The impact was not a clash of metal; it was the sound of a mountain cracking.

  Haldor’s lance struck Gorak’s raised hammer with enough force to shatter the ash wood into a thousand splinters. The shockwave tore through Haldor’s arm, reigniting the injury in his shoulder with blinding white agony, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

  Anvil, his massive warhorse, slammed into Gorak’s chest. A normal man would have been trampled into paste. Gorak was not a normal man.

  The Bronze Warrior roared, planting his feet in the frozen mud. His aura flared—a heavy, suffocating pressure that smelled of ozone and hot copper. He caught the horse’s momentum with his shoulder, sliding backward three feet, digging furrows in the earth, but he did not fall.

  Instead, Gorak swung.

  The massive warhammer, glowing with amber light, swept up in a brutal arc. It caught Anvil under the jaw. There was a sickening crunch, and the thousand-pound beast was lifted off its hooves and thrown sideways like a ragdoll.

  Haldor was tossed clear, hitting the snow hard. He rolled, years of instinct taking over, and scrambled to his feet just as Anvil crashed to the ground, thrashing in its death throes.

  "Is that it?" Gorak laughed. His voice was deep, vibrating in Haldor’s chest. "A stick and a pony? That is the best Blackwood has?"

  Haldor drew his longsword. It felt light, too light, against the monster standing before him. Gorak was a tower of muscle and fur, his skin scarred from a hundred mountain brawls. The Bronze Battleforce surrounding him wasn’t just a light; it was armor. It rippled over his skin, hardening it to the density of iron.

  "I am Ser Haldor Kragmar, of Blackwood," the old knight spat, circling to the left. "And I am enough."

  "Then die, old man."

  Gorak charged. He didn't run; he thundered. The hammer came down in an overhead smash that would have split a boulder.

  Haldor didn't try to block. He knew his steel blade would snap like a twig against that Bronze-infused weapon. Instead, he sidestepped, moving with a speed born of desperation. The hammer slammed into the ground where he had stood a heartbeat before, exploding a crater of mud and ice.

  Haldor lunged, driving his sword toward Gorak’s exposed armpit. The tip struck—but instead of piercing flesh, it skidded off the amber aura with a shower of sparks.

  Too hard, Haldor thought, panic cold in his gut. His Battleforce is too thick. I can’t cut him.

  Gorak backhanded him. It was a casual blow, barely a strike, but the Bronze force behind it hit Haldor like a falling log. The knight was thrown ten feet, crashing into the side of a supply wagon. His vision swam. He tasted blood.

  "Pathetic," Gorak sneered, ripping his hammer from the earth. "Your walls are crumbling. Your men are dying. And you are nothing."

  Twenty yards away, the snow was turning red.

  Tormund was a whirlwind of violence. His Grey Steel aura was jagged and wild, matching the roar that tore from his throat. He had intercepted three of the Stone Eater guards, huge men with stone axes and eyes full of hate.

  "Come on!" Tormund screamed, parrying a blow that would have taken his head off. He stepped inside the guard’s reach and drove his heavy pommel into the man’s face, shattering his nose. "Is that all you have? My grandmother hits harder!"

  But there were too many. As Tormund dropped one, two more stepped in.

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  "Marcus! Flank left!" Tormund shouted, ducking under a swinging axe.

  Marcus was trying. The boy was terrified, his face pale as milk, but he held his ground. He was fighting two men at once, frantically blocking with his shield. His sword arm was shaking, but he kept thrusting, kept moving.

  "I... I can’t!" Marcus yelled, his voice cracking. A heavy club slammed into his shield, numbing his arm. "They’re too strong!"

  "Hold them!" Tormund roared, hacking deep into a Stone Eater’s thigh. "Just hold them!"

  On the other side of the melee, Karl was fighting in a cold silence. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t taunting. He was simply killing.

  He had abandoned his shield. He held his sword in two hands, moving with a fluid, lethal grace. He ducked a clumsy swing from a bearded giant, spun, and drove his blade through the man’s leather armor, piercing the kidney.

  The man fell, screaming. Karl didn't watch him die. He was already moving to the next one.

  One for Father, Karl thought, dodging a spear thrust. One for the wagon train.

