His laugh is the sound of grinding stone and breaking bones. “We shall see.”
Then we’re moving, and the world explodes into violence.
Oryx’s cleaver comes around in a horizontal arc that would shatter castle walls, but I duck under the massive blade. My return stroke targets his knee, seeking the gap between armor plates.
He twists aside with speed that shouldn’t be possible for his size, my sword scoring across his thigh instead of finding the joint. First blood to me, but barely.
The cleaver reverses direction and comes down like a falling mountain. I catch it on my crossguard, the impact driving me to one knee and sending shockwaves up my arms. Stone cracks beneath my feet from the force.
We break apart and circle each other warily, each testing the other’s reflexes and reach. He has the advantage in size and raw strength, but my blade is faster, more precise.
For long minutes, we trade probing strikes—testing defenses, seeking openings, learning the rhythm of our opponent’smovements. Each exchange teaches us more about what we’re facing.
Oryx fights with the brutal efficiency of a man who’s never needed to rely on technique. His massive strength turns every blow into a potential killing stroke, his reach forcing me to stay mobile or risk being crushed.
But I’ve spent decades learning to fight smarter opponents with better equipment. Speed and precision can overcome raw power if applied correctly.
A feint toward his head draws the cleaver up in a rising block, giving me the opening I need. My blade slips under his guard and scores across his ribs, finding the gap where chest plate meets arm guard.
He staggers back, dark blood flowing down his side. But instead of weakening him, the wound seems to enrage him further.
“She screamed your name when my warriors came for her,” Oryx snarls as he presses his attack. “Begged them to let her live so she could see you one more time.”
Lies. I know they’re lies, but they still find their mark. The image of Zoraya in danger, calling for help that never came, sends ice into my veins.
The momentary distraction costs me. Oryx’s cleaver slams into my ribs with crushing force, crumpling the armor plates and driving the air from my lungs. I stumble backward, tasting blood.
He presses his advantage with brutal efficiency, the massive weapon moving in patterns that blur the line between technique and raw destruction. I give ground step by step, my parries growing more frantic as the weight of his attacks begins to tell.
A devastating overhead strike drives me to my knees again, my sword barely deflecting the cleaver away from my skull. Theblade carves a chunk from the stone beside my head, sending chips flying across the courtyard.
“You fight for a dying cause, Iron Warlord,” Oryx snarls, raining blows down on my guard. “Your fortress falls. Your warriors die. Your human burns on my altar. All because you were too weak to make the hard choice.”
Each word lands with physical weight, but underneath the taunts, I hear frustration. The annoyance of a predator who expected easier prey.
I’m still fighting. Still standing. Still refusing to yield despite the punishment I’ve taken.
That has to be eating at him.
My ribs scream with every breath. My left arm hangs nearly useless at my side. Blood seeps from a dozen minor wounds, warm and sticky beneath the battered armor.
But I risk a glance toward the War Tower, and what I see there changes everything.
Zoraya hasn’t retreated to safety as any sane person would. She stands at the banner, a small figure silhouetted against the blazing silver light, hands pressed to the standard’s fabric as she pours more of herself into our defenses.
But she’s also watching the battle. Watching me. Her gray eyes bright with fierce pride and absolute faith that I’ll prevail.
She believes in me. Not the Iron Warlord, not the legend built on violence and conquest, but me. The man who held her in firelight and whispered that she was everything he never knew he needed.
Power floods my limbs—not magical force, but the deeper strength that comes from having a reason to endure. The knowledge that I fight for more than just survival now. I fight for the future we’ve claimed together, for the woman who chose to stand with me when every rational argument said to run.
I explode upward from my knees with a roar that shakes birds from the towers and sends echoes racing around the valley. The sound is primal, feral, the battle cry of a man who has found his purpose.
My counterattack catches Oryx off guard, my blade moving with speed that blurs the line between human capability and divine intervention. I drive him backward, step-by-step, each stroke precise and economical but backed by a will that goes beyond training.
This is what I was made for. This is why I survived every battle, every betrayal, every loss that shaped me into what I am. Not to die forgotten on a distant battlefield, but to stand here, now, protecting what matters most.
The cleaver comes around in a sweep, once again, aimed at my head, but I duck under it and drive my pommel into Oryx’s solar plexus. He doubles over, breath exploding from his lungs, and I follow up with a knee strike that cracks his jaw.
