Arion's face, so often composed in wary silence, now blossomed with a smile—one he did not will, and could not contain.
It came not from amusement, nor from vanity, but from a peculiar kind of clarity that arrives only in the most perilous moments, when breath runs shallow and the heart begins its solemn drum.
A thrill stirred within him—not the brash excitement of youth, nor the hollow defiance of a man courting death, but a deeper, steadier flame.
It was the thrill of purpose, of being measured not by blood or station, but by one's own hands, one's own will.
He had known many long hours under the weight of instruction, the heat of training, and the quiet isolation that came with such rigor. Now, in the face of true danger, he felt, curiously, at peace.
Opposite him stood Cedrik, whose face was drawn into an expression at once triumphant and bitter.
There was a sourness in it, as though the very act of command left a taste he could not rid himself of.
Four guards stood at his flanks, each one still and silent as stone pillars, though the glint in their eyes betrayed their readiness.
"Kill him," Cedrik said, almost carelessly, as if the words themselves held no weight to him.
The guards moved with practiced ease—no fanfare, no shouting. Like wolves encircling a lone stag, they closed in on Arion, certain that the outcome had already been writ.
But Arion did not see them as they wished to be seen.
He had looked into such eyes before—had faced men who relied on numbers, on intimidation, on overwhelming force.
And he had learned—quietly, and thoroughly—that steel is only as strong as the hand which guides it.
He moved.
A single step brought him toward the first guard.
His sword, light in his hand and silent in its arc, swept for the neck—a fatal stroke, had another not stepped forward to block it. The clash rang sharp in the chamber, like the toll of a bell at dusk.
Arion dropped low, feeling the blade pass above him, so close it stirred his hair. From his crouch he kicked out—one clean motion—sending the first man to the ground.
He rose before the guard could fall.
Turning, he struck with his foot, and the blow landed squarely against the man's chest.
There was a terrible crack—wood, perhaps, or bone—and the guard tumbled backwards through the balustrade, vanishing over the edge.
A breath passed, and then the dull sound of impact below.
No time to reflect.
Another blade whistled toward him. He twisted aside, parried out of instinct more than thought, and danced backwards—feet skimming over scattered debris, eyes never still.
A second guard came for his neck, and Arion ducked beneath the strike, his body moving with the economy of someone who had practiced this very motion a thousand times.
But the world is never without its surprises.
A wooden chair, thrown with all the force of rage and humiliation, struck Arion's side. The world lurched. Pain bloomed.
He stumbled, lost footing, and barely caught the next strike with his blade. The force of it was immense—it jarred his arm, sent fire through his shoulder, and pressed his own sword back into him.
He hissed as blood warmed the linen beneath his tunic.
Still he did not fall.
With a breath drawn through clenched teeth, Arion flung himself backward, creating space as his chest rose and fell with exertion.
Then came the shift.
Drawing upon the quiet, well-practiced magic that slept beneath his skin, Arion raised both hands. A wave of force—gentle in shape, but immense in strength—burst outward. It flung the guards away like leaves scattered before an autumn wind.
And then—all was still.
Dust floated like mist.
The room, once so finely kept, now lay strewn with broken chairs, overturned tables, and the dull glimmer of spent weapons. The silence was not restful, but thick with aftermath.
Arion steadied himself.
He drew a breath—one, then another.
And Cedrik, as if undisturbed by the wreckage, stepped forward with the same arrogance he had always worn like a cloak.
"You dodge well for an abomination," he said, the words spoken with a false gentleness that made them cut all the more deeply. "But let us see how you fare against this."
A light began to gather in Cedrik's palm—no soft candle-flame, but something red and roiling, restless and unkind. It pulsed with a hunger not born of this world.
Then he cast it forward.
Arion did not move to flee.
Though his shoulder throbbed with pain, he raised his hand—not in surrender, but in defiance—and called upon the barrier. A shield unfolded before him, gleaming faintly like pearl beneath moonlight.
The spell struck.
Light crashed upon light. Heat, sound, and fury met in an instant.
The room erupted—chairs splintered, windows shattered, the very air seemed to scream. For a heartbeat, the shield endured.