The square of Veyra's Crossing became a furnace of steel and blood. The Ashen Crown's riders pressed like a wall, their movements drilled, not like mercenaries but like soldiers of an old dynasty reborn. Their lances and blades carried weight—not just of steel, but of lineage, of centuries of sovereign blood behind them.
Kael met their leader in the eye of the storm. Ashrend burned in his grip, its edge humming with the hunger of crimson lightning. Across from him, the gaunt commander's gray fire licked at his blade, a cold flame that seemed to erode the air itself.
Their duel ignited with a shattering clang.
Ashrend's red arcs carved deep furrows into the cobblestones, colliding with the commander's pale flame that corroded whatever it touched. Each strike was a battle of wills, sparks flying as their powers clashed—Kael's raw, storm-born ferocity against centuries of disciplined tradition.
"You carry a thief's mark," the commander spat, locking blades with Kael. "The Brand belongs to sovereign blood. To wear it without right is blasphemy."
Kael's crimson aura flared. "If sovereignty means burning kingdoms to ash, then I'll wear your blasphemy proudly."
With a roar, Kael shoved the man back, his next swing exploding in a wave of black-red lightning that split three riders apart.
Around them, the companions fought desperately.
Darric braced himself against a tide of armored knights, his shield ringing with blows. Each strike that landed against him was deflected with sheer grit, his counter-swings crushing lances and splintering armor. Blood already streaked his brow, but his defiance was immovable.
"Come on then!" he bellowed, smashing a rider from his saddle. "You'll break before I do!"
Lyra's arrows sang in deadly rhythm. From a rooftop perch she had claimed in the first moments of chaos, her bow unleashed silver shafts that found gaps in helmets, joints in plate. Every time Kael was pressed, her arrow was there to cut his path open. Her eyes burned with focus, but her heart hammered—this wasn't like hunting brigands or mercenaries. These foes fought with conviction.
Isryn, hands glowing, carved radiant sigils into the ground. Wards exploded beneath horses, forcing them to rear and throwing riders violently to the dirt. Threads of light wrapped Kael when he faltered, sealing wounds before they could spill too much blood.
But even Isryn staggered when a trio of Crown sorcerers stepped into the fight, their gray fire weaving into runes that corroded his magic.
The clash dragged on, becoming a storm within the city itself. Walls cracked, taverns burned, and the people of Veyra's Crossing fled as their streets became a battlefield for thrones.
The gaunt commander never relented. His pale fire sliced through Kael's cloak, eating away at fabric and flesh alike. He moved with regal precision, every strike measured, every word meant to break Kael's will.
"You fight like a beast," he hissed. "But you are nothing more than the blade of another man's destiny. The Ashen Crown bows to no pretender."
Kael's teeth clenched. Sparks hissed where blood dripped from his arm onto Ashrend's hilt.
"Then I'll carve a crown of ash from your corpse."
He swung, Ashrend's crimson storm surging in a devastating arc. The commander parried, gray fire clashing with red lightning, the impact tearing the square apart.
The duel became its own world. The companions could only glimpse it between their own desperate battles, Kael's aura blazing like a stormfront against the cold, devouring flame.
And yet—even as Kael pressed harder—more riders poured in, their discipline unbroken, their formation adapting. For every one that fell, another rose to take their place.
The Ashen Crown did not come to test Kael. They came to claim him—or to bury him.