The castle remained in a tense silence — that brief interval in which war seems to fall asleep only to return more cruel at dawn.
The torches fixed to the walls cast unsteady light over the ancient stone, making the shadows breathe between columns and empty corridors.
Aldric crossed the corridor in silence.
There was no haste in his steps.
Only rigidity.
When he pushed the doors of the war room, the heat of the torches reached him first.
Then, the silence.
The central table remained open, covered in maps, marked with pieces.
Before it, an unmoving figure.
A black mantle draped heavily over his shoulders.
The pale skin seemed to absorb the very light of the room, marked by a dark luster, difficult to name.
His short black hair fell in longer, disordered strands at the nape of his neck.
There was no haste in him.
Only presence.
Beside the table, kneeling—
the former Baron Silvanis.
Head lowered.
Silent.
As if he no longer had the right to raise his eyes.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Aldric observed the scene.
And understood he had not entered a war room.
He had entered a place of judgment.
Then he spoke.
His voice was dry.
Direct.
"Lord Doros and Lady Isabela have been taken to their chambers."
A short pause.
"Both remain unconscious, but alive."
The figure before the table did not move.
Aldric continued.
"The sun will rise in less than three hours."
His eyes fell over the markings on the map.
"I want to know what you did…"
The voice hardened a degree.
"and what your plan is when morning comes."
Silence.
The torches crackled.
Aldric took another step.
"And I want to know what you intend to do if neither of them wakes."
Only then did Éreon move.
Slowly.
Without haste.
He turned to him like someone who had already expected that question before it even existed.
His eyes met Aldric's.
Too calm.
"If Doros wakes…"
His voice came low.
Serene.
But there was something in it that did not allow interruption.
"he will take the north gate."
Aldric's expression tightened immediately.
"That's madness."
The answer came before he could temper his tone.
"Lord Doros is skilled…"
"but no man holds an entire front alone against an army."
A step.
Dry.
Éreon watched him in silence for a moment.
Then answered:
"Doros as he is now… could not."
A brief pause.
His eyes did not waver.
"But the man I knew sixteen centuries ago…"
The voice dropped a degree.
Deeper.
"that one will be enough."
Aldric remained still.
Confusion crossed his face before he could hide it.
He opened his mouth—
Éreon cut him off.
"You and Isabela will hold the south gate."
"Choose the best form of attack."
"I don't want resistance."
"I want rupture."
Aldric was still trying to follow.
"Kael will remain on the walls."
"Just be a reminder to the enemy."
Silence.
Aldric breathed in.
"And you believe that will be enough?"
The question came out heavy.
Not as a challenge.
As a necessity.
Éreon walked slowly to the side of the table.
His fingers touched one of the wooden pieces.
He moved it one space.
Simple.
As if deciding the fate of men with the same gesture used to move dust.
"Men like the Viscount do not win through strength."
The voice came calm.
"They win by certainty."
His eyes lowered to the map.
"They do not advance without seeing victory first."
"They do not gamble."
"They confirm."
A short pause.
"And their weakness…"
He raised his eyes.
"is exactly that."
Silence.
"They do not know how to act when certainty dies."
Aldric remained still.
Listening.
"The Viscount will act as I would act."
"Because we are alike in that point."
"He will wait until he has the field in his hands."
"And I will rip it from them."
The silence weighed.
Then Aldric asked:
"And you?"
"What will you do?"
Éreon did not answer immediately.
He simply walked to where Silvanis remained kneeling.
He stopped before him.
Looked down.
As if observing something very old and very small at the same time.
Then he grabbed him by the arm.
And pulled him up.
Without effort.
Silvanis did not resist.
He simply obeyed.
Éreon began to drag him toward the exit.
The voice came without him looking back.
"Silvanis and I…"
A short pause.
"still have unfinished matters."
At the door, he stopped.
The torchlight drew half of his face.
The other half remained shadow.
"Kill as many as possible tomorrow."
The voice came low.
Cold.
Absolute.
"If you do that…"
A brief silence.
"this war will not see a third day."
Aldric remained still.
Then Éreon said, for the last time:
"And when night falls…"
Now there was something different.
Something deeper.
Older.
"it is better that none of you should be outside the walls."
Silence.
He opened the door.
Aldric spoke before he disappeared.
"And if the Viscount decides to fight on the front lines?"
No answer.
No word.
Only the sound of footsteps.
Slow.
Fading down the stone corridor.
And, for some reason—
that felt worse than any answer.
Silence.
Aldric remained still for a few moments.
Eyes fixed on the already closed door.