  But even Karl’s fury had limits. The guards were elites, the personal retinue of a chieftain’s brother. They were stronger, tougher, and more experienced than the southern boys.

  Karl took a glancing blow to the helmet that made his knees buckle. Marcus was driven to his knees, his shield splintering under repeated blows. Tormund was bleeding from a cut above his eye, blinded on one side, swinging wildly to keep the circle of enemies at bay.

  They were losing.

  Haldor pulled himself up using the wagon wheel. His ribs screamed in protest. Every breath was a knife in his chest.

  Gorak was walking toward him, spinning the hammer in one hand. The arrogance was palpable. He wasn't in a rush. He wanted to savor this.

  "You southerners," Gorak grunted. "You hide behind walls. You hide behind books. You have forgotten what iron feels like."

  Haldor spat a glob of blood onto the white snow. "And you... you mistake brutality for strength."

  He focused. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, reaching deep into his core. He wasn't a Bronze warrior. He never would be. He was old, his joints ached, and his aura was a flickering, dying candle compared to Gorak’s bonfire.

  But steel, when tempered, could cut anything.

  Haldor channeled every ounce of his remaining Battleforce into the edge of his sword. The blade didn't glow brightly; it hummed, a high-pitched vibration that made the air shiver.

  Concentrate, he told himself. Not power. Sharpness. Just the edge.

  "One last try?" Gorak laughed, raising the hammer.

  Haldor pushed off the wagon. He didn't scream this time. He exhaled.

  He ducked under the first swing—a massive horizontal cleave that took the top off the wagon behind him.

  He stepped inside Gorak’s guard. The heat of the Bronze aura scorched his face.

  Gorak, surprised by the speed, tried to bring his elbow down to crush Haldor’s skull.

  Haldor twisted, driving his sword upward. He didn't aim for the chest or the head, where the armor and aura were thickest. He aimed for the joint. The gap at the elbow where the mail flexed.

  The hum of the sword rose to a shriek.

  CUT.

  The blade bit. The Bronze aura resisted, sparking and hissing, but Haldor poured his very life force into the steel.

  Snap.

  The aura broke. The sword slid home, slicing through mail, leather, and tendon.

  Gorak bellowed—a sound of shock and pain, not triumph. His massive arm went limp, the hammer falling from his numb fingers to thud heavily into the snow.

  Haldor didn't stop. He pivoted, using his momentum to slam his shoulder into Gorak’s wounded side.

  The giant stumbled. For the first time, the Bronze Warrior looked vulnerable.

  "TORMUND!" Haldor screamed, his voice raw. "NOW!"

  Tormund heard the cry. He didn't look. He trusted.

  He abandoned his defense, taking a shallow cut across his back as he turned away from his own opponents. He saw the gap. He saw the giant stumbling, the hammer on the ground.

  "KARL! MARCUS! ON ME!"

  The three young men surged. They ignored the guards beating at their armor. They ignored the pain. They threw themselves at the commander.

  Gorak, clutching his ruined arm, looked up to see three blades coming for him. His eyes went wide.

  "No!" he roared, trying to summon his aura to push them back.

  But the pain in his arm had broken his concentration. The Bronze light flickered and died.

  Karl got there first. He slid under Gorak’s desperate swing and drove his sword into the giant’s thigh, pinning him to the spot.

  Gorak howled, dropping to one knee.

  Marcus, finding courage in the chaos, slammed his shield into Gorak’s face, stunning him.

  And Tormund... Tormund didn't stab. He swung his greatsword like an executioner's axe.

  "FOR THE BARONY!"

  The blade struck Gorak’s neck. It didn't go all the way through—the Bronze warrior’s bones were dense as stone—but it bit deep. A fountain of dark blood sprayed into the cold air.

  Gorak gurgled, his eyes bulging. He tried to stand, tried to reach for a weapon, but the strength was pouring out of him. He tipped forward, crashing face-first into the mud.

  Silence.

  For a heartbeat, the entire skirmish froze. The Stone Eater guards stared at their fallen lord. The invincible Bronze Warrior. Dead.

  Then, from the castle walls, a horn blew.

  Not a warning. A triumph.