Volume 4: Nuisance of Fate
Side Story 4: The Wall of Iron-Port (The Obsidian Brag)
The Butcher's Order
Before the Asher Hawks, there was the Iron-Port City Guard, and at its center was a mountain that refused to move.
Standing seven feet tall, Brag was a man of quiet gravity. His strength was a thing of myth; he once righted a capsized merchant galleon with his bare shoulders, the wood groaning less than his own steady breath. But he was humble, preferring the smoke of the barracks kitchen to the gold of the noble galas.
The turning point came when Lord Valerius, a preening noble obsessed with "purity," ordered the destruction of the Mud-Flats. Thousands of laborers lived there. Valerius saw them as clutter.
"Burn it," Valerius commanded, waving a silk handkerchief. "The smoke will clear the air of the rabble and make room for my port."
Brag didn't argue. He didn't shout. He simply walked to the center of the lone bridge connecting the city to the slums. He planted his massive, black-iron shield—a slab of metal that three men couldn't lift—into the cobblestones and crossed his arms.
"The Guard protects the people," Brag's voice rumbled like an approaching earthquake. His eyes flared with a deep, earthy amber. "You want to burn them? You start with me. NO ONE SHALL PASS!"
The knights at the front of the line froze. They remembered the legend.
Years ago, a younger Brag had crossed blades—or rather, shields—with Sir Marcellus of the Greys during a grand tournament. For three hours, the legendary Iron Knight had rained down blows that could shatter castle walls, yet Brag hadn't moved an inch. It was a total standstill, a collision of two "unbreakable" forces that only ended when Lord Edric Grey stepped onto the field to intervene, fearing the two would accidentally level the stadium.
"Man, I'm not fighting that guy. I'm out!" one knight shouted, dropping his spear and running.
But the rest, spurred by Valerius's screams, charged.
For six grueling hours, waves of mercenaries and corrupt guards hammered at the Titan. They scorched his shield with fire and pelted him with thousands of bolts. Brag never struck back. He simply stood, absorbing the impact into the earth itself. By dawn, the bridge was littered with broken weapons. Valerius retreated in shame, and the Mud-Flats remained standing.
Brag walked away that morning, leaving his badge in the blood-stained dust. He wasn't a soldier anymore. He was a wall looking for a home.
Brag eventually found that home in the Asher Hawks. To the party, he was the "Uncle"—the one who could carry three men's gear across a desert and still produce a venison stew that tasted like heaven.
But there were things even Tessa didn't know.
Once, during a heavy sparring session, Rowan's Jawbreaker MK-II had landed a perfect, high-pressure blow directly against Brag's bare forearm. The iron of the gauntlet didn't just dent; it shattered into a hundred pieces.
Rowan stared, horrified, thinking he'd broken the big man's arm. But as the smoke cleared, he saw it. For a split second, Brag's skin hadn't been flesh. It had been unpolished obsidian, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic thrum—the heartbeat of the world.
"You've got a heavy hand, kid," Brag said with a wink, quickly pulling his sleeve down. "But don't go telling the mages about my 'thick skin.' They already think I'm enough of a fossil."
"Yeah, right. Got it, big guy," Rolien replied. The two sat on a fallen tree, the tension breaking into a shared, rough laughter that echoed through the woods.
Years later, in the Iron-Leaf Forest, Brag was the first to realize Rowan's true nature.
While Ren saw the void and Tessa saw the potential, Brag felt the vibration. When Rowan punched the Earth-Drake, the ground beneath Brag's boots had hummed in a way he hadn't felt since his fight with Marcellus. It was the sound of something artificial reaching for the power of the primordial.
"He's got the spirit of a forge," Brag thought, watching Rowan snap a new piston into his arm. "He builds the strength the world tried to take from him."
When Rowan officially joined, Brag didn't give him a speech. He handed him a bowl of spicy stew and a whetstone.
"Eat up, Black Wraith," Brag grunted, his massive hand dwarfing Rowan's shoulder. "If you're going to hit that hard, you're going to need the calories. And tomorrow? We spar. I want to see if that tin arm of yours can handle a real mountain."
To be Continued..