Morning light bathed the horizon in pale gold as Alvinnué and Brynda continued along the dirt road toward Zorim Fields. The crisp air carried the scent of earth and faint smoke.
In the distance, the sight of an army encampment unfurled before them—rows of tents in faded browns and greens, supply wagons clustered like idle beasts, and campfires releasing wisps of smoke into the morning sky.
Soldiers moved with purpose between tents and along the perimeter, armor glinting under the soft sunlight. The clatter of weapons, the murmur of commands, and the sound of hooves filled the air with life and discipline.
As they drew nearer, the wind shifted, revealing a tall standard planted firmly at the heart of the camp. The Banner of the Geldanos Army rippled proudly in the breeze: a golden Lion’s Head, its eyes fierce and proud, flanked by two upright swords, with a blue Shield set behind them, representing vigilance, strength, and unity.
Alvinnué narrowed his eyes. “Geldanos,” he said quietly. “We’re close.”
Brynda nodded, eyes scanning the organized chaos of the army with reverence. “They’re getting ready.”
The camp loomed ahead. Whatever lay within, it was clear—they were stepping into the heart of a kingdom preparing for war.
Alvinnué and Brynda passed the first line of wagons and stepped into the heart of the Geldanos camp.
A few soldiers nodded in greeting as they walked by—wary but courteous. Others slowed their steps to glance at them, curiosity flickering in their eyes at the sight of the young woman in a paladin’s armor and the dark-clad warrior with an unfamiliar air.
Brynda felt a surge of energy in her chest—exhilaration. The camp, the purpose, the smell of oil and steel—it all stirred something holy and fierce within her.
Alvinnué, by contrast, caught the weight behind the stares. Some eyes lingered too long on his runed leather armor, others on the sword at his side. Suspicion clung to the air around him like a shadow.
He took a quiet breath, remembering Hakun’s words: “Let them see you. Stand proud. You are not hiding anymore.”
With a subtle lift of his chin and squared shoulders, Alvinnué walked beside Brynda with quiet dignity. Let them look.
Let them wonder.
They walked deeper into the camp, boots pressing into the trampled earth. The morning sun had risen higher, but it did little to warm the atmosphere.
Alvinnué and Brynda both felt it—the tension. It hung heavy in the air, coiling between tents and over the heads of marching men. Conversations were hushed, movements sharp. This was not a camp at ease; it was one on the edge of something imminent.
Brynda slowed her pace beside a passing soldier, a young man with a scar across his jaw and a spear slung over his back.
“Excuse me,” she said politely. “Where can we find the command tent?”
The soldier looked her over quickly, then glanced at Alvinnué with a flicker of hesitation. After a short pause, he pointed toward the center of the camp.
“Straight through the rows. You’ll see it—large, grey canvas, with the gold lion above the entrance.”
“Thank you,” Brynda said, and the soldier nodded before hurrying off.
Alvinnué cast her a sideways glance. “Let’s hope they’re as welcoming inside.”
Brynda gave a soft smile. “Let them wonder. We came with purpose.”
And with that, they pressed on, toward the heart of command.
The command tent stood as the soldier had described—larger than the others, with thick grey canvas walls and the gold lion standard posted proudly above the entrance. Two guards stood at either side of the opening but made no move to stop them, their eyes following the pair with quiet appraisal.
Alvinnué and Brynda stepped inside.
The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of parchment, ink, and sweat. Lanterns hung from the center pole, casting a steady glow over a large wooden table at the heart of the space. Around it stood several officers, hunched over a detailed map marked with inked lines, colored flags, and small figurines indicating troop positions.
The conversation inside paused briefly as the newcomers entered.
Alvinnué’s gaze swept the room—armor, uniforms, furrowed brows. Strategists and soldiers, all deep in preparation. The weight of decision-making hung thick in the tent.
One officer straightened, eyes narrowing at the sight of them.
Brynda’s posture was calm but resolute. She met the stares without flinching.
“We’ve come to offer our service,” she said steadily. “To aid in the defense of these lands.”
Alvinnué said nothing yet. He simply stood tall, letting them see him—black leather, runes, and all.
There was a pause, then a voice spoke—measured and inquisitive.
