Cephus arched a brow, then offered a slow, theatrical bow from his saddle, his scarred cheek dimpling with false humility.
"Belanor of the Temporal Drape," he said with a mocking smile. "I must admit, I never thought I'd have the pleasure. To stand in the presence of a legend… Truly, I'm honored."
Belanor didn't smile. His voice came cold and razor-sharp.
"Pity the feeling's not mutual. I usually reserve my respect for men who don't polish the Emperor's boots with their tongues."
A ripple passed through the soldiers behind Cephus—some chuckled nervously, others shifted uneasily in their saddles, unsure if they should laugh or brace for bloodshed.
Cephus's smile twitched. Not quite gone. Not quite intact.
"You really shouldn't speak so lightly of those who serve His Radiance," he said, voice lowering, the flattery now laced with warning. "Mocking the Flame Emperor is not just foolish… it's suicidal."
Belanor stepped forward, his cloak dragging a whisper through the dust.
"I don't take kindly to threats," he said, evenly. "Especially from lapdogs wearing stolen gold."
The words hung in the air like smoke above dry grass.
The two men locked eyes.
Cephus's gaze was sharp and calculating, like a hawk weighing the wind before the strike. Belanor's eyes, however, were colder. Still. As if time itself dared not move within them.
A silence pressed in. Thick. Heavy.
The soldiers around them, once amused, were now deathly quiet. Hands rested a little closer to sword hilts. Horses snorted and shifted nervously beneath armored legs. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for the first move.
Reiner stood frozen behind Belanor, his mouth dry, heart hammering. He felt it too—that unspoken pull between two men who might, at any second, shatter the space between them.
One would attack.
The other would end it.
Cephus chuckled, the sound brittle and cold.
"So that's how it is, then? A washed-up war hero making his final stand in the dirt."
He raised his hand and gestured to the soldiers around him.
"Let's see how that fancy time-warping magic holds up against sixteen seasoned blades of His Royal Majesty's army."
Belanor's expression didn't shift. His voice came low, level, and absolute.
"Come at me. And you'll all die here."
The lieutenant's smile vanished. His eyes narrowed.
"Take his head," Cephus barked. "And bring me the boy intact."
The soldiers kicked their spurs into their mounts, hooves tearing into the dry earth as they surged forward in unison—silver and crimson blurs of motion, banners whipping behind them like tongues of flame.
The ground thundered.
Reiner gasped and stepped back.
"Don't move," Belanor said calmly, stepping once to the side to shield him. His hand reached behind his back and drew a strange weapon from beneath his cloak—no ordinary blade, but a dark, obsidian rod etched with shifting alien runes that shimmered faintly, alive with some ancient intelligence.
It elongated with a mechanical click-hum, forming a blade unlike anything forged by mortal smiths. The air shimmered around it.
The first line of cavalry reached them—and shattered against the invisible wall.
A translucent dome flickered into view around Belanor, a distortion in the air like heat rising from stone. Horses collided with it head-on, necks twisting violently, riders thrown like dolls.
One horse struck the barrier with such force that it reared back, lost its balance, and came crashing down. The beast's scream was sharp and panicked as it fell sideways—crushing the leg of its rider beneath it with a sickening crack. The soldier screamed in agony, rolling and clawing at the dust as his armor bent grotesquely around his shattered limb. Dirt clouded the air.
Another soldier leapt from his horse and charged on foot. As soon as he entered the shimmer of Belanor's magic, time buckled around him. His sword slowed, arm dragging as if moving through syrup. His body twisted in confusion as the magic stole speed from his limbs.
Belanor turned sharply, stepped past the slowed arc of the blade, and in one motion—clean and elegant—drove his sword into the man's chest.
A second soldier closed in from the flank. His spear hit the shield and bounced off with a burst of blue light. Before he could recover, Belanor spun low and swept his leg, toppling him backward. In the same motion, he plunged his blade down into the man's exposed neck.
Another came screaming from behind, axe raised—only for the weapon to freeze inches from Belanor's back. The soldier's eyes widened in disbelief as his body locked, paralyzed by the force bubble.
Belanor pivoted, fluid as wind, and drove his blade straight into the man's ribs.
The Temporal Drape shimmered again, surging in intensity. More soldiers slammed against it. Swords bent, arrows slowed midair, some floating uselessly to the ground.
Reiner stood frozen just beyond the dome, staring in awe. He could barely track the fight—Belanor moved like smoke and shadow, untouched and unshaken.
The ground was littered with broken steel, groaning men, and crumpled horses. Blood darkened the dust.
