The silence that fell over the field was thick and heavy, broken only by the cold mountain wind. The fate of the siege, the fortress, and the House of Vexin now rested on a single duel. Damon faced the King's champion, a hulking brute of a man whose sneer was as sharp as the great axe he held in his hands. The champion was a tower of muscle and plate armor, a man who fought with raw, unthinking power.
Damon knew this was not a duel of honor but a butcher's bargain. He did not charge with a knight's flourish but with a warrior's cold, calculating purpose. The champion, relying on his brute strength, swung his great axe with a thunderous roar. The force of the blow was immense, a sound that cracked the air itself. Damon, a man of great strength himself, met the blow with his shield, and the impact sent a tremor up his arm, but he held his ground.
The duel was a brutal dance of steel and survival. The champion fought with a savage, reckless power, his axe a blur of metal and death. Damon, a man who had fought in a hundred duels, was a master of his craft. He dodged, he parried, and he looked for an opening, knowing that a single mistake would be his last. The champion, infuriated by Damon's refusal to fall, swung his axe in a wide, sweeping arc. Damon, too slow to dodge, met the blow with his shield, but the force of the impact was so great that the shield shattered, and a shard of metal slammed into his sword hand, tearing into the flesh and bone.
A gasp went up from the walls, but Damon did not falter. His sword hand, now useless and bleeding, hung limp at his side. The champion, seeing his chance, roared in triumph and raised his axe for the final blow. But Damon, a man of the mountains, was not a man to be so easily defeated. With a snarl of pure defiance, he switched his sword to his left hand, his grip clumsy but firm. He sidestepped the champion's swing, and with a swift, brutal movement, he brought his sword up and around, a sudden, unexpected slash that found its mark.
The champion's head, separated from his body in a single, clean strike, fell to the dirt with a sickening thud. The giant's body stood for a moment, a headless statue of steel and muscle, before collapsing to the ground with a final, echoing crash.
A roar went up from the Vexin walls, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. The King's Guard, however, was silent, a thousand men standing in stunned disbelief at the death of their champion.
General Valerius, a man whose face had been a mask of cold contempt, now had his mask shattered. He looked at the body of his champion, and a hot, terrible rage filled his eyes. The duel had not broken the Vexin; it had only made them stronger. His carefully calculated plan of wearing them down had failed. He would not wait for another day. He would not wait for another champion. He would end this now, with fire and steel.
He drew his own sword, a blade of cold, polished steel, and pointed it at the fortress. "Charge!" he roared, his voice a sound of pure, unbridled fury. "Charge! Break their walls! Break them!"
Valerius, casting aside all caution and strategy, spurred his horse forward, leading the charge himself. The King's Guard, enraged and humiliated, followed him with a bloodthirsty howl. Damon, a man with a shattered hand and a bleeding heart, watched as the wave of steel, led by a man of pure hatred, came rushing toward him. The two armies were now on a collision course, and the final battle for the Vexin fortress was about to begin.