“Volunteers?” A man stepped forward from the cluster of officers. He was tall and slim, with greyish-blonde hair tied back loosely, and intelligent grey eyes that flicked between them like a scholar studying a problem. His uniform bore the mark of senior command, though his manner was more thoughtful than commanding.
“I am Cenric Wyndham,” he said, inclining his head. “Adjutant to General Marus.”
Alvinnué returned the nod, but Cenric’s gaze lingered on him.
“You,” he said slowly. “You’re Alvinnué, aren’t you?”
Alvinnué’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How do you know my name?”
Cenric gave a faint, wry smile. “The Prin… I mean, Aelric. He said you would be helping us.”
A silence settled in the tent. One or two officers exchanged looks, but Cenric remained composed, as if the slip had never happened.
Brynda glanced at Alvinnué, curiosity rising.
Alvinnué’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice was cool. “Then I suppose we’re expected.”
Cenric’s smile widened just a touch. “Not by all. But by the right people.”
Cenric nodded to both of them, his tone shifting to something more formal. “Thank you for volunteering. Truly. We need every hand willing to stand against what’s coming.”
He glanced toward the center of the tent, where the map lay heavy with troop markers and uncertainty. “I must apologize—General Marus isn’t here at the moment. He’s out surveying the field positions with the vanguard.”
He turned to the gathered officers. “But allow me to introduce you both to the command staff.”
One by one, he named the commanders—grizzled captains, a quiet strategist with ink-stained gloves, and a heavily armored knight with medals from previous campaigns.
As the introductions concluded, one of the older commanders, his voice gravel-thick, said, “King Edmon Geldanos speaks highly of Alvinnué. Said he’s not just skilled, but honorable.”
At those words, Brynda’s eyes widened. She turned to Alvinnué, her voice laced with surprise. “You know the king?”
Alvinnué hesitated for only a heartbeat, then offered a vague smile. “I’ll explain later.”
Cenric, ever the observer, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He gestured toward the tent flap. “Come. Walk with me. There’s more to discuss—and you’ll want to see what we’re up against.”
Without another word, Alvinnué and Brynda followed him out into the light.
The sun had risen higher by the time they stepped out of the command tent. Cenric led them down a wide path flanked by tents and supply wagons, heading toward the main barracks—a long, reinforced structure near the camp’s center where most of the soldiers were quartered.
As they walked, the camp bustled around them. Blacksmiths hammered out final repairs, pages ran messages, and soldiers sharpened blades or exchanged quiet words over morning meals.
“We’ve assembled nearly everyone we could,” Cenric said, his tone calm but edged with fatigue. “Geldanos’s standing army isn’t large to begin with, but most of it is here now.”
Brynda glanced around at the soldiers. “This is all of the force?”
Cenric nodded. “It is.”
A pause.
“We’re expecting more volunteers from the outlying towns—retired fighters, hunters, even some mages from Tharmatur, or so the messengers claim. But whether they’ll make it in time…” He trailed off, then added, “If we’re lucky, we have three days. Maybe less.”
They reached the edge of the barracks. Cenric stopped and turned toward the training field beyond, where a group of soldiers were drilling with halberds under the midday light.
“See that one?” he said, pointing.
Among the group stood a short, broad-shouldered dwarf with rust brown hair braided down his back. His brown eyes were sharp with experience, and a massive shield rested against his leg while he barked commands to the younger soldiers. The Forgefire Axe on his back gleamed, the etched runes catching the sunlight beside the rugged steel of his Stoneguard Shield.
“That’s Gorimund,” Cenric said with clear respect in his voice. “Veteran of a dozen campaigns. Fought in the Siege of Ironhall, held the pass at Dawnfire Ridge, and they say he once used his shield to break an ogre’s spine in two.”
“Shield Bash?” Brynda asked with curiosity.
Cenric gave a small smile. “Precisely. Quiet off the field, solid as a mountain on it. He’s what you might call the last wall between us and the dead.”
Alvinnué gave the dwarf a long, thoughtful look.
Brynda whispered, “We’ll need walls like him.”
Cenric cupped his hands around his mouth. “Gorimund!”
The dwarf glanced over from the training field and, upon spotting Cenric, broke into a wide grin. With a few gruff orders to the soldiers behind him, he marched over, his axe swaying on his back and boots thudding like small drums on the packed earth.
