The morning sun had not yet climbed the jagged backs of the distant mountains. It lingered somewhere beyond them, reluctant, as though even the light hesitated to look upon what Vaga had become.

  Tyrus stood alone in the courtyard where the duel would soon be held, drawing in the cold air of dawn. It burned his lungs. The night’s ash still hung thick in the air, bitter and metallic, drifting down like black snow from the ruins of the city. Embers glided through the smoke, dull orange stars refusing to die.

  Beyond the courtyard walls, Vaga lay broken open.

  Bodies littered the streets: some stripped bare, some bloated and blue, others slumped where drink or steel had finally claimed them. Starving dogs moved cautiously between the dead, ribs showing, teeth snapping when a rival came too close. Crows perched along rooftops and broken beams, their heads tilting as they judged what flesh to claim first. Women turned bodies over with shaking hands, praying not to see a familiar face, already knowing they would.

  This was the world that awaited legend.

  Small crowds began to gather at the edges of the courtyard. Soldiers. Survivors. Men who wanted a story they could tell themselves later, something that made the night worth enduring.

  “There he is!”

  Tyrus turned at the sound of the voice. Koppi pushed through the forming crowd, followed by the rest of the young Evokians. They moved quickly, eyes bright despite the smoke and ruin, and without hesitation, each of them dropped to one knee before him.

  “Our eternal gratitude, West,” Koppi said, bowing his head low. His voice trembled with reverence, not fear.

  “We never doubted you,” Catto added, thumping his fist against his chest.

  Tyrus exhaled slowly and waved a hand, uncomfortable with the sight. “Up,” he said. “All of you.”

  They obeyed at once.

  “Where is Omni?” Tyrus asked, scanning the crowd.

  “I am here.”

  Omni stepped forward as if he had always been standing there, his presence calm against the restless air of the courtyard. Before Tyrus could speak, Omni closed the distance and pulled him into a brief, unexpected embrace.

  “Thank you,” Omni said quietly.

  He placed a steady hand against Tyrus’s back and guided him forward, the two of them walking side by side as the crowd parted.

  “So now we find ourselves here,” Omni said.

  “Whatever talk of vision or promise you have,” Tyrus replied sharply, not looking at him, “save it. I’ve heard enough of your myths from Dresdi.”

  Omni did not bristle. He only nodded.

  “Dresdi has kept you alive,” he said, “and not out of mercy. He keeps you because you make him doubt. He has seen his vision, and now he wants you to see it as well… To doubt yourself the way he doubts himself.”

  “Dresdi is a madman,” Tyrus said. “The jungles of the Merald twisted his mind and broke his body.” He glanced at Omni. “I’ve seen it before. The kurr.”

  Omni slowed. “The kurr?” His brow furrowed. “Are you certain?”

  “Parasites,” Tyrus said flatly. “Born from eating the flesh of men. They hollow you out before they kill you.” His jaw tightened. “They are eating him now.”

  Omni’s expression darkened. The disease was old. Only spoken of in warnings and half-forgotten histories. The sickness of the cannibal lords of the south. Omni had never seen it with his own eyes.

  “He is already dead,” Tyrus continued, a thin smile breaking across his face. “Today I will show the world there is no divinity or providence that guides him.”

  Omni stopped him with a hand to the arm.

  “Tyrus,” he said carefully, “you must understand what you are fighting against today.”

  Tyrus turned to him.

  “Not who,” Omni finished. “You are not fighting a man. You are fighting prophecy.”

  “And I will shatter that prophecy,” Tyrus declared.

  Omni seized him by the shoulders before he could step away. “We must think about this.”

  “There is nothing to think about,” Tyrus snapped. “Today I will have my revenge. I will avenge every Ura who fell to that man’s blade. I will show his soldiers that their Supreme General is only a man… And a weak one at that!” He turned his back to Omni. “I will not kill him quickly. I will take him apart slowly, in front of his men, his people, and the ghosts he’s left behind.”

  Omni’s grip tightened. “Listen to yourself, Tyrus. We must not fall into the same bloodlust that drives them. Are we not better than the Evokians?” His voice softened. “Restraint is not for our enemies. It is for ourselves.”

  “You want me to show Dresdi restraint?” Tyrus turned, incredulous.

