Arrion stood over the cocoon of living roots. The old Vindicator's flinty eyes, stripped of all power and pride, stared up at him, wide with the terror of a trapped animal. There was no plea there, only the stark understanding of a predator who had become prey.
The lessons of Ser Gerrant, the knightly codes of honour and duel, whispered of a fair fight, of a warrior's end. But Arrion heard his mother's voice, clear as spring water over the memory of honey and sage: "Etiquette is a map of another person's expectations. Learn to read it, and you can navigate any room, even one filled with wolves."
This was no room. This was a glade consecrated by blood and violation. This man was no honorable opponent; he was a murderer sent to wipe out a family, a defiler of sacred ground. He was the sharp end of the serpent that had killed Arrion's mother.
Honour was a luxury for the safe. Survival was a trade.
With a final, grinding effort that made the mended bones in his chest shriek in protest, Arrion raised Nightshade. The water-grey blade, stained with the blood of the serpent's servant, caught the moonlight. He did not speak. He offered no last words. He simply drove the point down, through the gap in the roots, into the exposed chest below.
A sharp gasp. A rattle. Then silence.
The deed was done. Not with ceremony, but with necessity. The weight of it, the weight of the night, the weight of his own shattered body, crashed down upon him. His knees buckled. Nightshade slipped from his grasp, sinking point-first into the soft earth beside him as he knelt, head bowed, in the moss and blood before the Verdant King.
He had no strength left for words, for petitions, for thanks. Only the ragged saw of his breath and the trembling of exhaustion.
The colossal stag approached. The ground trembled not with threat, but with presence. It lowered its great head, until the living tapestry of its antlers, thrumming with moss and minute, glowing life, framed Arrion's bowed vision. A warmth, deeper than the sun, radiated from it.
Then, a voice filled his mind. It was not sound, but the impression of sound: the deep, resonant crack of an ancient oak settling, the rush of a subterranean river, the sigh of wind through a million leaves. It was vast, old, and carried the gentle, unbending gravity of the forest itself—a voice of immense, natural authority.
YOU DID NOT FACE HIM IN SINGLE COMBAT.
The statement held no accusation, only a profound, curious observation. The amber eyes, each as large as Arrion's head, studied him.
YOU STRUCK AS THE WASP STINGS. AS THE ROOT BREAKS STONE. WITHOUT THE RITUAL OF CLAW AND ANTLER. WHY?
The question echoed in the silent chambers of his mind. Arrion lifted his head, meeting that ancient gaze, his own grey eyes clouded with pain but clear in intent. He had no mind-voice to answer with, only his own, hoarse whisper, forced through broken ribs.
"He… was not here for a duel," Arrion gasped, each word a labour. "He was here… to erase. To poison. He would have killed my family… burned your forest. Ritual… is for those who can afford the time." He swallowed, tasting blood. "I could not."
The Verdant King was silent for a long moment, the forest itself seeming to hold its breath. The great, amber eyes blinked slowly.
YOU SPEAK AS THE PRACTICAL ONES. THE BADGER. THE HIVE. THE FROST THAT KILLS THE UNPREPARED BUD.
There was a shift in the psychic presence. A sense of… not approval, but recognition. Acknowledgment of a different kind of law.
YOU BROUGHT HIS VIOLENCE TO MY DOOR. YET YOU FOUGHT AS A PART OF THE WOOD. NOT AS A MASTER OF IT, BUT AS A CREATURE WITHIN IT. SURVIVING.
The great head tilted. The warmth around Arrion intensified, seeping deeper into his bruises, steadying his trembling muscles.
YOU ASKED FOR STRENGTH. WISDOM. YOU USED BOTH. NOT THE WISDOM OF THE LONG VIEW, BUT THE WISDOM OF THE PRECISE MOMENT. THE STRENGTH TO BEAR THE CONSEQUENCES.
A single, massive breath, smelling of healing sap and rich loam, washed over him.
GO, WARDEN'S SON. THE FOREST REMEMBERS YOUR BLOOD AND YOUR DEED. THE SERPENT'S NEST WILL STIR. YOU ARE MARKED NOW, BY MORE THAN YOUR ENEMIES.
With that, the presence began to withdraw. The root-beast gave a final, ground-shaking grumble and turned, dissolving back into the trees from whence it came. The Verdant King took a step back, its form beginning to blur at the edges, merging with the shadows of the standing stones.
GUARD YOUR DEN.
Then, it was gone. The glade was empty, save for the dead, the entombed old man, the shattered stones, the felled oak, and a kneeling giant, clinging to consciousness beside a sword named Nightshade, marked by a King and hunted by a serpent. The battle was over. The war had just changed shape.