Chapter 23
The battle began without ceremony.
No horns. No speeches.
Just movement.
Rowan stood at the center of Eastrun's forward line, armor fastened tighter than yesterday, weight distributed differently. He had slept little, eaten less—but his eyes were clear.
That mattered more.
"Positions," he said, voice calm and steady. "Remember the pattern. If the ground shakes, do not panic. Panic gets you crushed."
"Very encouraging, sir," Dorian muttered beside him, tightening his gauntlets. "Truly inspiring stuff."
Rowan glanced at him. "You're alive."
"So far," Dorian agreed. "I'd like to keep it that way."
The ground trembled.
Across the field, Malthros advanced.
Not alone.
His shield formations moved with him now, layered and overlapping, flanked by heavy infantry and monstrous units that dragged spiked chains through the earth. It was beautiful in the way avalanches were beautiful—unstoppable, precise, uncaring.
Rowan raised his hammer.
"Phase One," he said.
The Silver Ember Guild moved.
Not forward.
Sideways.
Eastrun's forces split, opening lanes that looked—intentionally—like mistakes. Gaps appeared. Retreats staggered. The enemy surged into them eagerly.
Malthros watched.
Then nodded once.
"Now," Rowan said.
The ground erupted.
Runes flared beneath the enemy's feet—wards laid overnight by guild mages who had been pretending to be exhausted while secretly being brilliant. The earth didn't explode.
It tilted.
Shield walls lost alignment. Perfect angles skewed. The enemy line bent just enough to expose joints.
"Archers!" Dorian shouted. "If you hit me, I swear I will haunt you!"
Arrows rained down.
Rowan moved—not to the front, but through the formation, striking weak points with surgical precision. He wasn't smashing shields. He was breaking timing.
Units collided with each other. Orders crossed. Momentum stuttered.
For the first time, the enemy advance slowed.
Malthros's hammer struck the ground.
The shockwave flattened three buildings and sent soldiers skidding.
Rowan staggered—but did not fall.
"Phase Two!" Rowan called. "Dorian!"
Dorian grinned wildly. "I've been waiting for this!"
He charged—not straight, but crooked, leading a mismatched group of knights, adventurers, and one very angry dwarf who appeared to be shouting at the sky.
They hit the flank like a thrown chair.
Effective.
Messy.
Absolutely not according to doctrine.
And it worked.
Malthros turned.
That was the moment Rowan had been waiting for.
He advanced—not rushing, not roaring—meeting the general halfway across broken ground.
Steel met steel.
The impact thundered.
Malthros was stronger.
That was clear immediately.
Rowan's arms burned as the hammer blow drove him back three steps, boots carving furrows into stone. The general pressed, relentless, shield formations reforming behind him like a closing jaw.
Rowan did not resist head-on.
He stepped aside.
Let the hammer pass.
Struck not the armor—but the joint beneath it.
Malthros grunted. Adjusted. Adapted.
They circled.
Blows rang out—each one calculated, heavy, purposeful. Rowan felt every impact echo through his bones. His shoulder screamed. His breath shortened.
This wasn't a hero's duel.
This was labor.
Below them, the battle raged—but slowly, inexorably, the enemy line began to fracture.
"ROWAN!" Dorian yelled from somewhere to the left. "GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS!"
Rowan blocked another strike. "BAD NEWS FIRST!"
"I'M BLEEDING!"
"And the good news?"
"I DON'T THINK IT'S IMPORTANT!"
Rowan almost laughed.
Almost.
Malthros drove forward, hammer crashing down.
Rowan caught it on his haft, knees buckling.
The general leaned in, voice low and grinding.
"You are slower."
Rowan met his gaze.
"I am learning."
He twisted—not to overpower, but to redirect.
The enemy's own formation became an obstacle.
Malthros stumbled one step.
One was enough.
Rowan slammed his hammer into the ground—not at Malthros, but behind him.
The ward activated.
The earth collapsed inward.
Malthros fell to one knee.
Not defeated.
But off-balance.
Rowan raised his weapon.
Breathing hard.