Still, Belanor stood tall, cloak flaring in the wind, his obsidian blade humming with residual power.
Six soldiers down. Others hesitated now, circling, unsure if they faced a man—or something else entirely.
"Marvelous," Cephus chuckled, clapping slowly, the sound hollow against the silence left by the fallen soldiers. "Just what I'd expect from a man whose head is worth five hundred gold."
With a slow, deliberate motion, he swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. His boots landed heavily in the dirt, raising a puff of dust. He adjusted his gilded shoulder plate as he stood tall, eyes fixed on Belanor with a look that was part admiration, part predator sizing up his prey.
The white Andalusian snorted behind him, its breath misting in the morning air. Cephus began walking forward with the casual grace of someone utterly convinced he was still in control.
"The fact that you're willing to throw your life away for this boy…" he said, gesturing at Reiner without looking at him, "confirms what many in the capital dismissed as rumor. A bedtime story. A ghost tale."
He stopped a few paces from the edge of the Temporal Drape. His face grew thoughtful.
"Tell me, Belanor. Have you seen it with your own eyes? The demon? The fire inside him?"
Belanor didn't blink. "Yes."
That one word—calm and cold—carried the weight of truth.
Cephus tilted his head slightly, a dark smile curling his lips. There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—calculation, envy, maybe even fear.
"I see now why the boy is of interest to you," he said, voice smooth but laced with venom. "But I can't let you have him. Not you, of all people."
He took another step forward, letting the moment hang.
"You were once a hero of the Empire, Belanor. A decorated commander. A name children memorized. Now look at you—reduced to a fugitive, wasting your life protecting a cursed child who should've been drowned at birth."
His hand moved toward the hilt of his sword.
"In another life, perhaps, I would have spared you. Given you a soldier's death."
He paused, his tone darkening, his expression hardening like iron.
"But now… I will kill you here. And the boy, too. Slowly. Publicly. I'll drag his corpse back to the Emperor myself."
The air tensed.
It was like the world stopped breathing.
Dust swirled at their feet, silent witnesses to the duel building in the silence. The wind dropped. Even the remaining soldiers held back, unsure whether to move or watch. The birds in the trees had gone still.
Reiner stood behind Belanor, frozen, his breath caught in his throat. The pressure in the air was suffocating—thick with the promise of violence. He could feel it coming, like the charge before lightning.
Two men. One battle. And the fate of something ancient and dangerous caught in between.
Cephus closed his eyes, and for a moment, the world held its breath.
Then—he exhaled.
The wind responded like a summoned beast.
At first, it was just a whisper—a low hum weaving through the grass. Then it rose. Fierce and sudden. The air around him twisted and churned, the sky above dimming as clouds scattered under unseen pressure. Loose debris danced at his feet. His crimson cloak whipped violently around him, and the dust at his boots spun into miniature cyclones.
The soldiers stepped back instinctively, shielding their eyes. Even the horses reared and snorted, hooves stamping in nervous protest.
Cephus raised one hand with surgical precision.
With a flick of his wrist—the wind screamed.
A massive crescent of compressed air exploded forward, slicing through the battlefield like a blade sent by the gods. The ground tore in its wake, a gouge of shredded earth trailing its path.
One unlucky soldier—still groaning and trying to rise—was caught directly in its path. The wind cleaved through him like paper, splitting his body at the waist. A choked scream died instantly in his throat as his upper half tumbled away from his legs, blood erupting into the storm.
Reiner cried out in horror and turned away, but the scream never came from Belanor.
The wave crashed into Belanor's Temporal Drape—and faltered.
The dome shimmered violently under the impact, like rippling glass catching a thunderclap. The magic held. But the wind did not simply vanish—it deflected, shrieking outward in wild, redirected force.
To the left, the redirected gust slammed into a cluster of trees. For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then—crack. Snap. Boom.
Thick oaks and pines exploded in showers of bark and splinters. The trunks split in half, some sheared cleanly as if by invisible axes. Others groaned as they fell, crashing through branches, pulling vines and leaves down with them. One collapsed toward the road, striking the ground with a thunderous thud that shook the dirt.
Dust surged high into the air, blanketing the scene in a swirling cloud of chaos.
And in the middle of it all stood Belanor—untouched.
His cloak fluttered behind him, and his obsidian sword gleamed faintly. He hadn't moved a step.
When the dust finally began to settle, the Temporal Drape still shimmered around him—faint but firm. Reiner stood behind it, staring in wide-eyed disbelief.
Cephus lowered his arm, a hint of surprise flickering in his eyes. He had meant to maim. To kill. But Belanor's magic had held.
