The storm of the battle raged unchecked, but within its endless noise a strange gravity pulled two men together, as if the chaos itself bent around them.
Ryon had not sought him. The scarred northern commander had not called his name. Yet in the churn of steel and screams, in the endless press of bodies and dust, their eyes met across a narrow gulf of corpses and broken spears.
And in that instant, both knew.
The storm belonged to them.
The scarred man—broad-shouldered, his beard matted with blood, his face torn by an old wound that twisted his left eye into a permanent scowl—lifted his spear high. His voice cut through the din, not loud, but sharp enough to carve meaning from madness.
"You."
No title, no name, just a single word that carried weight like iron.
