HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The world narrowed until there was nothing left but steel and shadow. The screams of dying men, the clash of shield-walls breaking, the thunder of horns—all of it dulled to a distant echo as Ryon met the Wraith-knight stroke for stroke.

Its blade was hunger given form, shrieking through the air with each swing, a sound that seemed to tear marrow from bone. Every strike came heavier, faster, as though the knight were drawing strength from the slaughter all around them. Sparks burst in dull gray flares each time their swords met, falling like ashes onto the blood-slick ground.

Ryon's lungs burned with every breath. His side was wet with blood where the knight's edge had carved him earlier. His shoulders ached as if molten iron had been poured into his muscles. But his grip did not loosen. He forced his will into the steel, forced his body to obey though it screamed rebellion with every movement.

The knight pressed forward with a relentless rhythm—an executioner's cadence. One step, one blow. One step, one blow. It drove him backward over the corpses of men, its helm tilted as though mocking, its ember-eyes glowing brighter with every clash.

Around them, the Hollow Pass seethed with chaos. Southern lines buckled, men scrambling to hold against the tide of Northerners pouring through the narrow gorge. The air reeked of iron and smoke, of burning pitch and ruptured flesh. Yet every eye, even amidst that carnage, was drawn toward the duel—the fire-bearer against the shadow-knight.

You cannot outlast it, the whisper hissed in his skull. You cannot stand against the night. Give the fire. Surrender it, and I will spare what remains of you.

Ryon snarled, spitting blood onto the stones. "If you want it," he growled through clenched teeth, "then you'll have to choke on it."

The knight's sword came in a brutal overhead arc. Ryon raised his blade to meet it—too slow. The impact sent him staggering, his knees buckling. The weight of it drove him down, metal screaming against metal as his arms strained. He fell to one knee, the knight towering above him, pressing him into the mire.

The world wavered, edges blurring, his vision tunneling into those ember eyes. He could almost feel the fire writhing inside him, straining against its cage of flesh, begging to be unleashed.

"No," he gasped, forcing the word out like a curse. With a roar, he twisted his body, letting the knight's strength carry its blade down. The sword bit into the earth beside him, lodging deep. For the first time, the Wraith-knight faltered.

Ryon seized the moment. He surged upward, driving his shoulder into the creature's chest, shoving it back. Before it could recover, he swung. His blade carved through its side, shearing through blackened armor and the smoke-thick flesh beneath. A howl burst from the helm, not human, not animal, but something torn from the grave itself.

Still it did not fall. Its free hand shot forward, gauntleted fingers closing around Ryon's throat. The grip tightened, cold as winter stone, crushing the air from his lungs. Ryon clawed at the hand, vision going black at the edges. The knight lifted him from the ground, his boots kicking against nothing, his blade slipping from his grasp.

The ember-eyes flared, searing into him. The whisper rose into a scream. Yours is not the fire! It is ours! Ours!

Ryon's hand found the hilt of his fallen sword, just within reach. With a last desperate surge, he wrenched it up and drove the point straight through the knight's visor.

The world exploded in shadow.

The Wraith-knight staggered, dropping him. Its grip loosened, and Ryon crashed to the ground, gasping raggedly, throat burning. He ripped the blade free, black smoke erupting from the helm. The creature reeled, spasmed, and then collapsed onto its knees. The armor cracked down the middle, lightless and hollow, before it crumbled into ash that scattered on the wind.

Ryon remained on the ground, coughing, his hands shaking violently. His sword was slick in his grasp, its edge dimmed, nicked, nearly broken. He dragged himself upright, swaying, every muscle screaming, every wound pouring fire through his veins.

Above, silence fell for the first time in the battle. Northerners and Southerners alike had turned to stare. They had seen him fell the knight. They had seen him stand against the shadow given flesh. For a heartbeat, the gorge held its breath.

And then came the sound that froze the blood of every man within the Pass.

A slow, deliberate clap.

Ryon's head jerked upward. There, atop the slope, the scar-faced commander descended at last.

His presence carried a different kind of weight, not the raw monstrosity of the knight, but something colder, more human—and therefore, more terrible. His armor gleamed with an oily sheen, blackened steel veined with silver that pulsed faintly like living veins. His blade shimmered with a cruel light, black as the void between stars.

Every Northern soldier parted for him without a word, as though the gorge itself bent to his stride. His scarred face was fixed in a calm, cruel smile, a predator's assurance.

The air thickened with dread, heavier than smoke, heavier than blood. Even the Southern priests faltered in their chants, voices breaking as the commander's gaze swept the field. Men who had stood against three charges without wavering now lowered their shields as if the very marrow of their courage had turned to ash.

The fire within Ryon twisted violently in his chest, as though recognizing what approached. It felt like a hand clutching his heart, squeezing tighter with every step the commander took.

The man raised his sword in a lazy salute. His voice carried effortlessly over the battlefield, smooth and cold as river stone. "At last," he said. "The fire-bearer stands alone."

Ryon's grip tightened on his ruined blade. His breath came ragged, his body broken, yet still he stood. For he knew with dreadful certainty—this duel had only been the beginning.