The air was a living furnace, burning with screams, sparks, and the iron tang of spilled blood. The clash of two armies blurred into one vast, suffocating roar—a tide that battered the ears, rattled the bones, and made the ground quake as though the earth itself was writhing under the weight of so much rage. Yet within that endless chaos, a narrower storm carved its path—Ryon and the scarred commander, bound in a duel that devoured all else.
The scarred man's blade, broad and vicious, swept down in arcs that seemed to tear the world in half. His breath was ragged, but his eyes glowed with the kind of fury that made him relentless. Ryon's arms ached with every parry, his wrists singing with pain as sparks flew, yet something deeper kept him upright—the fire of the South, the oath of Ash, the memory of every face that had fallen to northern cruelty.
Steel rang out like a funeral bell, again and again.
The commander snarled through gritted teeth, voice ragged but venomous.
