HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The Hollow Pass was a wound carved into the bones of the earth, and now it trembled beneath the echoes of battle. The death of the Wraith-knight had not brought the silence of resolution—it had torn open a void of fear. His corpse, massive and half-buried in shattered stone, lay sprawled like some mythic titan defeated, the black armor fractured, his cursed blade still humming faintly with residual venomous power. Smoke and dust mingled in the air, the acrid tang of blood clinging to every breath.

Ryon stood over the fallen knight, shoulders heaving, his weapon dripping with spectral ichor that sizzled as it touched the ground. The fire and frost within him pulsed violently, demanding more, whispering to him that this was not even close to the ending but was actually the opening of the fight. Yet as his eyes lifted to the ridgeline ahead, he saw them—an entire host of the Southern army, massed across the Pass, their banners hanging heavy in the rising wind, their armor glinting beneath the pale sun.

They did not cheer their champion's defeat. They faltered.

The Southerners had always believed that the Wraith-knight was invincible, a weapon of their covenant, a shadow-born terror that no blade of the North could pierce. To see him fall had struck them like a blade through their own lungs. Murmurs rippled through the ranks, doubt spreading like fire on dry grass. Some clutched their weapons tighter, others shifted back a pace, and a few outright whispered prayers to gods long abandoned.

The morale of the host wavered, a shudder visible even from where Ryon stood. And in that moment of uncertainty, one figure stepped forward—a man broad of shoulder, armored in iron etched with scars of countless battles. His face bore a brutal mark carved across it, a scar running from temple to jaw, the flesh hardened and pale as if it had been kissed by fire itself. His presence alone was enough to still the tide of panic.

Alric. Commander of the Southern Host. The Scarred General.

His voice rose like thunder cracking across the mountains.

"Stand! Soldiers of the South, hold your line! Do you tremble at shadows? Do you falter because one blade found its mark? The covenant is not broken—it is reforged in fire and blood! The knight's fall is not our end, it is our test. And we do not fail!"

His words rolled over the troops, hard and sharp as steel. The wavering faltered, if only slightly, men and women dragging their courage back up from the pit of fear. Their grips tightened on their spears, their banners lifted just a little higher, their breaths taken deeper. But the scar across Alric's face twisted as he spoke, his own eyes betraying the storm within. He too had felt the weight of the Wraith-knight's fall. He too knew that this battle had shifted.

Ryon could see it. He could taste it in the air. The Southerners might rally under Alric's booming voice, but they were shaken to their marrow. Their faith had cracked. And cracks, once opened, could be split wide.

Ryon raised his weapon and pointed it toward Alric. His voice was not thunder but something colder, sharper, cutting through the mountain winds.

"You shout to drown your own doubt, Alric. But your host sees it—they saw their monster fall, and they know now that flesh can bleed, and chains can break."

A ripple of unease passed through the Southern ranks again, whispers spreading like quicksilver. Alric snarled, his scar twitching as his jaw set. He stepped forward, planting his blade into the ground with a sound like iron splitting stone.

"You dare speak to me of doubt, bastard of frost and flame?" His voice shook the ridgeline. "I was forged in war before your mother had learned the taste of ash. I watched fathers bury sons long before your rebirth. You think one duel means the South is broken? Then you are a fool. The covenant binds us tighter than your petty visions. And I will carve the proof into your flesh."

The Southern host roared at his words, beaten into courage by their commander's fury. The shuddering line steadied, the banners straightened, and the earth itself seemed to brace for the clash to come.

Ryon did not flinch. His grip tightened on his weapon, his veins burning with fire and ice both, the duality of his rebirth surging toward a breaking point. He felt his sisters' eyes on him from behind, felt the weight of every ally who had marched to the Pass. He could not, would not, falter now.

The battlefield seemed to narrow until only two men stood in its heart—Ryon and Alric. One, reborn in flame and frost, bearing the weight of the shattered covenant. The other, scarred by war and bound by an oath older than memory. The clash between them would not simply decide the Pass. It would decide the South's very soul.

The silence before the storm was deafening.

Alric lifted his blade, massive and brutal, etched with runes that glowed faintly with southern blood-magic. Ryon answered with a steadying breath, frost swirling at his feet as flames licked faintly along his blade.

Around them, the Southern host leaned forward, the Northern warriors behind Ryon braced. The mountain winds howled, carrying with them the scent of death, of iron, of history itself trembling.

And then Alric broke the silence.

"Come, boy. Let us see if your fire burns brighter than the scars of the South."

Ryon's answer was to step forward, his first motion slow, deliberate, but heavy enough that the very stones beneath him cracked. The duel was no longer just a fight. It was the heart of the war.

The march of thousands fell into silence, all eyes fixed on two figures in the Hollow Pass—one scarred by the past, the other burning with a future yet unshaped.

And when their blades finally met, the world itself seemed to stop.