  “I want you to understand the cost of tearing down the illusion he has built,” Omni pleaded. “Dresdi granted you this moment because of faith…his faith, and his men’s. The prophecy means nothing to you, but it is everything to them.” Omni lowered his voice. “If you want his word to live past his death, then his legend must live with it.”

  Tyrus stilled.

  The thought gnawed at him. Dresdi’s promise was the only thing standing between survival and slaughter. And promises, he now understood, only held power so long as men believed the one who made them was more than mortal.

  Around them, the crowd had thickened. Dresdi’s soldiers filled the outer ring of the courtyard, armor dented and stained, eyes bright with anticipation. Pockets of civilians clung to the edges, silent and pale, watched over by Evokian guards who looked unsure which side they stood on anymore.

  Somewhere in that mass, a familiar presence lingered.

  Omni felt it before he saw it: a pull at the edge of his awareness, like a thread tugging at memory. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, scanning faces, cloaks, movement. Nothing certain. Just a feeling.

  Then the drums began.

  Low at first. Measured. Heavy. Each beat rolled through the stones of Vaga, drawing closer with deliberate certainty. Dresdi was coming.

  Tyrus’s expression emptied. Whatever storm had been brewing behind his eyes vanished, sealed away behind something stiffer. Omni could not tell if what remained was resolve, doubt, or something far more dangerous.

  Tyrus gave a single nod and stepped away.

  He took his place in the courtyard and waited.

  Omni lingered behind, lowering his head as he began a quiet prayer.

  When we cannot see the vision, we must pray.

  A hand clapped his back.

  “Such a lack of concern for your favorite servant.”

  Omni startled and turned.

  West stood there, half-smiling beneath a soot-stained cloak, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion clinging to him. He looked bonier. Harder. But unmistakably alive.

  “West!” Omni breathed, relief breaking through at last. He pulled him into a tight embrace. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  “I’m glad I’m okay, as well, Master Omni,” West said, allowing the hug before easing back. He glanced toward the courtyard. “So it’s really happening. Dresdi and Tyrus.”

  “Yes,” Omni said. “It would seem Dresdi has seen something in him.” He hesitated. “Perhaps the same vision.”

  West snorted quietly.

  “That’s not the kind of man you want to be sharing visions with.”

  And as the drums thundered closer, everyone in the crowd held its breath with anticipation.

  Dresdi emerged into the courtyard clad once more in full armor and helm, a moving monument of red and gold. He was flanked by a procession of his soldiers, their drums booming in slow, thunderous rhythm, the same haunting melody Tyrus had endured the night before rising again from their throats. One by one, the soldiers in attendance joined the chant until the sound swelled and rolled across Vaga like a living thing, seeping into stone and bone alike.

  Rombo strode confidently to the center of the yard, arms spread wide.

  “Welcome, all, and a blessed first day of the Fourth Sun to you!” he bellowed. The crowd gradually quieted, the humming fading into an eager murmur. “What better way to honor the Divine Giver than with a sacrifice of blood?”

  Cheers erupted.

  “Our Supreme General, Commander of the Southern Forces, ordained by our Lord and Master, the Holy Evok, keeper of Evokia and her domains…has seen fit to bless us with a duel!” Rombo turned and thrust an arm toward Tyrus. “Between himself and the last true Ura… West!”

  Boos rained down, sharp and venomous.

  A guard broke from Dresdi’s line and hurried toward Tyrus, carrying a long wooden box. He dropped to one knee and opened it. Inside rested a plain, serviceable sword: clean, balanced, and unremarkable.

  Across the yard, another box was opened for Dresdi.

  The Supreme General reached in and drew forth the Red Dragon.

  The crowd exploded.

  Men leapt and screamed, pounding fists against armor, some dropping to their knees in awe. Dresdi rolled his shoulders once, then casually swung the blade backward toward the guard who had presented it.

  There was no hesitation.

  Steel passed through flesh and bone in a single motion. The guard came apart mid-step, blood erupting in a violent arc that splashed across Dresdi’s armor and the blade itself. Dresdi lifted the Red Dragon high, crimson dripping from its edge, and the courtyard descended into frenzied adulation.

  Tyrus did not look away.