He reached Cenric and greeted him with a resounding slap on the back that nearly knocked the man forward.
“Oof—by the gods, that hurt, you mooflook,” Cenric coughed, rubbing his shoulder.
Gorimund chuckled, clearly pleased. “Bah! You’ve gone soft, Cenric. I’ve known you since you were a nervous little squire, tripping over your own scabbard. Thought you’d turn into a scroll-writing noble, not a field officer.”
Cenric chuckled despite himself, brushing off his tunic. “Some of us grew into responsibility. Others just grew bushier beards.”
Brynda, grinning, stepped forward. “You’ve known each other that long? How old are you?”
Gorimund squinted, holding up thick fingers and counting. “Let’s see… carried the one… seventy when the Iron Pass fell… add twenty for the mountain standoff…” He shrugged. “Hundred and fifty in human years, I think.”
Brynda’s eyes widened. “Saint preserve us…”
“I get that a lot,” Gorimund said with a wink.
Cenric’s face turned more serious. “Enough jesting. Gorimund—take charge of the new volunteers. Drill them. Harden them. Make sure they know what they’re facing.”
The dwarf’s expression sobered instantly. He nodded, his tone shifting to something steadier. “Aye. If they’ve got fight in them, I’ll find it.”
Cenric turned to Alvinnué and Brynda. “Stay sharp. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”
Then, with a commanding glance toward Gorimund, he added, “Get them ready. We’ll need all hands when the time comes.”
Without waiting for a reply, Cenric turned and headed back toward the command tent, his footsteps brisk and purposeful.
Gorimund watched him go, then turned his full attention to Alvinnué and Brynda. His previously relaxed demeanor disappeared in an instant, replaced by the weight of years of battlefield experience. He examined them both with a discerning eye, sizing them up, his gaze moving from Brynda’s sturdy frame to Alvinnué’s lean, shadowed posture.
Alvinnué shifted slightly under the dwarf’s gaze, a faint unease tugging at him. Brynda, too, seemed uncomfortable, her hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of her sword.
The silence stretched long, with only the distant sounds of soldiers training and the wind rustling through the tents.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Gorimund spoke, his voice steady and commanding.
“Before we move forward with the battle planning,” Gorimund said, his tone leaving no room for argument, “how about you show me your skills?”
His eyes locked onto Alvinnué’s, then Brynda’s, the faintest glint of approval in his gaze. “I’ve seen many young bloods think they’re ready, but you can’t know the battlefield until you’ve tasted it. Show me what you’ve got—let’s see if you’re made of more than just talk.”
Gorimund led Alvinnué and Brynda to the center of the training field. Dummies lined the fields, their straw-filled bodies marked with the imprints of countless strikes. Targets stood at various distances, worn from the repetitive attempts to hit their marks. Nearby, soldiers sparred with one another, their swords clashing with the sound of metal on metal, each strike a reminder of the brutal reality that awaited them.
Stopping at the center of the field, Gorimund turned to face Alvinnué and Brynda. His gaze swept over them, a deep silence hanging in the air as he sized them up.
“The battlefield’s no place for hesitation,” he said, his voice steady and serious. “If you’re going to fight alongside us, I need to know you can handle yourself.”
He reached for his Forgefire Axe, the blade gleaming with the intensity of countless battles, and swung it easily in his hand. The soldiers nearby paused for a moment, noticing the shift in energy, but Gorimund didn’t wait for them.
He met their gazes. “So, here’s how it’s going to be. One at a time, you’ll face me. I want to see what you’ve got. No holds barred.
Gorimund’s stance was wide and solid, his shield raised and his axe in hand. He stood like a mountain—unyielding, but giving each of them the space to move.
“Whoever’s first,” Gorimund added with a grin, “I’m ready.”
Gorimund’s eyes flicked from Alvinnué to Brynda, his expression unreadable.
“You, then,” he said, nodding toward Brynda. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Brynda squared her shoulders and stepped forward, her boots crunching on the earth beneath her. She drew her Soulsever Sword, the blade shimmering with holy light, and took up a ready stance. Her muscles tensed, but her expression remained calm, her green eyes focused and unwavering. She had trained for this moment, even if she hadn’t expected it to come so soon.
