The air between them cracked first.
Not by words.
But by intent.
Rodrik did not wait for permission—nor for mercy.
The moment Kel's final sentence faded into the snowfall, Rodrik pushed from the tower's threshold, aura flaring like frostfire ignited beneath worn skin. His eyes—hollow, bloodshot, more ghost than man—narrowed with a desperation that no longer aimed to survive.
Only to be seen.
His sword flashed from its sheath with the brittle cry of steel long neglected. The cold metal reflected a face marked by years of anger, and yet, it trembled as if the man wielding it remembered too late that shaking hands could not shape destiny.
With a roar that cracked open years of silent regret—
"ENOUGH OF YOUR JUDGMENT!"
Rodrik lunged.
The battle began.
First Exchange
Kel did not draw his sword.
He moved.
A pivot on his heel—restrained, precise—snow scattering beneath his step like petals torn by winter wind. Rodrik's attack cut only air.
Kel's hand lifted, palm open.
A quiet gesture.
Rodrik's eyes wavered.
As if that calm—more than any blade—struck something raw.
"DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!" he bellowed again, swinging wildly.
The impact of steel against Kel's forearm guard rang like a cracked bell. Kel leaned into the motion, absorbing it, redirecting force into the ground beneath him. A ripple spread through the snow, clean, silent.
His voice finally came—barely.
"…Rodrik."
Rodrik flinched.
And struck again.
Battle Like Falling Snow
They moved across the field in circles, Rodrik attacking with trained violence, Kel responding with minimal defense. He offered no strikes of his own.
Only what was required to deflect.
Yet, each motion carried unwavering control—like the snow that continued falling, light and cold, regardless of the blood it touched.
Rodrik's aura cracked, ice-white and unstable.
Kel's remained invisible, contained.
Reina watched, knuckles white around her sword. Landon stood still, bow lowered but drawn tight with tension. Behind them, Count Vanhart and Malloren remained silent—noblemen forced to witness a man they once respected break himself against someone far younger.
Rodrik's breathing turned shallow.
Sweat mixed with melting frost on his skin.
He swung again—half-hearted now, but still defiant.
"You think standing there… quiet… makes you BETTER?!"
Kel said nothing.
He merely stepped aside, the strike grazing the edge of his coat.
Rodrik stumbled.
Words Amid Steel
Rodrik laughed—once.
Bitter.
Low.
Then with voice cracking:
"Tell me, boy"
"What would YOU have done… if you spent every day giving everything… only to watch happiness slip through your fingers?"
Kel remained silent.
Rodrik's sword scraped the snow, his body sagging.
"I… stayed loyal—fought wars—protected the borders—kept this land breathing in winter."
"But in the end?"
"My brother took lordship. My comrades died. The woman I loved married another…"
"And I—"
He looked up.
Eyes clouding.
"I was left with nothing but my duty."
His blade trembled in fist.
"So I reached for strength."
Kel finally spoke.
Soft.
Not accusing.
"…At the cost of whose life?"
Rodrik's breath halted.
He answered without defense.
"…Theirs."
He lifted his blade again.
"And mine."
He charged.
Kel's Response
This time, Kel moved forward.
One precise step—closing distance.
Rodrik's blade descended.
Kel's hand lifted, fingers forming a subtle arc.
He tapped the flat of the sword.
Just once.
The weapon veered off course, striking into snow beside him. Rodrik staggered.
Kel placed his palm on Rodrik's chest, stopping him.
Gently.
But his eyes…
Held no forgiveness.
Only truth.
Rodrik's mouth quivered.
"Do you think I WANTED this?!"
Kel did not answer.
Because it was not a question seeking response.
It was a confession seeking witness.
Final Clash
Rodrik lunged again—last effort.
Kel stepped into him.
Not violently.
But completely.
He seized Rodrik's forearm.
Pivoted.
Rodrik crashed to one knee, snow rising around him in a muted cloud.
Kel still held his arm.
He leaned down.
Their eyes met.
Rodrik's breath shook.
"…I tried," he whispered.
"I really… tried to be worth something."
Snow settled on his shoulders like the world was preparing his burial.
Kel stared at him.
Quiet.
Cold.
Tragic.
Rodrik laughed weakly.
"…In the end…"
"…I failed even at falling."
His arm went limp.
The sword slid from his grasp.
Kel released him.
Rodrik knelt, snow swallowing his knees, gaze lowered.
He did not ask for forgiveness.
Just—
"…Did I… matter?"
Kel remained silent.
But he did not walk away.
He remained.
Standing before him, still and resolute.
Rodrik's eyes glistened, tears mixing with frost.
He nodded once.
As if that silence was enough.
His body sank further into the snow.
He closed his eyes.
And let go.
Not his life.
His fight.
Aftermath
Silence reclaimed the land.
Only the soft tap of snow reached the ears of those watching.
Kel straightened.
His coat, speckled in frost, fell over his boots in a final whisper.
He turned away from Rodrik, who remained kneeling, head bowed—not in defeat, but in surrender to truth.
Reina stepped forward but paused when Kel lifted a hand.
Landon exhaled slowly.
Count Vanhart lowered his gaze.
Malloren's lips parted, but no words came.
Rodrik's voice rose once more—faint.
"…Thank you."
Kel did not reply.
He took one step forward.
And snow filled the space between them.