We stopped at the very edge of Deermarch.

  The host reined in as one, iron and leather groaning as three hundred riders brought their mounts to a halt. Dust hung in the air between us. Hooves stamped. Armor clinked. The banner of the Church loomed behind them—white and gold, immaculate and unforgiving.

  One rider moved forward alone.

  He wore silver armor polished to a mirror sheen, a red sash tapering diagonally across his chest plate. His face was angular, clean-shaven, his smile practiced and confident—the kind that assumed obedience before it was given.

  He stopped a short distance away and looked directly at Raphael.

  “Ah,” he called out, voice carrying easily. “Well then—tribesman.”

  Raphael did not move.

  “Which lord do you serve?” the man asked.

  “No lord,” Raphael replied evenly. “But the Lord above.”

  The man smiled wider.

  “Ah,” he said. “Then we are brothers under the Father.”

  He inclined his head slightly. “Sir Percival Dumont. By decree of the Clergy, I have been ordered to expand the Empire’s borders.”

  He gestured casually toward Deermarch, as if indicating a parcel of land already measured and claimed.

  “Surrender your town and its people to the Clergy,” Percival continued, “and all will be well.”

  Before Raphael could answer, Azazel stepped forward half a pace.

  “Yah best be on yah way, man,” he called out. “Dis be free territory. No Church recognized here.”

  A murmur rippled through the riders.

  Percival’s eyes flicked to Azazel, sharp with interest.

  “Ah,” he said. “You must be Azazel.”

  His smile returned, thoughtful now. “We’ve heard stories.”

  He straightened in his saddle.

  “Tell me,” Percival went on smoothly, “are you refusing the will of the Father?”

  Lucius shifted beside me, knuckles cracking audibly.

  “Say the word, Uncle,” he muttered. “We can take ’em all.”

  Raphael lifted one hand—not to command, but to still.

  He stepped forward, placing himself clearly between Deermarch and the host.

  “No one here belongs to you,” Raphael said. “Not their land. Not their labor. Not their souls.”

  Percival sighed, almost disappointed.

  “Such passion,” he said. “It’s always the same with border settlements. You mistake isolation for freedom.”

  His gaze drifted past us, toward the mountain path where the townsfolk had vanished.

  “You will kneel,” he said calmly. “Or you will be corrected.”

  The wind shifted.

  I felt the weight of the SIN at my side.

  The steady presence of the broken blade at my back.

  Lucius’s barely contained hunger.

  Azazel’s coiled readiness.

  Raphael did not raise his voice.

  “Turn back,” he said. “And no blood will be spilled today.”

  Percival’s grin hardened.

  “Blood,” he replied, “is how the world remembers who is right.”

  Silence fell.

  And in that silence, I understood what was being asked of me—not by the Church, not by Raphael, not even by the Father.

  But by the moment itself.

  To decide whether Deermarch would stand…

  —or be written off as another footnote in the Empire’s march.

  Percival’s smile vanished.

  He eased his horse back into formation and raised one gauntleted hand.

  “Very well,” he called coolly. “Blood it is, then.”

  Torches flared in the rear ranks.

  The first volley came screaming out of the sky—arrows tipped with fire, trailing sparks as they arced toward us like falling stars.

  Raphael exhaled.

  He clasped his hands together and bowed his head, lips moving in a prayer too quiet to hear. The air around us shifted. Wind rose suddenly, whipping dust and grit from the road into a roaring wall.

  The storm bloomed outward like a living thing.

  Arrows struck it and lost their fire, tumbling uselessly from the sky, clattering to the ground at our feet.

  Raphael opened his eyes and nodded once.

  Lucius grinned.

  He rolled his shoulders and lifted his sword, stretching his neck like a man about to sprint.

  “Say, Thomas,” he said casually, “I owe you a sword, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

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  Lucius vanished.

  One moment he was beside us—

  the next he was inside their ranks.

  Steel flashed.

  Three riders fell before anyone could scream, heads cleanly severed as Lucius carved through them in a blur of red and silver. Horses reared. Men shouted. Blood sprayed across armor that had never expected resistance.

  Azazel charged next.

  He moved like a battering ram, long club swinging in wide, brutal arcs. The first rider he struck went flying, armor crumpling as the body slammed into the dirt. Another followed, then another—men hurled from their saddles, bones snapping, bodies twisting unnaturally as they hit the ground.

  Azazel laughed once, sharp and feral.

  “Come den!” he roared. “Try harder!”

  The formation broke.

  Percival wheeled his horse back, drawing his blade and shouting over the chaos.

  “Rally!” he bellowed. “Rally, damn you!”

  He pointed his sword toward us, face twisted with fury.

  “Get those devils!” he screamed. “For the Pontiff! For the Father!”

  The riders surged forward again—less ordered now, driven by fear and fury.