Gorimund watched her with a serious look in his eyes, adjusting his stance slightly. His Forgefire Axe was balanced in one hand, his shield raised in the other. The soldiers nearby fell silent, sensing the intensity of the moment, as if the clash between these two was already written in the air.
Without a word, Gorimund launched himself forward with surprising speed for someone of his size, swinging the axe toward Brynda in a wide arc. The force behind it was immense, enough to cleave through stone if it found its mark.
Brynda reacted swiftly, bringing her sword up in a defensive block, the clash of their weapons sending a sharp ring through the air. The impact was enough to jar her wrists, but she held firm, pushing back against the force. She pivoted on her heel, trying to use the momentum to her advantage as she darted in, her blade aimed for the gap between Gorimund’s shield and armor.
Gorimund anticipated her move, stepping back just in time to avoid the strike, his shield coming up to block her next swing. The dwarf’s movements were deliberate, slow but powerful, and he seemed to enjoy the challenge as much as he respected it.
“Good,” he rumbled, his voice a deep growl. “Not bad at all. But can you keep up?”
Brynda’s lips curled into a playful grin as she steadied her stance. “I haven’t even begun getting serious yet, old man,” she said, her voice filled with both confidence and a touch of teasing.
Gorimund raised an eyebrow, his expression still unreadable. “Old man?” he repeated with a chuckle. “All spring chickens talk the same.”
His gaze sharpened, his grip on his Forgefire Axe tightening. “But you’re still nothing special.”
Brynda’s eyes narrowed in response to his taunt. Without missing a beat, she began to channel mana into her Soulsever Sword. The blade, which had already gleamed with holy energy, now blazed brighter, the light intensifying to a near blinding brilliance. The air around her seemed to hum with the surge of power.
“I’ll show you what makes me special,” she said, her voice now steady and fierce.
In a flash, she charged forward, her speed and the holy light of her blade a blur. She swung down on Gorimund with a strength that would have cleaved lesser opponents in half. The glowing Soulsever Sword arced toward his shield with devastating force.
Gorimund raised his shield in time to block the strike. The moment their weapons collided, a blinding flash of light exploded outward, engulfing the entire training field. The sheer force of the clash sent shockwaves through the ground, causing the soldiers sparring nearby to halt and turn their heads in shock.
The light faded, leaving behind a ring of shimmering dust in the air. The field fell eerily silent for a moment, all eyes on the two combatants.
Gorimund stood firm, his shield still raised, but the impact had pushed him back a few paces, his feet digging into the dirt. He smirked, clearly impressed. “Now that’s more like it, girl,” he said, his voice rough, but tinged with approval. “You’ve got some fight in you.”
The soldiers began to gather at the edge of the field, whispering among themselves at the spectacle they had just witnessed.
The soldiers’ murmurs grew louder as they watched, the clash between Brynda and Gorimund now drawing their full attention. Gorimund’s grin widened as he raised his shield, his stance shifting slightly.
“You’ve got some guts, girl,” he rumbled. “But this old man’s still got plenty of fight left in him.”
With a sudden, almost terrifying swiftness, Gorimund surged forward, his massive shield crashing down toward Brynda’s side. She barely had time to react, parrying the blow with her sword as it slammed into her, sending a jolt of pain through her arm. The force was so great that it sent her stumbling back a step, her feet skidding across the dirt.
Before she could regain her balance, Gorimund was already on her again. With a roar, he swung his Forgefire Axe in a mighty arc, its edge glowing faintly from the heat of battle. The sheer weight of the axe cut through the air with a howl, aimed straight at her midsection.
Brynda quickly ducked, narrowly avoiding the axe’s swing, but the wind from the strike still knocked her off course. She twisted just in time to avoid being cleaved in half, her heart pounding in her chest as she struggled to keep her footing.
“Not bad,” Gorimund muttered, his voice gruff as he swung his shield to the side and readied his axe again. “But I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, girl. You’ll need more than light and speed to take me down.”
She gritted her teeth, her breath quickening as she steadied herself. She had to find an opening, a way to match his strength. Brynda’s sword still pulsed with holy light, but it was clear the brute force of Gorimund’s blows would wear her down if she couldn’t land a decisive strike.
