Ser Drummond lounged in a battered wooden chair like a king without a crown, legs crossed, pipe clenched between his teeth. His eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, scanned the ring of soldiers that had gathered — a rough circle of sweat-slicked bodies and grinning mouths. The heat bore down like a smothering blanket, and the air shimmered with it, heavy with dust, smoke, and anticipation.
It had been six days since Lieutenant Cephus had set out for Tar, chasing the Emperor's fire-boned phantom. He hadn't returned.
Drummond wasn't concerned.
There was no room for worry here — not with the noise, not with the spectacle before him.
The soldiers roared around the circle, jeering and hollering with the wild delight of men who'd seen too much war and not enough fun. They slapped backs, stomped boots, and called bets with fists full of coins. Their voices tangled in a crude symphony — half celebration, half bloodlust.
"Break his ribs, Broc!"
"Come on, Tyto! Dance, you twig!"
"Loser buys us the next round of sweat-water!"
In the center of the circle, two shirtless men circled each other, bare torsos gleaming with heat and effort.
Broc — broad as a bear and twice as hairy — snarled behind a chipped greatsword that looked more like a slab of iron than a blade. Scars crisscrossed his chest like old war paint. He bared his teeth and charged with a roar.
"Give him hell, Broc!" someone shouted.
The other man, Tyto, was a whipcord shadow in the sun. Lean, scarred, and sharp-eyed, he ducked under Broc's wild swing with serpent grace. The oversized sword missed by inches, kicking up a spray of dust.
Drummond exhaled a slow plume of smoke, watching the clash with mild interest, as if it were just another shift in weather. The crack of steel, the cheers of men, the stink of sweat — all of it rolled over him like waves on ice.
If Cephus was dead, he'd find out eventually.
Until then, the fights went on.
Steel rang against steel — harsh, biting, echoing across the tight ring of soldiers like war drums. Broc swung with brute force, his greatsword cleaving through the air in wide, savage arcs that would have split lesser men in two. But each strike met nothing but dust and air.
Tyto danced.
He moved like smoke on a battlefield — fast, fluid, impossible to pin down. Where Broc was muscle and fury, Tyto was precision and rhythm. His twin blades flashed in the sun, glinting like polished fangs. He weaved between Broc's swings, blades kissing the air, feet gliding across the packed dirt with uncanny grace.
"Hold still, damn you!" Broc bellowed, sweat flying from his brow as he launched another vicious strike.
Tyto ducked low, narrowly avoiding the blade, and slid past Broc's exposed flank. A thin line of red bloomed across the larger man's ribs — shallow, but sharp enough to sting.
The circle of soldiers exploded with noise.
"Oooh!"
"He's bleeding now!"
"Twist the blade, Tyto!"
Broc snarled and spun, swinging wide again. Tyto sidestepped with maddening ease, then slapped the flat of his blade against Broc's shoulder — a taunt as much as a strike. The blow rang out like a bell, and the crowd roared.
"You son of a—!" Broc charged forward in a bull-like rush.
Tyto didn't back away.
He stepped into the charge, blades moving in a blur — one slicing low, the other high. The first caught Broc's thigh, just above the knee. The second smacked the side of his helmet, sending him staggering sideways.
Broc dropped to one knee, panting, his chest heaving like a bellows. Blood dripped down his leg, and his grip on the hilt faltered. The sword that once moved like a battering ram now felt like a slab of iron chained to his arms.
Tyto circled him, breathing steady, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Broc swung weakly — a desperate backhand meant more to threaten than hit.
Tyto knocked it aside with ease, then stepped in close, the tip of one blade resting lightly against Broc's neck.
A hush fell over the circle.
Broc looked up, chest still heaving. Tyto gave him a small, almost respectful nod — then stepped back, lowering his blades.
The circle erupted again — this time with cheers, hoots, and laughter.
"That's two wins in a row!"
"Broc's gonna feel that in his pride!"
"Buy that man a drink before he dances through the next dozen!"
On his wooden chair, Ser Drummond clapped once. Just once. The sound was soft, but carried enough weight to hush the rowdiest among them. Smoke curled from his lips as he spoke, voice dry and amused.
"Well," he said, "at least someone knows how to stay alive without being ten feet tall."