And worse—it hadn't even cracked.
Belanor tilted his head slightly, like a predator intrigued by a new challenger.
"You missed," he said flatly.
Cephus let out a low, sinister chuckle.
"My, my… your magic is as formidable as they say," he mused, brushing dust from his shoulder. "But it has limits, doesn't it? A time limit... or perhaps it guzzles mana like a dying man gulps water."
His eyes glinted with cruel satisfaction.
"I'll keep hammering at it—over and over—until your little time trick runs dry. And then we'll see how sharp that tongue of yours is when you're bleeding in the dirt."
Belanor remained still, but his jaw tightened.
The lieutenant wasn't wrong.
The Temporal Drape had held firm, but even now, Belanor could feel the edges beginning to fray. His reserves were dwindling. The time distortion spell—elegant, ancient, and energy-intensive—was gnawing through his mana like fire through paper. If he didn't finish this soon, both he and Reiner would be left defenseless.
Then, with a sweep of his arm, Cephus unleashed another blast of wind.
And another.
And another.
Each wave slammed into the Drape like a hammer against glass. The barrier flickered. The protective hum that once sang steadily in Belanor's ears now pulsed erratically. Tiny cracks of airflow began leaking through. He could feel it—air brushing his cheek where there had been none before. The shield was weakening.
Cephus stepped closer now, narrowing the distance, ensuring every attack hit harder.
That... was a mistake.
A fatal one.
Belanor's eyes narrowed. His pulse steadied. One trick remained. A last gambit baked into the design of the Drape—an automatic discharge. When the magic collapsed, it released a violent repelling force, expelling everything in close proximity like a reverse implosion.
And Cephus… had wandered too close.
As the shield finally gave out, it detonated outward with a deep, thrumming boom—a ripple of kinetic force, like a pressure wave unleashed from the heart of a storm.
Cephus's instincts kicked in just in time. He threw up a compressed wind barrier around himself—bracing against the blast.
But the others weren't so lucky.
The remaining soldiers were lifted clean off their feet. Some slammed into trees with bone-snapping force. Others crashed into each other or were thrown like ragdolls into the dirt. A horse let out a piercing whinny as it flipped backward, hooves flailing midair before it collapsed with a sickening thud. Metal clanged, armor cracked, bones shattered.
Dust surged into the sky like smoke from an explosion.
And through it—Belanor surged forward.
Cephus was still shielding, momentarily stunned by the force. He never saw the obsidian blade until it was buried deep in his gut.
Belanor's voice was low, lethal.
"Never let your guard down, Empire dog."
He twisted the blade.
Cephus gasped, his eyes going wide, filled with disbelief, fury—and pain. Blood welled in his mouth as he staggered back, stumbling once, then again. Belanor wrenched the sword free, and the lieutenant dropped to his knees.
"Curse you…" he rasped, his voice a dying breath, "Belanor… of the Temporal Drape…"
His body collapsed sideways into the dirt, hand clutching his gut as blood soaked through the gaps in his golden-plated armor. His eyes stared blankly into the morning sky, slowly losing light.
Reiner stepped out from behind Belanor, boots crunching over broken spears and scattered shields. His breath caught in his throat.
The field was carnage.
Soldiers lay strewn across the earth like discarded dolls—some unconscious, others groaning in pain. A leg twisted the wrong way. A gauntlet-covered hand clutching nothing. A horse half-pinned beneath a tree, its broken back exposed. Blood pooled where bodies had fallen, mixing with dust and leaves.
Reiner couldn't look away.
"What was that power?" he asked, his voice hoarse, almost afraid of the answer.
Belanor turned slightly, his expression distant.
"I'll explain later," he said. "Right now, we move. The Empire knows where we are now. They'll come back, and next time, they won't underestimate us."
They glanced around—and saw Reiner's dray horse, collapsed, legs twisted beneath it. It had caught a piece of the storm and hadn't survived.
But Cephus's white Andalusian still stood nearby, nervously stomping the earth, reins trailing. Belanor stepped forward and grabbed them, leading the horse toward Reiner.
"You ride this now," he said. "Keep up."
They mounted swiftly. Belanor on his black warhorse, Reiner on the pale steed once ridden by the Empire's pride.
As they turned toward the winding path that led into the misty peaks of Vandera, Reiner couldn't help but glance back.
Back at the broken bodies.
The twisted limbs.
The blood.
The stillness.
And one name echoed in his mind, louder than the screams had been:
Belanor Thor'don.
Was this what it meant… to be a mage?
To walk through fire and leave it burning behind you.