Rain hammered down on the canyon like a drum, a relentless percussion against stone, mud, and the chaos of battle. Dust and smoke from the avalanche still hung in the air, curling in wet clouds that stung the eyes and blurred the edges of the world. Kael stood at the heart of the storm, blade in hand, every muscle taut, every sense straining. Around him, the rebels fought desperately to hold the narrow choke point, their shouts carried off by the roaring wind.
Through the haze, he saw it first as a silhouette, then a nightmare made flesh: the Black Sigil captain. His armor was black and slick with rain, horned helm gleaming with malevolence. His horse pawed the mud, eyes like molten embers, steam rising from its flanks. The captain's presence pressed against Kael like a living weight, every instinct screaming that this was the true test, the one-on-one that would decide everything.
Liora's hand touched his chest, warm and grounding against the storm. "Kael… we can do this," she whispered, voice steady even as rain plastered her hair to her face.
Kael's jaw tightened. "Then we finish this," he said, his words steady, carrying more force than any shout.
The captain laughed, low and cold, a sound that rolled through the canyon. "Blind prince… do you even know fear?"
Kael's lips curved faintly, and he let his senses sharpen. "I know survival… and I know who stands with me."
---
The captain spurred forward, horse's hooves sending mud flying, steel flashing in the dim torchlight. The first strike came like a thunderclap, horizontal, aimed to split him down the middle. Kael felt the pressure in the air, the tremor in the earth beneath his feet, and sidestepped. His blade met the captain's with a ringing clash, sparks flying, rain sizzling against the steel.
The duel began not with words, but with movement—a deadly dance that stretched through the canyon like a storm. Kael rolled under a spinning strike, mud spraying, and countered with a thrust that grazed the captain's shoulder. Metal groaned, but the man did not falter. Every strike, every parry was measured, instinctive. The battlefield around them pulsed with life and death; rebels threw arrows, blocked riders, and held the edges of the canyon like the bones of the earth itself.
Liora moved beside him, a shadow in the rain. She deflected a rider who had broken past the front line, spinning him into mud with precise, fluid movements. Twice, she intercepted strikes meant for Kael, and each time, his hand shot out to steady her. They moved as one, a perfect rhythm born from countless days of trust and survival.
"Kael… listen to me," she said sharply, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. "Every step you take echoes here. Use it."
He nodded, feeling the vibrations of the earth, the beat of hooves, the whistle of blades slicing the air. Every sound was a map, every shudder a guide. His senses, stretched to the limit, painted the battlefield in ways sight never could.
---
The captain's voice cut through, sharp and cruel. "Do you hear them? Your allies screaming, your men dying? Can you feel their panic?"
Kael's teeth clenched. He could feel it—the chaos, the carnage—but he refused to let it take him. "I feel their courage," he said aloud. "It guides me."
And it did. Each feint, each pivot, each strike Kael made drew from the rebels' resolve, from Liora's presence at his side. He pressed forward, forcing the captain to react, forcing the momentum of the duel into his hands. Around them, the canyon itself seemed alive, echoing the rhythm of combat—the thunder of hooves, the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded.
The captain unleashed a spinning downward strike meant to crush him. Kael ducked, rolled, and slid under, rising to thrust upward, sparks flying as metal ground against metal. The captain staggered but recovered instantly, bringing the weight of his fury down in a new, unpredictable rhythm. Kael danced with it, sliding, spinning, pressing, and retreating in perfect instinctive timing.
---
Rain mixed with blood, plastering his hair to his forehead, sliding down his face in stinging rivulets. His shoulder ached from a glancing blow, but every nerve screamed alive. Around him, the rebels fought with everything they had, buying him the seconds he needed. Scarred Leader roared through the chaos, crushing a rider who tried to flank him. Rylan and Kaela loosed arrows in precise volleys. Liora parried, spun, and struck again and again, keeping Kael's path clear.
He staggered once, slipping on slick stone, and for a heartbeat the canyon tilted. Liora's hand shot to his arm, steadying him. "Not yet," she whispered.
Not yet. Kael inhaled, letting the anchor of her presence center him. Every strike now, every pivot, every motion was guided by instinct, memory, and trust.
The captain roared, spinning his blade in a violent arc. Kael ducked, sliding across mud-slick stone, countering with a thrust that struck the seam of the captain's armor. Sparks flew, rain hissed as it struck the steel, and for the first time, Kael saw hesitation flash in the horned helm.
He pressed the advantage. A feint here, a sidestep there, and the captain overextended. Kael slid under, thrusting upward at a joint in the helm. Metal groaned. For a heartbeat, the captain froze. The storm, the chaos, the screams—all faded to a single point: the duel.
---
Lightning split the sky, illuminating them. Kael and the captain circled each other, wet blades gleaming, bodies tense, muscles screaming, lungs burning. The rebels held the canyon edges, fighting with every ounce of strength, but their focus was on Kael.
And Liora… she was his anchor, his tether to the world. Every step he took, every strike he made, felt guided by her presence. He could feel her breathing, hear her movements even in the storm, and it steadied him.
The captain raised his blade for another strike, and Kael met it squarely, muscles coiled, senses razor-sharp. Around them, the canyon roared—thunder, rain, hooves, screams—but Kael's world narrowed to the rhythm of combat, to Liora's steady presence, to the heartbeat of the duel.
Every instinct, every ounce of skill, every memory of training, every trust in allies converged. The next move would decide everything.
And in that charged silence, the storm above the canyon seemed to hold its breath.