Gorimund seemed to sense her hesitation. With a deep growl, he lunged again, his shield raised to bash, followed by a swing of the axe. The air around him thickened with the weight of his attacks, his brute strength overwhelming.
Brynda blocked with her sword, but the force of the shield made her knees buckle. She managed to push herself back just in time, but the space between them had narrowed, and the next blow would be harder to avoid.
With a fierce battle cry, Gorimund pressed forward again, the ground beneath them shaking with every step he took. His shield came down in a brutal overhead strike, aiming to crush her defenses, while his axe followed in a deadly arc, cutting through the air with deadly precision.
As Gorimund pressed his advantage, Brynda felt the crushing weight of his attacks bearing down on her. She was fast, but the sheer force of his shield and axe was relentless. Each strike threatened to break through her defenses, each step forcing her further back.
But Brynda was not about to be overwhelmed. She dug her boots into the dirt, grounding herself. The holy energy within her surged again, a familiar warmth spreading through her limbs as she called upon the power of the Light.
With a sharp breath, she raised her sword high, channeling the full might of her holy magic into the blade. A radiant aura enveloped the Soulsever Sword, its glow intensifying until it seemed to burn brighter than the sun itself. The air around her pulsed with divine power, an almost tangible presence that radiated from her every movement.
As Gorimund’s shield came crashing down once again, Brynda twisted her body with surprising agility, ducking under the blow and using her momentum to sweep low. She lashed out with her sword, striking at Gorimund’s exposed side with a clean, precise strike.
The holy light that surged from the blade burst upon impact, filling the air with a flash of radiant energy that seemed to burn even the earth itself. Gorimund’s armor groaned under the holy strike, and for the first time in their exchange, he faltered.
The force of the blow sent a shock through Gorimund’s body, his feet skidding back. He grunted, surprised by the intensity of the attack, but quickly steadied himself, grinning in approval. “You’ve got some bite after all, girl.”
Brynda’s eyes blazed with determination. “I told you, I haven’t even begun,” she said, her voice low and fierce.
Gorimund raised his axe again, but this time, he paused, his brow furrowing as he studied her. The holy energy radiating from her sword was still present, a shimmering light that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Her sword glowed brighter than ever, now almost blinding.
“You’re not just a pretty swordfighter, are you?” he muttered, his voice filled with a new level of respect. “You’ve got the Light in you.”
Brynda didn’t respond with words. Instead, she raised her sword once more, the holy energy flowing through her, and charged again. She moved with a speed and grace that made her seem like a blur, her every step powered by the divine light that crackled around her.
As she closed the distance, Gorimund swung his shield in an attempt to block her. But Brynda was ready. With a battle cry, she leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding the shield bash, and with a swift, graceful motion, she slashed her sword upward in a diagonal arc. The holy energy within the blade cut through the air with incredible precision.
The strike hit Gorimund’s shield, but this time, instead of blocking, the holy light burst outward in an explosion of radiant power, sending the dwarf back a full pace, his feet sliding against the dirt. He staggered slightly, his shield vibrating under the sheer power of the impact.
Gorimund stopped, looking at her with a deep, appreciative nod. The soldiers who had been watching from the sidelines were silent now, a hushed reverence in the air. For a moment, even the weight of the battle seemed to pause, the entire field acknowledging the might of the clash.
“Well, damn,” Gorimund muttered, his voice low and filled with approval. “I’ve fought plenty of paladins in my day, but you… you’ve got a fire in you. The Light’s got a hold of you, girl.”
He lowered his axe, his gaze still intense but now tinged with respect. “You’re not just special… You’re the real deal.”
The clash of weapons fades into an eerie silence, the dust still hanging in the air from the brutal exchange. The soldiers standing along the edges of the training field are frozen, their eyes wide with awe. Every gaze is locked on Brynda, who stands tall, her sword glowing with the last remnants of holy light.
For a moment, there is nothing but the heavy breathing of the combatants and the soft rustling of the wind. Then, from somewhere at the back of the crowd, a soldier mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible.
“She’s like an angel on the battlefield…”
The words echo, catching the attention of others nearby. The soldier’s voice spreads like wildfire, igniting the crowd’s energy. Soon, the murmurs swell, gaining strength with every passing moment.
