The air inside Hollow Pass was taut, like the stretched string of a bow ready to snap. Soldiers—north and south alike—held their breaths, eyes fixed not on their banners, not on their captains, but on the two men who stood at the center of the battlefield.
Ryon.
Alric.
The clash that loomed between them was not merely a duel of blades; it was the meeting of two hungers, two fires, two truths forged in war and hardened by loss.
The first strike came slow.
Ryon moved like a storm gathering, blade arcing downward with a molten sweep that trailed fire in its wake. The Wrath-Knight met it with both hands on his greatsword, steel slamming against steel. The impact cracked through the Pass like a hammer against stone, and men flinched as if their own skulls had been struck.
They parted.
