The storm of battle pressed from all sides, a choking, crushing thing of steel and fire. The northern tide surged, the southern line groaned, and the air burned with the sound of a thousand clashes. Ryon waded through it like a man possessed, his blade an extension of his fury, every strike carving a path through soldiers who were not his true enemy. He fought not for numbers now, not for strategy or line, but for one single face—the scarred commander who had vanished into the sea of war.
Every heartbeat hammered with the echo of their unfinished duel. His ribs ached, his muscles screamed, his tunic was soaked through with his own blood—but still he pressed forward, eyes hunting, teeth bared.
Then, like lightning in the storm, he saw him.