“Angel of the Battlefield!” one soldier calls out.
Another echoes it, louder this time, his voice filled with awe. “Angel of the Battlefield!”
The words travel through the crowd, gaining momentum, reverberating off the tents and walls of the camp. The soldiers begin to shout, their voices joining in a chorus, and soon the entire field is alive with the chant:
“Angel of the Battlefield! Angel of the Battlefield!”
The cries grow louder, more fervent, until the air itself seems to vibrate with the sheer power of their admiration. Even the officers standing nearby exchange glances, their expressions filled with a mix of respect and awe at Brynda’s display of strength and skill.
Gorimund stands there, his arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watches the scene unfold. He leans toward Alvinnué, his voice low but filled with approval.
“She’s earned that title, hasn’t she?” he rumbles, his gaze never leaving Brynda. “They don’t give names like that lightly.”
Alvinnué watches the soldiers, the energy in the air palpable as the chant continues. “She’s earned more than a title, Gorimund,” he says, his voice filled with quiet admiration for the paladin. “She’s earned their respect.”
The soldiers continue their chorus, the thunderous shouts filling the camp.
“Angel of the Battlefield!”
And Brynda, standing in the center of it all, feels the weight of their praise wash over her. She had come to fight, to prove herself—and now, in the heart of the Geldanos Army, she had done more than that. She had become a symbol.
Gorimund wipes the sweat from his brow, his grin still present, though now tinged with a certain level of anticipation. He looks at Alvinnué, a spark of challenge in his eyes.
With a rough gesture, he points toward the center of the training ground. “You’re next,” Gorimund declares, his voice carrying across the field. “Show me what you got.”
A quiet murmur ripples through the crowd as the soldiers take notice. The tension in the air shifts, the focus now on Alvinnué.
“Who’s this one?” a soldier whispers, eyeing Alvinnué with curiosity.
“What class of warrior is that?” another asks, scanning Alvinnué’s lean, yet imposing figure.
“I’ve never seen anyone like it,” a third soldier murmurs, his gaze flicking from Alvinnué to the surroundings, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
Alvinnué remains silent, his gaze steady, and with deliberate calmness, he unsheathes the Doth-Éamon Short Sword. The moment the blade clears the scabbard, something subtle and dark stirs in the air.
The shadows on the ground seem to twitch, like living things, stretching toward him with an almost imperceptible motion. It is as though the very earth itself bends and twists in response to the weapon’s presence.
With a single step, Alvinnué enters the center of the field, his body language fluid, yet poised with the calmness of a predator. His dark eyes narrow slightly, the faintest gleam of something powerful and ancient flickering within them.
For a brief moment, there is no sound, no movement. It’s as if time itself has slowed, the air thick with anticipation.
Then, without warning, the shadows around him surge, expanding and wrapping around his body, dark tendrils twisting and curling at his feet like a living cloak. The Doth-Éamon Short Sword pulses with a faint blue glow, its aura bending the shadows further, bending reality itself.
The soldiers watching take a collective step back, some muttering under their breath. Even Gorimund pauses, his eyes narrowing as he watches the display. The atmosphere has shifted completely, the air charged with a paralyzing energy that feels both unsettling and mesmerizing.
“Impressive,” Gorimund rumbles, his voice full of both respect and challenge. “Let’s see if you can use that…”
With a fluid motion, Alvinnué shifts into his stance, the shadows continuing to swirl around him, bending to his will. His blade gleams faintly, as though ready to strike at any moment.
Gorimund is the first to move. With a grunt of effort, he swings his massive Forgefire Axe high above his head, the blade gleaming as it cuts through the air toward Alvinnué’s head. The sheer weight of the weapon would cleave most opponents in two—but Alvinnué is no ordinary foe.
In a blink, Alvinnué activates Shadowblend—his form dissolving into the surrounding shadows as if he were nothing more than a flicker of darkness itself.
The axe slices through empty air, and Gorimund’s eyes widen in surprise as he spins, his muscles straining to track the shifting figure.
But Alvinnué has already moved.
