Thunder rolled across the cliffs of Valehold as twilight gave way to storm. The air crackled with tension, charged with the scent of blood and rain. In the castle's great hall, Uthred stood before a map of the valley, his eyes locked on the red pins marking enemy encampments. The Emperor's Hand had struck swiftly, scattering Theron's troops and pushing deep into Uthred's newly reclaimed territory. What should have been a victory had turned into a brutal standoff.
Maera paced behind him. Her face was pale, her sword bloodied from the defense of the lower gate. "We don't have the numbers to hold them off forever."
"We won't need forever," Uthred replied. "Just long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
He looked up. "To kill the Hand."
The Hand—known only by that title—was a ghost in black armor. Some said he was once a prince who had pledged himself to the Emperor in exchange for dark power. Others believed he was not a man at all, but something summoned from the old world. His presence on the field turned tides, not by strategy but by sheer terror.
Jorlan entered, limping from a wound. "The northern wall is broken. We held them with fire traps, but they'll regroup by nightfall."
Uthred's hand clenched. "Then we face them before the dark comes."
Maera stared. "You mean to challenge him directly?"
"I have to. He won't stop. And if I fall—"
"You won't," she cut in.
Outside Valehold, the storm thickened. The Emperor's Hand stood at the front of his battalion, black cape rippling like a shadow torn from the earth. His helm bore no face, only a reflection of flame and steel. Around him, his elite—The Hollow Circle—waited in silence.
A horn sounded. Uthred emerged, alone.
His armor gleamed with silver and ash, the Lion's sigil newly etched across his chestplate. He held his father's sword in both hands.
"I am Uthred, son of Aedric. Heir to Eldhame. If you are what they say, meet me here. Man to man."
The Hand stepped forward. The army behind him stayed rooted.
Maera and the others watched from the ramparts. Her heart beat like a drum in her ears.
The rain fell harder.
Steel clashed.
Their duel echoed like war itself. Uthred's style, shaped by Jorlan's discipline and Maera's ferocity, met the Hand's brutal, otherworldly force. Every blow tested his strength. Every dodge pushed him to the edge.
The Hand struck with inhuman speed. Uthred blocked with desperate grace. Sparks flew. Thunder cracked. Mud churned beneath them.
The world narrowed to a ring of steel and pain.
Then the Hand spoke.
"Your blood reeks of ghosts, boy."
Uthred narrowed his eyes. "So does your breath."
He drove his sword under the Hand's guard—scraping black armor, finding flesh. The Hand staggered, a growl rising in his throat.
He unleashed a flurry of slashes. Uthred bent, twisted, parried—until the blade cut across his shoulder. He screamed.
Maera moved to climb down, but Jorlan stopped her. "He asked for this. Let him finish it."
Blood poured from Uthred's side. He dropped to one knee.
The Hand raised his sword for the final strike—
—and Uthred rolled, dragging his father's blade across the Hand's thigh. The giant fell.
Uthred stood, panting. Sword at the ready.
"You are no man," he said. "You are a wound. And I will heal my kingdom of you."
He drove the sword through the Hand's chest.
The black helm cracked.
A pale, withered face lay beneath it—older than time. The Hand's final breath came like a hiss of dust.
The army behind him faltered.
Uthred raised his sword. "Fall back. Or join him."
They fled.
Later, in the quiet aftermath, Maera stitched his wounds by firelight. Jorlan sharpened his blade silently. Eamon arrived with news—the Emperor was furious. More importantly, the people of Eldhame now believed: Uthred had killed the Emperor's Hand.
He was no longer a shadow prince.
He was a storm.