  He lifted his own sword and tested it with a single swing; clean, controlled. The blade shaved through the guard standing before him, slicing cleanly through beard and skin, stopping just shy of killing. A thin red line bloomed at the man’s neck.

  “This will do,” Tyrus said calmly.

  The guard staggered back, pale and shaken, and retreated into the ranks.

  Tyrus rested the flat of the blade against his forehead and closed his eyes, whispering the old words. The prayer every Ura warrior spoke before battle, asking the blade to witness and to remember. Across from him, Dresdi drove the Red Dragon point-first into the earth and dropped to his knees, pressing his blood-smeared hands against the hilt as his men mirrored the act.

  Two rituals. Two faiths. One lie shared by both sides.

  From the edge of the crowd, Omni and West watched in silence.

  “They’re not going to let him walk away,” West muttered, eyes sweeping the mass of soldiers. “No matter what happens...”

  Omni said nothing. His gaze was fixed on Tyrus. On the stillness of him. On the way he stood not like a man preparing to kill, but like one preparing to convince.

  The prayers ended.

  Tyrus and Dresdi stepped forward.

  They raised their swords and allowed iron to touch, the sharp clang ringing out across the courtyard like a struck bell.

  The duel began.

  Dresdi struck first.

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  The Red Dragon crashed down with terrifying force, its weight traveling through Tyrus’s arms and rattling his bones. The impact sent a jolt through him, and for the first time, he wondered if the blade he carried would survive repeated blows.

  Dresdi pressed again.

  Tyrus slipped aside, creating space, sandals sliding on ash-stained stone. He countered with a swift cut, but the blow glanced harmlessly off Dresdi’s armored arm. Dresdi answered immediately, steel screaming as it met steel again.

  Tyrus stepped back, breathing steady, eyes sharp.

  He was no longer fighting a man.

  He was fighting an illusion wrapped in iron, and measuring exactly how much of it needed to remain standing when the dust settled.

  Both men began to circle.   Not hurried. Not cautious. Like predators measuring territory rather than distance.

  Tyrus let his shoulders sag just slightly as he moved, his breath louder than it needed to be. He made no attempt to hide the way his eyes traced Dresdi’s armor; every plate, every hinge, every seam where crimson steel overlapped. To the watching soldiers, it looked like desperation. A man searching for salvation in gaps that did not exist.

  In truth, Tyrus was memorizing.

  Dresdi pressed forward first.

  The Red Dragon came down in a brutal arc. Tyrus raised his sword just in time; steel screamed as the impact nearly wrenched the blade from his hands. The force drove him back a step, then another. A ripple of approval moved through the Evokian ranks.

  Dresdi swung again.

  This time Tyrus retreated fully, sandals scraping stone, the blow passing inches from his chest. Dresdi did not give him space. He surged forward and drove his shoulder into Tyrus’ sternum.

  The world tipped.

  Tyrus hit the ground hard, breath tearing from his lungs. He rolled instinctively, coming up just in time to barely lift his blade and catch the third strike. The impact rang through his arms, his palms burning as he tightened his grip, knuckles whitening around the hilt.

  He stumbled backward, opening distance again. Buying air. Buying time.

  “You underestimated me,” Dresdi said, voice distorted by the helm, thick with satisfaction.

  Tyrus did not answer.   Because Dresdi was right.

  The general was still strong; too strong. Whatever madness rode him, whatever poison burned through his veins, it had not yet hollowed out the body beneath. And the Evokian steel… it hid everything. No tells. No openings. No mercy.

  Tyrus scanned the armor again, faster now.   It has to come off.

  They reset, stepping toward one another with ritual precision. Their blades touched; just once, a ceremonial acknowledgement marking the beginning of a second round. The ancient way of the southern river duels. Respect before blood.

  Tyrus broke the stand off..

  He went low, driving his sword hard into Dresdi’s side. The strike would have ended any unarmored man. Instead, the blade screeched and skidded, leaving nothing but a shallow scar in the crimson plate.

  Tyrus spun and struck again. And again; each blow ringing hollow, each one feeding the illusion of effort without result.

  Dresdi answered with a sweeping cut.

  Tyrus rolled back, then surged up in the same motion, driving his heel into Dresdi’s chest. The general staggered.