With a soft whisper of the shadows, he reappears behind Gorimund, his Doth-Éamon Short Sword gleaming in his hand. Without hesitation, Alvinnué unleashes a series of precise strikes—each one aimed at vital points: a thrust to the side, a slash toward the legs, a cut aimed at the shoulder. Each strike is fluid, calculated, as if he’s danced this deadly dance before.
Gorimund reacts quickly, his years of battle experience kicking in. He slams his Stoneguard Shield toward Alvinnué’s blows, grunting with effort. The shield clangs and shifts with each strike, its enchanted surface flashing with each impact.
With every strike that lands on his shield, Gorimund’s stance wavers, but the seasoned dwarf holds firm. He barely manages to block the last attack—a swift slash meant for his midsection—and his shield hums with a shock from the force.
“Not bad, boy,” Gorimund growls, his grin returning, albeit with a touch of respect now. His eyes scan the field for any sign of Alvinnué, but the young warrior has already disappeared again, swallowed by the shifting shadows.
The soldiers around the training ground murmur in awe, watching the two combatants, captivated by the display of skill. Even Cenric, standing at the edge of the crowd, nods slightly in approval.
Gorimund’s eyes burn with a mix of exhilaration and challenge as he braces himself, waiting for the next move. Alvinnué’s ability to meld with the shadows has proven more than a mere trick—it is a true art of combat, one that forces Gorimund to stay on edge.
“Yes…. Yes….. Show me more, lad,” Gorimund calls out, his voice gruff, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it—something like genuine respect.
The murmurs of the soldiers fell to a hush once again as the shadows of the training ground lengthened unnaturally around Alvinnué.
From behind Gorimund, Alvinnué appeared for only a heartbeat—long enough to plant his footing before vanishing once more, melting into the dark underfoot. Shadowblend—fluid, seamless, untouchable. Gorimund grunted and pivoted on his heel, his axe swinging in a wide arc, but it sliced through nothing but air.
Then, a flicker of movement.
Shadowsprint.
A sudden gust of displaced air swept across the field as Alvinnué flashed forward from the opposite end of the ground, his speed unnatural—impossible to follow with the eye. In an instant, he was right in front of Gorimund, blade drawn for a clean strike.
Gorimund roared and brought his axe down in a mighty swing.
But Alvinnué’s form shimmered, broke apart, and turned translucent—Shadowmeld. The axe crashed through him as if through mist, the dwarf’s momentum dragging him forward a step.
Alvinnué reappeared behind him again, standing tall and poised, Doth-Éamon Short Sword drawn to his side.
Then came the silence. A stillness like a breath held before a storm.
Alvinnué’s eyes narrowed. With a single whispered word in the ancient tongue of the Jirryu clan, he invoked his lethal technique.
Shadowstrike.
He vanished.
A crack split the air—a force not seen, only felt. A flicker of motion—then a flash of light as the Doth-Éamon blade struck from invisibility, bypassing all defense. Gorimund’s reflexes kicked in, shield rising—too late.
The blow landed with thunderous impact.
The Stoneguard Shield—forged in Darven-Imus and blessed by runes—was torn from his grip. It spun through the air, clattered across the dirt, and skidded to a halt near the crowd.
Gasps rippled through the gathered soldiers.
Gorimund staggered back, chest heaving. He still held his axe, but his eyes flicked to Alvinnué, unreadable.
Then he exhaled—slow and steady.
Silence fell over the training ground. Dozens of warriors stared at Alvinnué—not with awe, but with a sharp, reverent fear.
Gorimund adjusted his stance. A single laugh escaped him—low, rough.
“Well damn,” he muttered. “You shadow lads don’t fight fair… but I’ve never cared much for fair.”
He stepped forward, wiped his brow, and gave a nod.
“You’ll do,” he said, quieter now. “By the gods… both of you will do.”
As the shadows dissipated and silence reclaimed the training field, Gorimund walked slowly toward his fallen shield. The weight of the clash lingered like smoke in the air. He stooped, fingers brushing the battered rim.
“I couldn’t even get one hit in…” he murmured—not in defeat, but in grudging awe.
Behind him, the soldiers shifted. Glances were exchanged. Whispers stirred.
“I’ve never in my life seen anything like it,” one said, voice low with disbelief.