As if he still expected Éreon to return.
But he did not.
The castle remained in silence.
The torches kept burning.
And the war kept waiting for dawn.
Aldric closed his eyes.
Once.
Brief.
When he opened them—
the sun already ruled the sky.
The heat had replaced the cold of early morning.
And the field… was already bleeding again.
The impact still echoed in the broken stone.
Isabela lay a few meters away.
Her body heavy against the ground, the blade out of her reach, the shield useless at her side.
She still breathed.
But the field no longer belonged to her.
Ahead—
the Viscount remained still.
Posture straight.
Garments too intact for that place.
Cold eyes fixed forward, as if men, blood, and walls were merely an inevitable part of the landscape.
There was no haste.
Around him, the soldiers hesitated.
No one advanced.
Because all of them felt the same thing—
that was not a man before them.
It was a verdict.
A knight stopped beside Aldric.
The voice came low.
Tense.
"My lord…"
A short pause.
"What do we do?"
Aldric remained looking ahead.
Without turning.
Without haste.
As if the answer had already been decided before the question.
"Night will fall in a few hours."
The voice came dry.
Firm.
"Until then…"
His eyes did not leave the Viscount.
"we will hold every advance."
Silence.
"Do not retreat."
"Do not pursue."
"Do not try to defeat him."
Now the weight came.
Harder.
"Just hold the field until night falls."
The knight nodded immediately.
"Yes, my lord."
Aldric took a step forward.
Without haste.
"Take Lady Isabela inside."
"Now."
Two knights moved without hesitation.
Fast.
Direct.
One of them knelt beside her, checking her breathing.
The other was already lifting the fallen shield.
No word was spoken.
There was no space for that.
Only urgency.
Only understanding.
As they carried her away—
the Viscount watched.
Like someone who had already decided that it did not matter.
Aldric held the gaze.
Cold.
Rigid.
As if refusing to look away was, by itself, a form of war.
The wind passed between them.
Carrying dust.
Blood.
And the promise that that day was still far from over.
Then he advanced.
One step.
Heavy.
The sword came down from his waist with the dry sound of steel leaving its sheath.
There was no haste.
There was no spectacle.
Only decision.
The knights behind him adjusted almost at the same instant.
Shields raised.
Swords firm.
Aldric did not look back when he spoke.
The voice came firm.
Loud enough to cross the field.
"Men…"
Silence answered first.
Even the other side seemed to listen.
The soldiers raised their eyes.
"Here."
A short pause.
His blade pointed to the blood-stained ground.
"And now…"
The voice hardened.
Deeper.
Heavier.
"we offer fear."
The impact was immediate.
Shields struck the ground.
Once.
Strong.
Dry.
Like thunder trapped in steel.
"We keep nothing but duty."
Another response.
Stronger.
More alive.
The ranks closed.
The collective breathing changed.
It was no longer fear.
It was acceptance.
Aldric raised the sword.
And, for the first time, his voice cut across the field like an order meant to be obeyed by the living… and the dead.
"May Enyalius make us war."
The world answered.
Not in sound.
In presence.
A vibration crossed stone, air, metal.
As if something ancient had awakened just to watch.
The swords trembled.
The air around Aldric's men warped in slight ripples, almost invisible — like heat over burning iron.
It was not light.
It was not common magic.
It was weight.
The very idea of conflict condensing over them.
On the other side of the field—
the Viscount watched.
For the first time, his eyes truly focused.
The faint distortion around the knights.
The change in posture.
In breathing.
In the way fear had been replaced by something far worse.
He smiled.
Subtle.
Without pleasure.
Beside him, a knight tensed his posture.
Waiting for an order.
It came simple.
Low.
Calm.
"Hold the lines."
His eyes remained on Aldric.
"And make the army advance."
The order spread.
The ranks responded.
Shields raised.
Spears lowered.
The impact came like a collapsing wall.
The first collision shook the entire field.
Metal against metal.
Men against men.
Shouts.
Blood.
The difference came in the second impact.
Aldric's knights did not yield.
They pushed.
As if every blow received found a doubled answer.
As if the very god of war pushed them from behind.
An enemy soldier advanced—
he went down.
Another tried to break the line—
he was crushed against the shields.
There was no elegance.
There was brutality.
And, at its center—
Aldric.
The broad sword cut through the field like a sentence.
Heavy.
Violent.
Each strike seemed too large to be defended.
He did not fight like a swordsman.
He fought like a wall that had decided to walk.
Aldric advanced straight toward him.
Without hesitation.
Without deviation.