  Before the crowd could process it, Tyrus rushed him and tackled him to the ground. The impact rattled through Tyrus’ bones as he slammed atop the steel armor. He grimaced but moved fast, fingers finding the clasp at Dresdi’s side. He tore it loose.

  Pain exploded across his jaw.

  The steel gauntlet caught him full, the blow cracking through his skull like thunder. Light burst behind his eyes. He was flung aside, crashing to the stone, hands clawing at his face as blood filled his mouth.

  Dresdi rose slowly.

  “You want me, Ura?” he roared.

  He unclipped the second clasp and let the armor fall away in pieces, heavy plates crashing to the ground.   Then he removed his helm.

  His face was painted in the war-mask of the Elba; bold lines, ritual marks, eyes burning with zeal and ruin. He raised the Red Dragon high, turning in a slow circle as the crowd erupted.

  Tyrus struggled to his feet.

  His legs felt wrong; distant. His grip on the sword faltered. Blood ran freely from his nose now, each breath ragged and wet. The soldiers saw it. They leaned forward sensing the shift.

  Dresdi advanced, slow and deliberate. A predator savoring the last moments before a kill. Tyrus did not retreat.

  He slipped inside the next strike, stepping closer instead of back, and drove his fist into Dresdi’s jaw. The impact snapped the general’s head aside. Dresdi stumbled.

  Tyrus followed; sword swing, blocked. Kick to the stomach. Dresdi grunted, air leaving him in a harsh burst. Another swing. Another block. Then an uppercut, clean and brutal.

  Dresdi dropped to one knee.   A hush rippled outward.

  He rose again, grinning, blood at the corner of his mouth. He lifted the Red Dragon to reassure his men, to prove invincibility. But Tyrus saw it. The slowing breath. The slight tremor. The armor had been more than protection; it had been a crutch.

  Tyrus stepped back. He let Dresdi breathe. Let him recover. Letting the crowd believe this was still a contest of equals. They met once more in the center and touched blades.

  Then they began to trade strikes; measured, rhythmic. Swing. Block. Swing. Block. The sound of steel rang steady and hypnotic, a dance meant for the audience as much as the gods.

  The soldiers watched, enthralled. Only West felt his unease deepen. Because this no longer looked like a fight. It looked like a story being told.

  “Master… does it seem like Tyrus is no longer trying?” West asked, unease creeping into his voice.    Omni did not answer.

  He stood rigid, eyes locked on the duel, breath swallow; no longer watching as a tactician or priest, but as a believer witnessing revelation. West saw it then, unmistakably. Whatever doubts Omni had carried into Vaga were gone. After this, there would be nothing that could convince him he had not stood in the presence of something divine.

  West’s stomach tightened.   My fate is tied to Tyrus’ rage… and Master Omni’s blindness.  He turned back to the fight.

  Tyrus had shifted fully onto the defensive now, retreating step by measured step as Dresdi pressed him. The general’s strikes had grown sloppier; wider, heavier, but they came with ferocity born of frenzy rather than control.

  Then…   Tyrus let his sword fall…

  It struck the stone with a sharp clang, the hilt sticking upright like a haunting memory of another marker on an unmarked grave on the battlefield. A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd.

  Before Dresdi could react, Tyrus spun inside the Dragon’s arc and seized Dresdi’s wrist, locking it tight. The Red Dragon stalled mid-swing. Tyrus drove his elbow into Dresdi’s face. Once.    The crunch of bone echoed in the still silence of the crowd.  Then again.

  Dresdi’s head snapped sideways, blood spraying from his now broken nose. A third strike shattered his orbital bone, the sound wet and final. Tyrus kicked him hard, sending him stumbling backwards. Dresdi rushed forward again; enraged, blinded by blood and uncoordinated.

  Tyrus reclaimed his sword in one fluid motion and surged forward, driving the blade straight into Dresdi’s chest. The steel pierced flesh, muscle and bone; Tyrus did not stop until the tip burst from Dresdi’s back.   Dresdi collapsed to his knees.

  The crowd erupted. They did not cheer a victor. They cheered violence. More blood. A grander spectacle.

  The Red Dragon slipped from Dresdi’s weakening grasp and fell into the pooling crimson below. Tyrus sank to his knees in front of him, breath heavy, blood streaking his face. “And now you take my blade,” Dresdi gurgled, blood bubbling at his lips. “You take my soul. You take my promise.” His eyes flickered wildly. “And you take… my curse.”

