Thane leaped, bringing both axes down. Aegis rolled away at the last second, the red stone blades burying themselves deep into the swampy earth, sending a tremor through the clearing.
They fought for hours.
The moon traveled across the sky and vanished. The horizon turned a bruised purple, then a bleeding orange. The sun began to rise over the destruction.
It was a stalemate, but a one-sided one. Thane was relentless, an engine of stamina that refused to slow down. Aegis was panting, his robes torn, his awen draining to keep the air pressure up.
Suddenly, the air grew heavy. A new pressure arrived.
A figure stepped out of the treeline, walking calmly through the aggressive roots as if they didn't exist.
"Master," a voice called out. "That is enough."
It was Cahir. The Titan-Anchor.
Cahir looked at the devastation. He looked at his master, Aegis, who was kneeling in the mud, preparing another spell. Then he looked at Thane.
"We are wasting time," Cahir said, his voice devoid of emotion. "The sun is up and the forest is fully awake."
Thane yanked his axes out of a tree trunk. He stood tall, chest heaving rhythmically. He looked at Cahir, then at Aegis.
A Prime standing against a Titan and a Phantom.
By all logic of the ranking system, Thane should be dead. He should be terrified.
Instead, Thane looked... bored. His eyes scanned Cahir with a predator's confidence. There was no fear in his gaze, only a calculation of how long it would take to chop through Cahir's neck.
Cahir shifted slightly. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple. 'Why?' Cahir thought, unsettled. 'I am a Titan. He is a Prime. Why is this foul soul looking down on me?'
"You want to join the party, boy?" Thane asked, spinning one of the heavy axes in his hand effortlessly. "I have room on my schedule for two."
"Ah..! Definitely. Those eyes of yours, I will surely plunge it out for looking down on me. But not today Thane, I have no time to play with you." Chair responded.
"We are leaving," Cahir said sharply, turning to Aegis. "We have a task, Master. The Goddess did not send us here to die in a swamp."
Cahir gestured to the perimeter of the forest, where bodies of the Wanderers lay scattered—men cut down by Serpent knights.
"You brought too many," Cahir said, his voice critical. "You led them to their deaths for a grudge. This is not the way of the Goddess"
Aegis stood up, wiping mud from his face. He looked at Thane one last time, his eyes filled with anger.
"This is not over, Thane," Aegis whispered.
With a wave of his hand, a gust of wind enveloped the surviving Wanderers. They shot up into the sky, retreating over the canopy, disappearing into the morning clouds.
Thane watched them go. He didn't chase. He just spat on the ground.
"Cowards," he muttered.
Thane turned and walked back toward the ruins of his camp.
The destruction was terrible, but the surviving Serpents were already regrouping. Chief Varic stood near the command tent, his face grim. He was holding the limp body of an enemy by the throat, though the man was long dead.
Varic frowned as Thane approached. He dropped the body and saluted.
"Report," Thane said, his voice flat.
"About twenty casualties," Varic replied gruffly. "Supplies are torched. But we held the line. The enemy retreated."
The knights around them stopped their work. They stared at their Captain.
Thane's armour was gone. His shirt had been disintegrated by the wind spells. His upper body was bare, revealing a landscape of corded muscle and old scars. He stood there, holding two massive red axes that glowed in the morning light.
He had fought a Phantom all night. He had taken many spells point-blank. He had been thrown through trees.
But as the soldiers looked closer, a murmur ran through the ranks.
"He's not bleeding," a young knight whispered in disbelief.
"Not a drop," another muttered, awestruck. "He took Wind-walker head on and didn't spill a single drop of blood."
A group of female knights standing stopped bandaging a wounded soldier. They stared at Thane's back, at the sheer, overwhelming power radiating off him. Their cheeks flushed, unable to look away from the raw masculinity of a man who could walk through a natural disaster and come out looking annoyed rather than hurt.
"He really is a monster," one of them whispered, but the tone was one of admiration, not fear.
"Captain," a female adjutant stammered, stepping forward with a fresh cloak. "You... you require medical attention?"
Thane looked at her. He looked down at his own chest. There were bruises, sure. Red marks where the wind had slapped him. But the skin remained unbroken. His toughness was absolute.
"No," Thane said, snatching the cloak and throwing it over his shoulders. "I require breakfast."
He walked past them, ignoring the blushes and the whispered worship of his men. He entered what remained of his command tent.
He threw the axes onto the table, finally letting out a long exhale. He sat down, closing his eyes, listening to the fading melody of the battle.
His mind drifted away from the Titans and Phantoms. It drifted to the boy he had sent into the jaws of death.
'By now,' Thane thought, visualizing the map in his head, 'the other broken vessel should have crossed the forest.'
'Don't disappoint me, Remus.'
Miles away from the decimated Serpent camp, deep within the safety of a cavern, the Wanderers collapsed in exhaustion. The adrenaline of the raid had faded, leaving only the ache of bruises and the sting of failure.
They sat in huddles, tending to their wounds.
"That Captain..." one of the younger zealots whispered, wrapping a bandage around his burned arm. "He wasn't human. I saw him take a direct hit from the Wind-walker and he just... stood there."
"Silence," an older Wanderer hissed. "Do not speak of the monster."
Apart from the men, near the mouth of the cave, Aegis Kazar sat in a meditative pose. He was floating a few inches off the ground, his eyes closed, stabilizing his turbulent awen.