The final blow was not yet ready.
But the shield had cracked.
And everyone could feel it.
Malthros did not stay on one knee.
He rose.
Stone slid from his armor as he pushed himself upright, hammer dragging a furrow through the earth before lifting again. The fractured ward beneath him cracked fully and died, its magic spent.
The general rolled his shoulder once.
Then he smiled.
It was not a cruel smile.
It was a professional one.
"You adapted," Malthros said. His voice was deep, echoing through the ruined square. "That makes you dangerous."
Rowan stood across from him, chest rising and falling. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from fatigue held in check by discipline.
"It makes me alive," Rowan replied.
Malthros stepped forward.
The ground shook with each footfall.
Rowan did not meet him head-on.
That was the second change.
Instead, Rowan moved sideways, pulling Malthros away from his formations, into terrain chosen not for grandeur—but for inconvenience. Broken stone. Collapsed walls. Narrow spaces where shield formations were useless.
Malthros followed.
Not because he was baited.
Because he respected the duel.
The hammer came down in a brutal arc.
Rowan blocked—but not fully. The impact tore the haft from his grip and sent it spinning across the ground. Pain flared down his arms, hot and immediate.
His hammer skidded to a stop several paces away.
Malthros raised his weapon.
"Yield," the general said. Not mocking. Not cruel. "You've done enough."
Rowan straightened slowly.
He rolled his shoulder. It screamed.
He smiled anyway.
"No," Rowan said. "I haven't."
Malthros advanced.
Rowan ran.
Not in retreat.
In redirection.
He led the general through the rubble—over uneven stone, through broken alleys, into spaces where raw power meant less than awareness. Rowan ducked beneath swings, rolled past strikes that would have shattered walls.
Every movement cost him.
Every step mattered.
Malthros adapted—but adaptation took time.
And time was Rowan's weapon now.
Rowan reached the edge of the collapsed plaza.
A signal rune flared faintly beneath his boot.
Malthros swung.
Rowan dropped flat.
The hammer missed him by inches and slammed into the ground—right where Rowan wanted it.
The rune ignited.
Not explosively.
Gravitationally.
The hammer sank.
Malthros's grip tightened instinctively—and that instinct betrayed him.
The weight dragged him forward.
Rowan surged up, driving his shoulder into the general's chest—not to knock him down, but to unbalance him.
Malthros stumbled.
Rowan seized the moment.
He didn't reach for his hammer.
He drew the dagger at his belt instead—simple, unadorned steel—and drove it into the seam beneath Malthros's shield, where armor met muscle.
The blade did not go deep.
It did not need to.
Malthros froze.
Slowly, he looked down at the wound.
Then back at Rowan.
"Clever," he said softly.
Rowan stepped back, breathing hard. "You taught me."
Malthros straightened fully—then let his hammer fall from his grasp.
It hit the ground with a hollow clang.
Around them, the battle shifted.
Enemy forces faltered. Shield formations broke without their anchor. The tide turned not with a roar—but with a sigh of release.
Malthros dropped to one knee again.
This time, he did not rise.
Rowan stood there, every muscle burning, watching to be sure.
The general looked up once more.
"You are no longer what you were," Malthros said.
Rowan nodded. "Good."
Malthros's expression softened—not in defeat, but understanding.
"That is why you win," he said.
Then he fell.
The enemy line collapsed within minutes.
Not routed—released.
Orders broke. Units withdrew. Monsters fled without direction.
The field fell quiet.
Rowan stood alone amid the wreckage, blood dripping from his knuckles, chest heaving.
Then Dorian ran up, sword chipped, helmet missing entirely.
"YOU DID IT," Dorian shouted. "I KNEW WE SHOULD'VE TILTED THE GROUND—WAIT ARE YOU STILL STANDING?"
Rowan swayed.
Dorian caught him immediately. "Nope. Nope. Sit. Sit right now."
Rowan allowed himself to sit.
He laughed weakly. "You're bleeding."
"So are you," Dorian said. "It's bonding."
Rowan looked up at the sky.
Smoke thinned. Light broke through.