  Lucius reappeared in a streak of motion, blade dripping red, already moving for the next cluster.

  Azazel stood firm, club raised, daring them to come closer.

  Raphael stepped forward, staff planted in the ground, the storm still raging around him like a living shield.

  And I—

  I stood there at the edge of the battlefield, heart pounding, the weight of every lesson pressing down on me.

  The broken blade in my hand.

  The SIN at my side.

  Deermarch behind me.

  This wasn’t rage anymore.

  This was choice.

  And as the Church bore down on us in steel and fire, I took my first step forward—

  ready to decide how I would fight…

  and what I was willing to become to protect what remained.

  A hand tapped my shoulder.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Lucius stood there, grinning like this was all a game, his blade slick and red. He pointed down at the ground at my feet.

  An assortment of swords lay scattered in the dirt—dropped, discarded, abandoned by men who wouldn’t be needing them again.

  “Pick one,” he said.

  I grabbed the first that fit my hand—a short blade, balanced, light enough to move fast.

  Lucius clapped a hand on my shoulder. Hard.

  “Ready?”

  “Wait—what?”

  The world lurched.

  Lucius pulled me forward and suddenly we were moving—no, flying—straight into the center of the host. My breath tore from my lungs as the air rushed past, my feet barely finding the ground before the next step demanded itself.

  Officers shouted desperately, trying to reform broken lines.

  Too late.

  A roar split the air.

  A column of fire spiraled down from above, slamming into the center of the formation like a living thing. It twisted and howled, a fiery wall boxing the host in—hot, violent, but somehow precise.

  The flames did not touch us.

  The Church riders panicked.

  I didn’t have time to think.

  A soldier rushed me. I stepped aside and drove my blade into his side, feeling resistance give way as he cried out and fell back. Another swung at my head—I deflected, steel ringing, and shoved him away hard enough to send him sprawling.

  My arms burned. My legs screamed.

  I kept moving.

  It became just me and Lucius, backs nearly touching, fighting in the eye of the storm. I watched him—how he stepped through attacks instead of meeting them, how his blade never stopped moving.

  I copied what I could.

  When he struck, I defended.

  When he advanced, I covered.

  When I parried, I answered.

  Kill one.

  Deflect another.

  Move.

  Breathe.

  Don’t stop.

  Raphael’s lessons anchored me—yield, redirect, stay present—while Lucius’s ferocity dragged me forward. The two styles braided together inside my body, something new forming between restraint and force.

  Pain throbbed through my bones. Sweat stung my eyes.

  But beneath it all, something surged.

  A dangerous, intoxicating rush.

  The knowledge that I could keep going.

  That I could push further.

  That I didn’t need to stop.

  It bloomed hot in my chest, whispering promises I didn’t want to examine too closely.

  For a moment—just a moment—I understood why Lucius smiled when he fought.

  And why Raphael had been so afraid of this part of the road.

  Because power felt like freedom.

  And freedom, once tasted, begged to be taken again.

  The tornado guttered out, its fire collapsing into smoke and ash.

  Lucius and I were still fighting—both of us drenched in blood, ours and theirs, muscles screaming as we swung with everything we had left. My vision tunneled, the world reduced to steel, breath, and pain.

  A voice cut through the chaos.

  “Send in the reserves!”

  Percival’s.

  My stomach dropped.

  A horn sounded—deep and rolling.

  The treeline flared to life as flaming arrows rose again, blotting out the sky before falling toward us in a burning rain.

  “Shield!” Lucius shouted.

  He kicked one toward me. I caught it clumsily and dove as he shoved me down with his weight. Arrows slammed into the shield in rapid succession, thudding and screeching as fire licked the edges. Heat washed over my face.

  Around us, men screamed—those who hadn’t found cover in time burning where they stood.

  Then came the sound of more feet.

  Closer.

  Another horn blast.

  Lucius was panting now, blood streaking his face. “We need to get back to Raphael!”

  He grabbed me by the front of my chest plate and hauled me upright.

  The world blurred as we tore through the carnage, ducking blades and bodies, slipping through gaps that shouldn’t have been there. Steel rang behind us as Lucius cut us a path.

  We burst free of the smoke just as Raphael and Azazel came into view.

  The four of us fell back together, instinctively, as another tide of fresh troops surged toward us—shields locked, weapons raised.

  Azazel roared, a sound of pure fury, swinging his club in a wide arc that sent bodies flying.

  Raphael stood just behind him, staff planted in the earth.

  His shoulders sagged.

  His breathing was shallow.

  The storm he’d held back was thinning now, uneven and frayed.

  He was exhausted.

  We looked at one another—no words, only the shared understanding passing between us.

  This fight was turning.

  And if we stayed here much longer, Deermarch would pay the price.

  The next decision wouldn’t be about how hard we could strike—

  —but about whether we could survive what was coming.