until then… eyes on the field."
The silence returned.
But now, tighter.
Below, the field did not wait.
The sound came first.
Metal.
Irregular.
Not like the clash of lines — but like something breaking their rhythm.
A knight advanced.
Forced by the pressure behind him.
He saw.
Stopped.
Black hair fell in loose strands, heavy, stuck with blood.
The face… too young.
Too wrong to be there.
Then the eyes lifted.
And he froze.
They were no longer brown.
Deep green took the space, dense, with dull golden reflections that did not shine — they sank.
The spiral closed around the pupil.
Irregular.
Alive.
The knight forgot to advance.
Forgot to breathe.
The body did not respond.
Doros took a step.
Just one.
The blade came after.
Too fast to follow — not a clean cut, but an impact that tore the movement from the body before the blood even came.
Another was already there.
There was no time.
The second blade entered at a low angle, deflecting the attack before it could take shape.
The body moved with it.
Without technique.
Something between calculation… and impulse.
The next strike did not seek precision.
It sought space.
And found it.
The sound changed.
No longer clash.
Rupture.
The men fell back.
Because each advance ended before it began.
One tried to flank.
Doros did not look.
The blade was already there.
The man fell without understanding when he had been struck.
Another hesitated.
And that instant—
cost.
The movement came faster.
Heavier.
Less contained.
The blade went through with too much force.
Not necessary.
But not avoided.
The body stayed.
The blade came out.
The rhythm did not break.
Advance.
Halt.
Cut.
Give.
Pull.
Answer.
As if he heard something the others did not.
The field around him was no longer a line.
It was a moving void.
And where he passed—
fewer men remained.
At another point in the barony—
at the southern gate, the line did not advance.
Below the walls, the Fifth Knights remained still.
Aldric at the front.
Posture firm.
Gaze fixed.
There was no haste in him.
Nor hesitation.
Ahead, far from the safety of the wall, Isabela still fought.
There was no formation anymore.
Only a core resisting under constant pressure.
The shield rose on impact.
The sound reverberated dry.
The blade came in sequence — short, precise.
A man fell.
Another advanced.
She turned.
Blue flames followed the movement, contained, dense — forced to remain stable.
The strike hit.
But did not open space as before.
The enemy gave one step—
and returned.
Faster.
Isabela locked the impact.
One step back.
Minimal.
The flame faltered for an instant.
Breathing was no longer invisible.
Time was taking its toll.
Behind her, two more fell.
Too fast.
No reaction.
No correction.
The pressure increased.
Not in force.
In constancy.
On the walls, a knight stopped beside Aldric.
Gaze fixed on the field.
"Fewer than twenty mercenaries remain."
A short pause.
"And she has already begun to give way."
Aldric did not respond immediately.
His eyes rose.
To the sun.
High.
Firm.
"More than expected."
Dry.
"The enemy commander entered the forest hours ago."
"And still, they maintained pressure."
His eyes lowered again.
"And she held six hours of continuous combat."
The knight held his posture.
"Then why don't we advance now?"
"They are exposed."
"And she is at the limit."
Aldric did not look away.
"Every death there matters… it is not over yet."
A short pause.
"To advance now interrupts what is already in motion."
The knight hesitated.
"And if she falls?"
The answer came without variation:
"Then she falls."
Cold.
"We are not here to save her."
"We are here to win."
The wind passed over the walls.
"When their formation shifts…"
A slight focus ahead.
"we advance."
Silence.
"Until then…"
His eyes returned to the field.
"nothing changes."
Time passed not in clear markers, but in accumulation.
The sun remained high, but the field was no longer the same.
More bodies.
Less response.
And still—
no rupture.
When the Viscount resumed his position, the difference was already visible.
Not decisive.
But enough.
A knight approached.
The Viscount did not look away from the field.
"The casualties."
Simple.
No emphasis.
The knight replied immediately:
"We have already exceeded five hundred, my lord."
The Viscount did not respond at once.
His gaze lowered.
Below the walls.
The knights remained still.
Exactly as before.
"Curious…"
The voice came low.
Almost distracted.
"A simple barony…"
"and still… demanding so much."
His eyes did not move.
"And still… it was not here that it began to fail."
Short silence.
"It was yesterday."
A slight narrowing of the eyes.
"when the two decided to intervene."
The knight remained silent.
"I waited."
The word came without weight.
"I believed they would return to the field."
A slight adjustment of the cloak.
"I even withdrew…"
"and still… they did not move."
The wind passed.
"There are two possibilities."
Now lower.
More precise.
"Either they are incapacitated."
"Or they chose not to act… yet."
A pause.
"And in both cases…"
"I see no utility in prolonging this uncertainty."
His eyes finally adjusted.
"It has already extended beyond what is necessary."
"My lord—"
"I have already waited."
A soft interruption.
No force.
No haste.
One step.
He was no longer there.
Isabela felt it first.
It was not sound.
Nor movement.
It was intent.
Something that crossed the space before arriving.
And the air… gave way first.
She raised her eyes.
The body reacted an instant later.
When she realized—
she was already in the air.
The impact against the wall came dry.
The air left her lungs before the pain formed — and, for an instant, the body did not respond.
The blade slipped from her fingers — not by choice.
The shield gave under the shock… and did not rise again.
The body fell, heavy — too late for any reaction.
The sound of the field returned before she did.
And the Viscount was already there.
Still.
Where she had been moments before.
His eyes did not move.
They remained forward.
As if nothing around him demanded it.