He leaned back, pipe smoldering, eyes distant again.
Still no word from Cephus.
But perhaps soon.
A soldier pushed his way through the ring of cheering men, breath ragged, face slick with sweat and urgency.
"Captain!" he called, voice barely rising above the noise.
He tried again, louder this time. "Captain Drummond!"
Drummond, still reclined in his wooden chair, lifted his head slightly. A plume of smoke curled from his nose as he exhaled.
"Hmm?" he murmured, voice slow and lazy as melting snow. "Go on then. Spit it out before you swallow your own tongue."
The soldier stepped closer and raised his voice above the clamor. "Riders, Ser! Coming in fast!"
Drummond tapped the ash from his pipe. "Ours?"
"Yes, Ser... Two of them." The man hesitated, brow creased. "One looks like Lieutenant Cephus."
Drummond's brow twitched faintly. He had sent sixteen soldiers to Tar. Why were there only two?
He uncrossed his legs and rose, brushing ash from his tunic with a yawn. "Take me to him," he said, his voice still lazy, but his eyes now sharp.
---
They found Cephus slumped near a supply tent, stripped of his armor, shirt soaked in blood and dust. A healer stood nearby, but Cephus waved him off and gripped a huge tin mug with both hands, guzzling water like a man just dragged from a desert. It spilled down his chin and chest, but he didn't stop until the mug was empty.
"Lieutenant." Drummond's voice cracked like a whip.
Cephus flinched, lowering the mug. He was pale and trembling, face drawn and blood-specked. "Ser," he rasped, still panting from the effort.
Drummond's eyes narrowed. "Where's the rest of my squad?"
Cephus hesitated, then met his Captain's gaze.
"Gone, Ser… All of them. The entire unit was wiped out."
The silence that followed was cold and immediate, as if someone had smothered the sun.
Drummond's voice lost all trace of drawl. It dropped low, cold and direct. "What do you mean, annihilated? Did you find the bone demon?"
"Not exactly," Cephus said, shifting uncomfortably. His eyes flicked to the ground.
Drummond raised an eyebrow, waiting. The silence stretched.
Cephus swallowed. "We found a boy, Ser. The one they claim is the demon… but he never used fire. Not once."
Drummond blinked slowly. "Then you were overwhelmed… by a boy without magic?"
Cephus's face twisted, something between fear and disbelief. He looked haunted.
"I think he is what they say he is…" he whispered, voice strained. "But he wasn't alone."
He paused — then looked Drummond in the eye, terrified.
"He was with Belanor Thor'don, Ser."
The air between them seemed to drop ten degrees.
Drummond's features changed — not fear, not quite — but something close to reverent dread. Recognition flickered in his eyes like a ghost.
"Belanor," he muttered. "You confronted him?"
"I didn't know who he was at first," Cephus said quickly. "You told me to run if the skeleton demon was real… I didn't expect Belanor to be the real threat."
Drummond's jaw clenched.
"You should've run anyway," he snapped. "That man is death in a cloak. He's ended entire squads alone."
Cephus nodded faintly. "He nearly ended me, Ser. Cut me down clean. I would've died… but I brought a soldier with healing magic, just in case."
He paused, breath hitching. "I told him to follow at a distance in case something went wrong. He found me bleeding out… and patched me together."
Drummond fell silent, jaw tight, eyes distant in thought.
"Where did they go?" he asked finally. "The boy and Belanor."
"West," Cephus answered. "They were heading for the Mountains of Vandera."
A long, low whistle escaped Drummond's lips. "Clever bastard," he murmured. "He knows the Empire won't follow him there."
Cephus gave a wary nod. "We can't break peace with the Mages. Vandera is neutral ground — sacred to the magic accords."
Drummond's expression darkened — then slowly, a cold smile curved across his face.
"No… but the Emperor's obsession with this fireborn whelp might tip the scales. If Belanor's sheltering him, the Emperor won't care about treaties."
He turned toward the war tent, voice hardening with purpose.
"I'll write to His Majesty. If Belanor truly harbors the flame-born, we'll smoke them out — even if it means dragging the Empire into war with Vandera's mages."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Make no mistake, Cephus — this time, the Emperor will give the order."