HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The Hollow Pass held its breath.

The stillness was suffocating, thick as wool pressed over the mouths of thousands. Soldiers on both sides stood in locked formations, weapons clenched too tightly, eyes straining toward the two figures at the heart of it all. After the roar of clashing lines and the brutal collapse of the Wraith-knight, this silence was not peace—it was a taut string drawn to breaking. Even the mountains seemed to crouch lower, their ridges casting long shadows that narrowed the world into an arena.

Dust from shattered stone and burnt flesh hung in the air. It clung to armor, streaked sweat-slick faces, lodged in throats until every swallow felt like gravel. A crimson haze tinted the western sky where the sun slipped lower, as if the horizon itself bled in anticipation.

Ryon stood still, blade lowered, frost crawling from his boots into the cracked ground even as fire flickered along the steel in restless licks. His chest rose and fell in controlled measure, though his body trembled with the energy coiled inside him. Both fire and frost demanded release; both sought to consume. He bound them with will alone, not because he was unafraid of what would happen if they broke free, but because fear had no place in the hour before truth.

Alric faced him, scar catching the dim light like a pale strike of lightning against storm-dark skin. His eyes were steady, weighty, the gaze of a man who had outlived too many campaigns to be moved by spectacle. His blade was unadorned, worn by decades, the runes etched into its fuller glowing faintly with power borrowed from the South's long blood-bound traditions. Where Ryon burned like a rising flame, Alric endured like the mountain itself.

Neither spoke for a long moment. The stillness stretched.

Then came the whispers.

From the Southern ranks, murmurs rippled—uncertainty threaded through discipline. Men who had always believed their commander invincible now felt the ghost of doubt stir. The Wraith-knight had fallen, after all. What was sacred armor against fire and frost twined into one? Yet Alric stood unbent, and the sight of him steadied them. One scarred man could hold a thousand hearts in his calloused hands.

"Stand fast," he said, voice carrying without a shout, rough as stone dragged over stone. "Look at me. I have not broken. Nor will you."

The Southern line stiffened, shoulders squaring, fear smothered for now beneath obedience. Their eyes shone with faith as brittle as glass.

The Northerners, too, whispered, though their voices carried differently. It was not doubt but hunger, awe sharp enough to wound. They had seen their leader strike down a terror wrapped in darkness. Now he faced the scarred titan who commanded the South. To see such things in one lifetime was to witness legend forming, and they clung to that belief like drowning men to driftwood.

Ryon's eyes never left Alric's. He spoke quietly, though the Pass carried his words.

"You stand for endurance, Commander. But endurance without change is just stone waiting to be broken. I will break it."

Alric's lip curled faintly, not in mockery but in grim acknowledgement. His voice rolled out like thunder's first growl.

"And I will show you that fire burns fast, boy. But stone remembers. Stone survives."

A raven screamed overhead, banking hard into the reddening sky. Its shadow swept across the Pass like a slash of ink, and every soldier—North and South—shivered as though fate itself had taken perch on the ridges.

The earth bore their first steps.

Ryon moved forward, frost splitting outward in jagged webs, fire burning in the cracks. The hiss of heat against ice echoed like distant drums. Northern soldiers straightened, hearts pounding in time with that rhythm.

Alric advanced, and the ground seemed to groan beneath him. His step carried no magic, no flare of elemental power—only the weight of a man whose will had carried him through endless wars. Southern soldiers answered him with chants, low and insistent, his name beating like a drumline in the marrow of their bones.

"Alric."

"Alric."

"Alric."

The sound grew, steady, unbreakable.

But then from the Northern line came a sharper cry. It began with one soldier, raw and hoarse, then multiplied until it roared through the valley, defiant enough to split heaven.

"For the North!"

The chant collided with the Southern rhythm, fire against stone, echoing between the cliffs until the whole Pass trembled beneath voices.

And then both sides fell quiet again, silence reclaiming the hollow like a predator.

Two men. Two armies. Two futures.

Ryon thought of the graves left behind, shallow mounds marked only with broken spears. He thought of frostbitten nights on endless marches, of laughter stolen in firelight before death claimed the voices that made it. He thought of the promise he had made—to bind fire and frost, to forge something new that neither world had yet dared dream.

Alric thought of oaths carved into his scar. He thought of cities rebuilt after sieges, of orphans fed in lean years, of the South's stubborn survival. He thought of what would be lost if fire consumed it all. His scar did not ache, but it remembered, and memory was weapon enough.

The mountains leaned in closer. The sun sagged lower, painting the sky in bruises of red and purple. The air itself grew too heavy to breathe.

A wind rose from the north, icy and sharp, tugging at banners until they snapped. Then another gust came from the south, warm and dry, carrying the smell of scorched earth and bitter herbs. The two winds tangled in the Pass, colliding in a restless spiral that whipped dust and ash into a column between the duelists. Nature itself seemed to mimic the coming clash—two forces opposite, neither willing to yield.

The second raven descended, landing on the broken ridge above. Its eyes glinted with an otherworldly sheen, black as coals yet sharp as glass. Soldiers muttered prayers; some swore omens, others spat to ward them away.

Ryon lifted his blade. Flame surged, frost gleamed. His exhale came in a plume of mist that drifted skyward and vanished.

Alric raised his weapon high. The scar on his face caught firelight, a white slash through dusk.

Time could not stretch any further.

The silence fractured on Alric's words, spoken like stone shattering:

"Now, boy."

And the world broke open.