  “I hope you wake to an eternal hell,” Tyrus whispered as he tore the sword free.

  Blood poured from the wound as Dresdi clenched his teeth, trembling. Not in fear, but in something close to relief. With trembling hands, he reached up and smeared his blood across Tyrus’ face.

  “You have become what I feared I was,” Dresdi murmured, never breaking eye contact. Rombo stepped forward from the celebrating mass. He knelt beside Dresdi and drew a slender blade.

  “It is over now, Father,” Rombo said tenderly. “You may rest in the bosom of our mother.” The blade slid across Dresdi’s throat. Rombo kissed his forehead as the last breath escaped him.

  “He was a good man,” Rombo said as he rose.  He lifted the Red Dragon from the blood-soaked stone and turned to Tyrus.

  “I had a deal with him,” Tyrus said evenly. “I assume it will be honored.”

  “As the new Supreme General of this army,” Rombo replied, “I will honor our Father’s word.” He held the Red Dragon out.

  “I invite you to join us. As my second.”

  “And if I refuse?” Tyrus asked.

  Rombo smiled. A sloppy, unsettling thing.

  “You would be breaking my heart.” He pressed the sword closer. “But perhaps destiny will bring us back together.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not let our father down.”

  Tyrus took the Red Dragon.

  Then he turned his back and walked away.

  He crossed the courtyard toward Omni and West, blood-soaked, silent, the weapon of legend resting in his grip.

  Omni said nothing.

  He only stared. Eyes wide, reverent while trembling; as Tyrus emerged from the carnage, carrying a dead man’s sword… and a living man’s myth.

  Tyrus noticed the wonder still burning in Omni’s eyes.

  “This changes nothing,” Tyrus said flatly, blood slipping down his chin as he struggled to steady his breath.

  West tossed him a rag. “You look absolutely disgusting,” he said with a crooked grin. “Maybe wipe that dead man’s blood off your face before you catch his madness.”

  Before Tyrus could respond, a roar rose from the courtyard behind them.

  Rombo had gone to work.

  He knelt beside Dresdi’s corpse and carved him apart with deliberate reverence. Fingers were severed first, then the tongue, the eyes… Anything small enough to be carried, anything sacred enough to be kept. He placed each piece into waiting hands, gifting them to Dresdi’s most loyal men.

  The soldiers accepted the offerings with frightening devotion.

  A fragment of their father.

  A promise made flesh.

  They pressed the pieces to their chests, kissed them, and wept over them. Some swallowed what they were given. Others wrapped the remains in cloth, talismans for the wars yet to come.

  Dresdi had promised them he would never leave. Rombo made sure that vow endured. The three of them watched in silence.

  “Now they belong to Rombo,” Tyrus said quietly, wiping his face, the rag already soaked red. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of the Red Dragon. “What will become of Vaga?”

  “The promise unfolds,” Omni began softly, voice shaking. “It creates and it destroys, for this is the foundation upon which the future is…”

  “Enough of your northern shit,” Tyrus snapped.

  Omni froze.

  “These are people,” Tyrus continued, already turning away. “Not ghosts. Not visions. Not props in whatever twisted fate you’ve decided to see in me.”

  He walked off without another word.

  Omni stood stunned, lips parted, the prayer dying in his throat.

  West, meanwhile, struggled to contain his laughter. He clapped Omni on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t take it personal, Master,” he said. “He’s like this when he’s had a rough morning.”

  West caught up to Tyrus quickly, stepping in beside him as they moved through the ruined streets of Vaga. Behind them, Omni followed at a distance, whispering a fractured prayer. Less for the dead, and more for the living.

  “So,” West said casually, hopping over a burned cart. “You wanna tell me the story? Why didn’t the guards kill you when they caught you? How did you convince Dresdi to do a duel?”

  Tyrus didn’t answer right away.

  Ahead of them, the city bled into wilderness; ash giving way to dirt, stone to tangled green. Evokia Minor waited beyond the ruins, vast and untamed.

  “When we’re far enough from here,” Tyrus said at last, eyes forward, voice low, “I’ll tell you everything.”

  They crossed the boundary without looking back. Behind them, Vaga howled in celebration. Ahead of them, the road waited.