For the first time since the war began, the city breathed.
Rowan closed his eyes.
Not in exhaustion.
In relief.
He had not won by being the strongest man alive.
He had won by being present.
The quiet felt unreal.
After days of steel and shouting, Eastrun sounded... ordinary. Hammering echoed from the streets where barricades were already being dismantled. Buckets sloshed. Someone laughed—softly, surprised by the sound of their own voice.
Rowan sat on the steps of the Silver Ember Guild, armor removed piece by piece and stacked carefully beside him. His tunic was torn, his hands wrapped in clean bandages that already showed hints of red.
He felt every year of his age.
And he had never felt more at peace.
Lila approached without announcing herself, a stack of ledgers under one arm and a cup of tea in the other. She stopped in front of him, took one look at his face—
—and set the ledgers down.
"You're sitting," she said.
Rowan blinked up at her. "I thought I'd try it."
"You never sit."
"I've expanded my hobbies."
She sighed, knelt in front of him, and took his hands gently, turning them palm-up.
Rowan braced for a lecture.
Instead, she pressed the warm cup into his fingers.
"Drink," she said. "Before I decide to scold you."
He obeyed.
She studied him quietly as he drank. The cuts. The bruises. The exhaustion he hadn't bothered hiding.
"You came back," she said finally.
Rowan smiled faintly. "I said I would."
"You didn't say how," she replied. "I was prepared for a stretcher."
"Disappointed?"
"Relieved," she said. Then softer, "Terrified."
Rowan set the cup down carefully.
"I didn't fight like I used to," he admitted. "I couldn't."
Lila smiled—small, fond. "Good."
He looked at her, surprised.
"You fought like someone who had something to return to," she said. "That's better."
They sat in silence for a moment, shoulder to shoulder.
Inside the guild hall, something crashed.
A voice shouted, "I SAID GENTLY!"
Rowan winced. "That's Dorian."
"Is he bleeding?" Lila asked.
"Statistically? Probably."
As if summoned, Dorian stumbled out the door moments later, carrying a crate that was very much falling apart in his hands.
"Do not put the broken spears on top of the intact spears!" he shouted back inside. "That defeats the purpose of—oh."
He froze when he saw them.
Then his eyes widened.
Then he grinned.
"Oh," Dorian said slowly. "You're both alive."
"Yes," Rowan said.
"Still together?"
Lila answered first. "Unfortunately."
Dorian clutched his chest. "Blessed day."
He dropped the crate entirely—it shattered, spears rolling everywhere—and strode over, planting his hands on his hips.
"So," he said brightly. "You beat a general of Draxis. Which, might I add, I was told repeatedly was 'very unlikely.'"
Rowan shrugged. "He made mistakes."
"Ah," Dorian nodded sagely. "Classic villain error. Underestimating the middle-aged man with responsibilities."
Rowan huffed.
Dorian's grin softened as he looked between them. "You know," he said, suddenly quieter, "the men noticed something."
Rowan raised a brow. "That we're tired?"
"That you didn't try to be the hero alone," Dorian said. "They liked that."
Rowan looked down at his bandaged hands.
"Dorian," Rowan said after a moment.
"Yes?"
"If I survive the rest of this war—"
"We're standing in the aftermath of it," Dorian interrupted. "I think that counts."
Rowan smiled faintly. "If I do... I want you at my side."
Dorian blinked.
Rowan met his eyes fully. "As my best man."
Silence.
Then Dorian laughed—once, sharp and startled.
"...You're serious."
"I am."
Dorian's expression shifted—something rare and unguarded flickering through his eyes.
"Rowan," he said, voice rougher than usual, "I was going to make a joke."
"Please don't," Rowan said.
Dorian exhaled. "I would be honored."
Lila smiled at both of them. "I assume I get a say in this wedding?"
Rowan took her hand. "Only in everything."
Dorian wiped his face dramatically. "I need to sit down."
They laughed together—soft, tired, real.
Beyond the city walls, the battlefield lay still.
Malthros was gone.
Draxis remained.
But for now, the world felt... survivable.
And that was enough.