“By Saint Leanore…” breathed another, eyes fixed on the dust where Alvinnué had stood, “it was like seeing a phantom.”
“…The Phantom of Zorim,” someone whispered, as if recalling an old legend.
The name caught like wildfire.
Phantom of Zorim… Phantom of Zorim!
The chant swelled, rising into a chorus that swept through the barracks like a wildfire, igniting the spirits of all who heard it.
Brynda rushed over to Alvinnué, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Was that—was that the Shadow Arts?” she asked, barely containing her awe.
Alvinnué gave a small nod, his breath still steadying from the strike. “It was.”
Brynda grinned. “That was amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Alvinnué managed a modest smirk. “Your holy power’s just as impressive. That strike you landed on Gorimund earlier? I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of that.”
Brynda was about to say more, but the sound of heavy boots crunching over dirt drew their attention. Gorimund approached, his expression one of gruff satisfaction.
“You two,” he said, pulling a pair of small glass vials from his belt. “Fine work. Haven’t seen spellwork like that in years—let alone two kinds so different.”
He handed them each a vial. “Mana potion. You’ve earned it.”
“Thank you, Gorimund,” Brynda said sincerely.
Alvinnué tilted his vial, eyeing the liquid. “Appreciated.”
They drank in unison, only to grimace moments later.
Brynda coughed. “Ugh. Bitter.”
“Terribly bitter,” Alvinnué agreed, shaking his head.
Yet even as the taste lingered, warmth bloomed through their bodies. Spell-fatigue faded. Mana stirred fresh through their veins like riverwater breaking free of ice.
Brynda flexed her fingers with a grin. “Okay, maybe the taste was worth it.”
As the last traces of bitterness faded from their tongues, Gorimund stepped closer, draping a thick arm around each of their shoulders. Alvinnué tensed slightly; Brynda blinked, unsure of what was coming next.
With a conspiratorial grin, Gorimund leaned in between them, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You know… I’ve got something that tastes better than mana potions.”
They both turned toward him, eyebrows raised.
Gorimund jerked his head toward the far edge of the training field. “Secret stash. Best ale this side of the Darven-Imus Mountains. Hidden just behind the latrine.”
Brynda recoiled slightly. “Drinking is prohibited on active duty,” she said, her voice caught between scandalized and amused. “Have you even considered that the battle could start at any moment?”
Gorimund let out a gruff chuckle and gave her shoulder a friendly pat. “Aye, lass, but no dwarf worth his beard ever goes into battle on an empty stomach—or a dry throat.”
Before either of them could protest further, he gave them a hearty shove and started steering them toward the far edge of camp.
“Come on, just a sip,” he urged, laughing. “Think of it as a warrior’s blessing. And besides—who’s going to stop us? The latrine guards?”
Alvinnué exchanged a wary glance with Brynda, who sighed deeply but allowed herself to be led along.
“I swear,” she muttered, “if command finds out about this…”
“They won’t,” Gorimund replied, already whistling a marching tune. “Unless you shout loud enough to tell them.”
As the trio slipped behind the latrine—Gorimund’s laughter rumbling, Brynda’s protests fading, and Alvinnué shaking his head with a rare, knowing smile—the camp stirred with newfound vitality.
Laughter bubbled up from the barracks. The forges blazed brighter, sending sparks soaring into the dusk. Soldiers engaged in sparring matches with renewed vigor, their voices rising as they whispered of “The Angel of the Battlefield” and “The Phantom of Zorim.” The seeds of hope, long barren, now took root in the very soil of Zorim Field.
Adjutant Cenric, standing at the edge of the command tent with his arms crossed, observed the scene in silence. His sharp eyes swept across the training yard, lingering on the young faces now glowing with purpose.
“Good,” he murmured to himself. “Let them feel strong now. They’ll need that strength soon.”
Beyond the warmth of the fires and the hum of activity, the treeline loomed dark and still. On the fringes of Zorim Field, where shadows thickened and light dared not linger, a cloaked figure crouched low among the underbrush—watching, waiting.
The stranger’s face was obscured beneath the hood, their eyes gleaming faintly not with malice, but with sharp, calculating focus. It was as if they were measuring the pulse of the camp, counting each breath before the storm broke.
Then, without a sound or a trace, the figure melted into the darkness.