Cahir stood guard, leaning against the cold stone wall. His face was a mask of dissatisfaction.
"We lost eleven good men," Cahir said, his voice low. "For a grudge."
"Not a grudge," Aegis replied without opening his eyes. "A necessity. Thane is a cancer. Sometimes, the surgeon must cut deep to remove the rot."
"But the rot remains," Cahir countered. "And now we are weakened."
Cahir pushed himself off the wall, looking toward the distant horizon where the Obsidian Tower pierced the sky. "I will go. I need to check on the Demon. I can feel its filth from here. It's waking up."
Aegis finally opened his eyes. "I was able to test the strength of that monster. Next time will be the last we have to think of him ever."
Cahir nodded, turning to leave, but he paused. A thought had been nagging him since his encounter in the Marsh Forest, before the siege began.
"Master," Cahir said, stopping. "There is something else."
Aegis raised an eyebrow.
"In the forest... I met a boy," Cahir admitted. "A slave. He was about the same age as the Young Lord."
Aegis tilted his head. "And?"
"He was frail," Cahir continued, staring at his own iron hands. "He had no armor. No weapon worth naming. But... he moved like a phantom. His parries, his footwork, his instincts... they were on par with a professional. No, they were better. He anticipated my blows before I threw them."
Cahir frowned, the memory of the fight playing in his head.
"I always thought the Young Lord was untouchable. A prodigy born once in a millennium. But this boy... he had that same terrifying spark."
Aegis let out a soft, dry chuckle.
"The Young Lord is indeed a prodigy, Cahir. He is blessed by the Goddess of Night herself. But do not let your devotion blind you to reality."
Aegis stood up, his wind-tattered cloak settling around him.
"The world is wide. There are monsters in every shadow. If the Young Lord—and you—do not continue to work hard, to bleed for your strength, you will fall behind. Genius is common. Survival is rare."
Cahir nodded solemnly, taking the warning to heart. He clenched his fist. "I will not let the Young Lord be surpassed. And I will find that boy again. I want to see if it was luck or skill."
With that, the Titan turned and sprinted back toward the Obsidian Tower, his resolve hardened.
Cahir didn't know the truth. He didn't know that the "prodigy" he had fought in the forest wasn't the boy at all. He didn't know that Norvin's body had been a puppet, controlled by the Red Ghost. He was praising the skills of a terrified child, unaware that the "professional movement" belonged to the very prisoner he was now running to intercept.
The air in the dungeon of the Bronze Falchion smelled of rust and dried blood.
Norvin hung from the wall, his arms suspended by heavy iron shackles. His body was a map of fresh bruises, but his eyes were open. He was staring at the man sitting in the chair before him.
Gareth was peeling an apple with a small, silver knife, looking utterly bored.
"You are a stubborn thing," Gareth sighed, slicing a piece of apple and popping it into his mouth. "I asked you a simple question. Why did the Serpents send a slave?"
Norvin didn't answer. He just breathed, a rasping sound in the quiet room.
"Silence is boring," Gareth said, standing up. He walked over to Norvin, spinning the knife in his fingers. "Maybe I should take a finger? Or perhaps an eye? Afterall slaves don't need depth perception to dig ditches."
Gareth grabbed Norvin's chin, forcing his head up.
"I will leave a few fingers for you to dig your own grave."
The torchlight flickered, illuminating Gareth's face clearly. The sharp jawline. The cold, dead eyes. The small scar above his left eyebrow.
"You are just an insect," Gareth sneered, looking down his nose at the boy. "Slaves like you are meant to rot in the ground, licking the sand. You stink of the pigsty. You are nothing but cattle."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a cold whisper.
"In this world, only those with wealth and power stand above the rest. I am wasting my time on filth like you. So go on... scream. Entertain me."
Time seemed to freeze for Norvin.
The dungeon walls vanished. In his mind, he was back in the mud, weeks ago. He saw the burning village. He heard the screams. He saw his mother and father falling. And standing over them, laughing as he wiped blood from his blade, was a knight.
The realization hit Norvin like a physical blow. The rage didn't build; it exploded.
"You were there," Norvin whispered.
Gareth tilted his head. "Hmm?"
"You are one of them! One of the three bastards!" Norvin roared. His voice changed. It wasn't the voice of a scared boy anymore. It was deep, guttural, vibrating with a raw, primal power.
"I remember!" Norvin shouted, his eyes wide with madness. "You bastard! You were there! You killed them!"
Gareth stepped back, startled by the sudden outburst. "I kill a lot of people, boy. You'll have to be more specific."
"My parents!" Norvin screamed. "Why?! Why did you kill them?! The other man with you, he beheaded my mother, stabbed my father in the heart, cut my grandfather in two!"
Gareth shrugged, a gesture of pure indifference. "Orders. Or maybe I was bored. Does it matter? Cattle are born to be slaughtered. You peasants should consider yourselves lucky. The most luxurious thing to ever touch your skin was the refined steel of a Knight's blade. To be carved apart by such exquisite metal... consider it a parting gift."
Something inside Norvin snapped.
Norvin had no Awen. He couldn't cast spells. But the cursed blood inside him boiled.
"I will kill you all, tell me….who was the other man? " Norvin growled. "Even if I have to turn the mountains upside down... even if I have to drain the sea... I will kill you and I will find him, who killed my parents and the third bastard too!"
CREAK.
Gareth's eyes widened.
The heavy iron shackles holding Norvin's wrists were groaning. The metal began to warp.