The sounds of swords echoed through the city, ricocheting off arches and the narrow houses within the bronze walls.
Cries intertwined with steel — pain, command, fervor — vibrating in the living heart of the fortress.
Amid the chaos, there was silence around him.
Éreon stood tall, his heavy cloak tearing through the wind stained with dust and blood.
Before him, kneeling, the warrior held one hand against the ground, her chest heaving, her eyes burning — but without fear.
He watched her as one examines a rare metal.
"Your way of fighting is unlike anything I've ever seen," he said, voice low, steady, without praise or contempt — only truth.
The warrior lifted her chin, sweat sliding down a face marked by scars of discipline, not defeat.
"It's not 'different' — it's necessary."
Her voice did not tremble.
"I don't dance for curious eyes; I dance so my sisters can return home. My blade speaks for me: fast, clean, and without applause."
The dust still quivered when he stepped forward — the presence of a predator, gaze heavier than any sword.
"Who are you?" Éreon asked, not out of curiosity, but as a conqueror demanding worth before the end.
She did not bow.
"I am a daughter of Abomey — an Agojie."
Her jaw was firm, her pride unbreakable.
"And that's more than you need to know."
Éreon's eyes deepened into violet, alive and vast — a vortex seemed to swirl in his pupils, a restrained storm ready to erupt.
"Daughter of Abomey…"
The tone carried something rare: respect forged in war, not spoken in vanity.
"Then may your gods receive you standing."
He raised his hand for the final strike —
But fate does not accept silence so easily.
A whistle tore the air.
A spear cut through the wind, straight toward his neck.
Éreon tilted his head by mere inches — an exact movement, pure economy — and the tip sliced through the void where his temple had been.
At the same moment, the kneeling warrior seized the shaft, turning her hips to gain distance.
The second was already advancing from the flank. They were not two — they were a single intent.
The exchange began.
The first Agojie lunged without warning.
Short step.
Aligned shoulders.
The spear came low first, then rose in a thrust aimed straight at his chest.
Éreon leaned his torso right, pivoting his foot on the ground.
The tip scraped the edge of his tunic.
At the same time, his left hand slid along the wood, finding the shaft near its center.
He did not grip — he redirected.
A quick wrist twist, pushing the weapon's axis away from the warrior's body line.
She lost half a step of stability.
Before she could recover, the second Agojie was already at his flank, short blade aiming for his ribs.
Éreon turned his hips toward the attack — not to evade, but to enter its line.
His right forearm rose, intercepting the motion, blocking from inside out.
The impact of metal against bone vibrated, but he absorbed it with a relaxed shoulder.
Immediate counter: his right hand slid down her arm until it reached her wrist — a swift grip — and he pressed it downward as he advanced one step, nullifying the cut.
The first recovered the spear and spun it, sweeping for his legs.
Éreon shifted his weight to the left leg, his right pulling half a step back.
The sweep cut through empty air.
He lowered his center of gravity, his left hand touching the shaft once more — a short jolt.
The spear struck the ground and trembled.
The second attacker tried to seize the opening.
An elbow rose in an arc toward his chin.
Éreon lifted his forearm to absorb the blow and, in the same motion, leaned forward and locked his hand on her shoulder — fingers on the collarbone, thumb pressed behind the trapezius.
A pulse of violet energy — short, precise.
There was no flash, only involuntary muscular contraction.
Her arm failed; the blade fell half an inch midair, a dead line.
The first drew back the spear to pierce his neck.
Éreon turned his hips and entered the strike again — minimal advance, half a step — his shoulder brushing her body.
His hand struck the center of the shaft, near her grip — a dry stop.
The energy launched no one.
It simply interrupted momentum, as if the weapon weighed triple for an instant.
Both stepped back, synchronized, breathing steady.
Éreon straightened his posture, arms relaxed, feet grounded with light precision.
No wasted gesture.
No word.
Only pure combat.
They began to circle him.
Short steps, feet sliding low on the ground, measured rhythm — two lines hunting a fixed point.
It was not choreography.
It was predatory.
Éreon stood still in the center.
Breath loose.
Hands relaxed, fingers close but not clenched — as if feeling the air, not threatening it.
The Agojie on the right moved first.
Quick base switch, body low, the spear's tip sweeping horizontal toward his knee.
Éreon moved only his hips.
Left foot pivoted five centimeters outward — attack line lost.
The spear brushed empty air.
