The circle had closed.
The world beyond was nothing but a blur of screaming men and clashing steel, but Ryon no longer saw them. The roar of the southern ranks, the thunder of the northern drums, the endless gnash of battle—they had receded like waves pulling back from shore. What remained was silence and fire, a furnace of air and blood.
The circle was carved not by hands, but by violence. Soldiers—north and south alike—had drawn back, forming an unspoken boundary. None dared cross it. Here, two men fought, and all knew that the war in the gorge would be decided by which of them still stood when the circle closed at last.
Ryon's body was already a ruin. His ribs grated with each breath, sharp and jagged as shattered stone. Blood seeped freely from his side, dripping in a steady rhythm onto the churned mud. His blade trembled faintly in his grip, his strength stripped raw, but his eyes—storm-lit, unyielding—held fast.
