Carvon's brute force hammered against Aldric's guard, each strike a thunderclap. Elliren circled, waiting for cracks—looking for blood, for weakness, for anything.
He found none.
Aldric's wings snapped outward in a violent eruption of crimson, and the shockwave forced both nobles back a half-step—just enough.
Aldric surged.
He met Carvon first.
The Count raised his sword, mana sweeping in a wide defensive arc. Aldric didn't dodge. He stepped into it. Crimson and gold collided—sizzling, spitting, warring like rival suns. The blade cut deep into the wing's shadowed edge, ripping a trail of burning light—
—but Aldric didn't falter.
He twisted, bringing the poleaxe around in a brutal half-circle. Carvon blocked—barely—but Aldric wasn't aiming for the blade.
He was aiming for the man.
The haft slammed into Carvon's ribs with a crack that echoed across the courtyard. The noble's breath exploded out of him; he staggered, boots tearing gouges in the stone.
But Elliren was already there.
The viscount's pale-blue blade flickered—a ghost of cold fire—and thrust for Aldric's heart.
Aldric caught the blade between the hooked prongs of the poleaxe's lower guard.
The metal screamed.
Mana flared.
Elliren's eyes widened—just a fraction—before Aldric twisted. The blade ripped from the viscount's hands, skidding across the courtyard in a trail of sparks.
Aldric didn't give him time to breathe.
He stepped in and slammed his knee into Elliren's chest. The force launched the man backward—cracking armor, cracking bone—sending him skidding across wet stone until he crashed against a shattered pillar.
The viscount coughed a trickle of blood. Carvon roared.
The Count surged forward in pure fury, golden mana erupting like molten sunfire. His blade came down in a two-handed executioner's blow meant to end the fight then and there.
Aldric met it with the full weight of his poleaxe.
Steel met steel. Gold met crimson. Holy met profane.
The impact blasted rain outward in a spiraling halo.
Aldric leaned in, eyes burning with cold, murderous clarity.
> "You should've stayed put, hiding behind the knights."
Carvon gritted his teeth, muscles straining, gold mana pouring into the blade.
> "I will not yield to a demon—!"
Aldric smiled. A small one. Deadly. Inevitable.
> "Then die like one."
He shifted—subtle, perfect—letting Carvon's weight tilt just a fraction too far forward.
Then Aldric stepped aside.
The Count stumbled half a step. Just one. Enough.
Aldric drove the butt of the poleaxe into Carvon's collarbone.
Bone shattered. Golden mana burst apart. The Count screamed—
—but Aldric had already moved.
He grabbed Carvon by the throat, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him into the courtyard stone hard enough to crater it. The impact echoed, deep and violent, shaking dust from the walls.
Carvon's blade skittered away.
His mana flickered like a dying candle.
Aldric raised his poleaxe—
—but something cold sliced across his back.
He didn't turn. He felt it.
Elliren.
The viscount had retrieved his sword. He moved slower now—wounded—but still precise, still deadly. Pale-blue fire dripped from his blade as he slid into stance.
Aldric released Carvon and straightened. The cut across his back smoldered, steaming as blood and flesh knitted closed inch by inch.
Aldric rolled his shoulders.
> "Good."
His wings spread wide.
> "Get up. You bastards."
Carvon wheezed, blood bubbling at his lips.
Elliren steadied his stance, shaking but unbroken.
Aldric lowered his poleaxe, the tip dragging across the stone with a hungry hiss.
> "I don't have all day. It's about time you both die..."
His wings rose like butcher's guillotines.
> "...so who's it going to be? Which one of you bastards do I cut the head off first?"
The rain fell silent.
Even the storm held its breath.
Then—
Carvon roared.
Elliren lunged.
Aldric moved to meet them.
And the night exploded.
Elliren darted into the fray, pale-blue mana weaving through the rain in tight, lethal arcs. His precision was sharper than before—desperation honed it into something brutal. Carvon joined him a half-second later, golden mana crashing downward like a falling sun.
Aldric met both strikes at once.
> "Never mind. I'll just start randomly."
His poleaxe spun, carved, tore through the storm—blocking Carvon's overhead slash with the upper blade, catching Elliren's thrust on the haft. Their mana collided with his crimson surge, sparks flaring in all directions.
For a heartbeat, all three were locked.
Then Aldric shoved.
Carvon staggered.
Elliren slid back, boots carving twin lines into broken stone.
Aldric moved faster than either noble could recover.
He vanished between raindrops.
Reappeared in front of Elliren.
The viscount's eyes widened—too late.
Aldric's poleaxe came down in a vertical flash of crimson light, the blade screaming through the air, aimed to split Elliren from crown to sternum. The kind of blow no healer, no priest, no miracle could undo.
Elliren didn't even have time to raise his blade.
The poleaxe fell.
And stopped.
A ring of steel.
A burst of flame.
A shockwave of exploding mana.
A sword—wreathed in roaring holy fire—caught the downward arc by a hair. The collision sent rain spiraling upward in a burst of steam.
Aldric's eyes narrowed.
Standing between him and the nearly-dead viscount was—
Lucan Calvorn.
The flame knight from earlier, now without his helmet.
The one whose shield had been shattered by Aldric's first strike.
The one whose holy fire had sputtered and died against the rain.
But now—
His flame burned brighter.
Hotter.
More desperate.
His entire arm was wrapped in searing white-gold fire, robes half-incinerated, armor glowing. He braced every muscle against Aldric's crushing strength, boots carving trenches through the stone as he held, trembling—
But he held.
Elliren gasped behind him, clutching his chest, breath hitching.
Lucan didn't look back.
Aldric pushed harder.
The flame knight's knees buckled.
Holy fire cracked under crimson force.
The poleaxe pressed down, inch by inch, toward Lucan's face.
Aldric's voice was low. Deadly. Almost impressed.
> "You again."
Lucan's flame surged wildly—
—and Carvon struck.
Golden mana carved a sweeping arc toward Aldric's flank, forcing him to disengage. Aldric twisted away, wings flaring wide, landing in a sliding half-turn across the slick stone.
Three opponents stood before him now:
Carvon, golden blade raised, bleeding but unbowed.
Elliren, trembling but alive, pale-blue flame flickering defiantly.
Lucan, sword blazing like a dying star, breathing hard, refusing to fall.
Aldric twirled the poleaxe once.
Crimson mana rippled at his feet.
His wings unfurled, casting monstrous shadows.
His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
> "So be it."
He pointed the poleaxe at them.
> "I'll make sure to kill all three of you tonight.
So be good little boys—
and stay right where you are."