Immediately, the second came in — elbow aimed for his temple, short strike, no warning.
Éreon lifted his forearm, not to block, but to brace the strike along his own axis.
The impact died within him, absorbed by the soft drop of his shoulder.
She locked the elbow into the brace and turned to snare his neck.
Her partner adjusted footing — spear rising to close the angle.
Dual motion.
Trained.
Lethal.
Éreon lowered his center of gravity — not retreating, invading their line.
His hand struck the warrior's hip, thumb pressing into her tensor.
A snap of involuntary pain.
Her stance gave half a palm's width.
The second came with a thrust — short, quick, aimed at his ribs.
He rotated his torso into the attack, forearm pressing down on her wrist, not striking — fixing.
His left palm pushed her elbow down, breaking the spear's mechanics mid-line.
Dead vector.
The first tried to hook his leg to throw him.
Éreon stepped back the exact distance required, letting her hook catch only air.
Her weight lurched forward from inertia.
He touched the back of her neck with two fingers,
a brief pressure at the base — energy like a dry neural spark.
Her leg failed for half a second.
Enough.
The second switched weapons — short blade drawn from her hip, high diagonal cut.
Éreon entered the line of the strike.
Simple.
Direct.
His hand pressed against her triceps, pulling the arm down, his shoulder locking against her chest — a death clinch.
She tried to push her hips to create space.
He slid his foot forward, trapping the motion — removing her leg from beneath her axis.
Posture broken.
He did not strike.
He released.
Allowing them to return to the circle.
They stepped back half a pace, eyes steady, breath aligned, their bodies already turning before their feet met the ground.
Éreon remained still.
Eyes calm.
And he measured them as one weighs warriors, not enemies.
Then —
A roar split the sky.
Not the sound of a beast.
The sound of a wounded, starving, enraged divinity.
Shadows stretched across the ruins of the City of Bronze.
Something colossal passed over the shattered walls.
The ground shuddered.
Gunfire echoed — sharp, rapid, from the heights of collapsing buildings.
Projectiles cut through the air toward the Agojie.
They retreated in unison, defensive stance, sliding backward without turning their backs — warriors trained never to expose the flank to the unknown.
The ground still quaked as Éreon's army resumed its march — shields raised, steps synchronized, a moving wall of black armor advancing in rhythm.
As they neared, the ranks parted without ceremony, forming a corridor that swallowed the prince in its center.
Éreon remained motionless, a living statue, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"You took your time," he said, voice restrained and dry, measuring each syllable.
Marcus approached, breath short, dust on his armor and the look of a man bearing bad news, yet holding them in.
"After the explosion, My lord, the men scattered," Marcus reported.
Éreon did not turn his gaze.
"And the shots just now?"
"They were the first today." Marcus nodded. "Since we don't have much ammunition left, we followed orders. We finished the remnants on the walls with riders and archers."
Éreon inclined his chin slightly, assessing the field.
"The sun sets in a few hours," Marcus continued, pointing west. "Showing we still have weapons will help pressure our enemies. If we appear more prepared than we are, we might force them to withdraw."
A brief, cold smile crossed the prince's face.
"Comforting to have someone thinking of the larger picture amid the chaos. And Éon?" he asked, the smile dying as swiftly as it came.
"He stayed behind to make sure there'd be no surprises, My lord," Marcus answered firmly. "We're deep in enemy territory. Better to prevent than regret."
Éreon looked toward the silver walls ahead, bathed in the red of sunset.
"Casualties?"
"Fifty archers. A hundred riders," Marcus said, eyes steady.
Éreon drew a deep breath, as one accepting a bitter offering.
"Search the perimeter and set camp. We consolidate what we've already taken. We won't strike blind. We've taken half the Bronze Wall — to advance without information is suicide."
Marcus hesitated.
"Isn't that risky?"
"Yes," Éreon answered without softening. "But aside from you, Éon, and me, our men aren't trained for irregular combat of this kind. From that exchange with those warriors — if there are more like them inside — we'll lose many, even if we win."
And if the messenger hasn't returned… — his eyes narrowed — …then there's a chance of an enemy at our backs.
He lifted his chin, imperious.
"Our goal is to keep as many of ours alive as possible."
Marcus nodded, jaw set.
The camp began to take shape: banners raised, fires small and controlled, sentinels climbing the broken ruins.
In the distance, the dragon's shadow crossed the sky a second time, and the air once again carried the scent of ash… and the promise of war.