As if the entire field had ceased to exist between one step and the next.
The Viscount's soldiers noticed first.
Shouts.
Orders.
Men moving to close the path.
Too late.
The sword came in a brutal line, too heavy to seem human — a blow that sought no technique, only end.
The Viscount raised his own blade at the exact instant of impact.
The sound exploded dry.
Steel against steel.
The ground beneath their feet gave.
The force passed through the defense like a wave.
Even blocking—
he stepped back.
One step.
Then another.
Short.
Controlled.
But real.
Eyes around widened.
Because few men on the field had ever seen someone force the Viscount to step back.
And Aldric did not stop.
The second blow came even heavier.
Horizontal.
Raw.
Made to break defense, bones, and conviction at once.
The Viscount angled the blade, absorbing part of the impact, but even so his body was pushed once more.
The ground dragged beneath his feet.
Silence.
Brief.
Dangerous.
Then the soldiers reacted.
"Protect the Commander!"
The shout tore through the line.
Men advanced from all sides.
Shields raised.
Spears lowered.
Desperation dressed as discipline.
The first came from the left—
Aldric turned.
The sword split him before the attack existed.
The second came together—
the shield crushed his face with a dry impact.
The third tried to reach his back—
another of Aldric's knights was already driving a blade through him.
There was no opening.
There was no breath.
The war seemed to revolve around that single point.
Two more advanced.
The first fell.
When Aldric turned his body to cut down the second—
the Viscount moved.
No announcement.
No visible impulse.
He was simply there.
The blade appeared in the path of Aldric's sword at the exact instant of impact.
Steel against steel.
Dry.
Perfect.
Neither of them stepped back.
The second soldier froze mid-advance, realizing too late that there was no longer space for him in that fight.
Aldric pushed.
Brute force.
Weight.
Conviction.
The Viscount turned the blade just enough to deflect the line of the strike, letting the force pass beside his body instead of meeting it head-on.
Elegant.
Precise.
Cruel in its simplicity.
The answer came immediate.
A short cut.
Clean.
Direct to the neck.
Aldric tilted his body at the last instant, feeling the steel pass too close.
The counterattack was already descending.
Vertical.
Heavy enough to split man and ground.
The Viscount stepped out of the line with a single lateral step.
Nothing more than that.
As if he already knew where the blow would fall before it even existed.
His sword came back low, aiming at the exposed side.
Aldric turned his wrist.
The shield intercepted.
Dry impact.
No spectacle.
No waste.
Around them—
the field slowed.
Men still died.
Orders were still shouted.
But eyes turned to that.
Because even soldiers knew how to recognize when war stopped being army…
and became a duel.
Aldric advanced first.
Three strikes.
None uncontrolled.
All fatal.
The first tested distance.
The second demanded response.
The third killed.
The Viscount answered all three as if reading a sentence already known.
Deflection.
Block.
Displacement.
The blade never did more than necessary.
No excess effort.
No haste.
Like a man correcting an inevitable error.
Aldric did not grow irritated.
He simply understood.
And changed.
The next strike came deliberately delayed.
A broken rhythm.
False.
The Viscount perceived it.
But still had to adjust his defense.
For the first time, the sound of impact came heavier.
More real.
Their eyes met.
There—
no army.
No banners.
Only understanding.
Veterans.
Men who had seen too many fields to romanticize victory.
The Viscount advanced.
The blade came in a sequence too clean to seem offensive.
Short cuts.
Impossible angles.
No apparent strength.
But each movement demanded a perfect answer.
Aldric defended.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth, he had to step back half a step.
Not from weakness.
From intelligence.
The Viscount perceived it.
And accepted.
Like a general recognizing another on the opposing field.
No smile.
No provocation.
Only respect.
Aldric answered with controlled brutality.
The broad sword swept in a low arc, tearing space open.
The Viscount leapt back at the last instant, the tip of the blade still finding fabric and drawing a clean cut across the mantle.
Silence.
Brief.
The wind passed between them.
Blood.
Earth.
Iron.
Neither advanced.
Neither yielded.
The soldiers around watched in an almost reverent silence.
Allies.
Enemies.
It did not matter.
All understood the same thing—
that was not only skill.
It was time.
Experience.
Survival turned into technique.
Two men who had remained alive too long to fight like the young.
And, because of that—
each movement felt more dangerous than fury.
Aldric raised the sword again.
The Viscount adjusted his stance.
No haste.
No fear.
As if both of them knew—
that duel would not be won by strength.
Nor by speed.
But by the first mistake.
And men like them… rarely made them.