The clouds had thinned to ragged veils, exposing a pale, unforgiving sky. Dawn pressed close, harsh and intentional.

  West had been awake long before the light dared rise. He sat apart, willful, reverent in his movements. Linen strips wrapped his hands and wrists, pulled taut until the fingers tingled. Another strip cinched his waist. Beneath the cloth, small makeshift vials pressed against his skin; glass concealed, the potion hidden where no one would think to look. Every adjustment, every knot, was measured, almost ceremonial. A silent rhythm against the looming day.

  Omni and Tyrus watched from a distance.

  “A terrible idea,” Tyrus said, folding his arms, jaw tight. Every instinct screamed it.

  Omni’s eyes followed West’s methodical preparation, the calm precision that preceded inevitable violence. “We must trust that West sees something we do not,” he uttered. “Underestimating him has never served anyone well.”

  Tyrus hesitated, then lowered his head toward Omni, a warrior’s bow. “Lord Omni… if he falls… I will see you returned safely to the Kesh. I gave him my word.”

  Omni blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Thank you, Tyrus.”

  “There is more,” Tyrus said, quieter now. “If I have shown you disrespect—”

  “There is nothing to apologize for Tyrus, I know your heart has been crushed by the weight of things, your words mean nothing when your actions say so much” Omni patted Tyrus on the back as he noticed West making his way back to the group.

  “How do I look? Normal?Can you tell I'm frightened beyond belief?” West began to spin around to show his outfit.

  “You look fine West” Omni said unsure.

  “I feel like throwing up” West forced a belch.

  A sudden knock struck the door.

  West flinched, instinctively and sharply.

  Omni caught his arm. “Breathe.”

  Tyrus reached the door and pulled it open. Nadrin stood there, expression carved from stone. He gave a single, intentional nod.    “It’s time.”

  Outside, the air bit with cold, carrying the scent of damp earth and early frost. Nadrin’s hands landed on West’s shoulders, firm and grounding. “Ready?”

  West drew in a slow, controlled breath. Let it out. Then nodded once.

  A drum sounded.

  Deep. Hollow. Unyielding.

  Each strike was a summons, a heartbeat for the city itself. One of Nadrin’s men lifted a mallet, letting it fall against the great leather-skinned drum with planned inevitability. The first strike rolled through Dagavia’s narrow streets like a tremor, pulling shutters aside, coaxing doors open. Footsteps answered. Voices followed. The crowd swelled naturally, a living weight pressing in from every side.

  West moved at the center, the drum’s pulse syncing with his own heartbeat, a slow, relentless twin. Each thrum pressed against his chest, a tether to fear and focus alike. Step, beat, step. Each motion calculated. He counted the rhythm, leaning into it, letting it carry him forward. Anything to keep the rising tension from fracturing.

  The crowd watched. The drum proclaimed it. And there was no turning back.

  West could feel sweat pooling beneath the cloth gloves, slick and disobedient. The Elkridge lard he’d smeared to keep his grip loose was already softening, turning against him. He flexed his fingers subtly, working the tension from them before it betrayed him.

  “Captain,” West called, voice pitched just right to carry without slowing his stride. “So… Beiru. Not some guy built like a horse, right?”

  Nadrin’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No. He’s not especially large. Maybe a bit bigger than you, but not enough to concern yourself. If he’d ever dared challenge me—” His tone flattened, matter-of-fact, almost like commenting on the weather. “—I would have torn him apart like meat from a chicken.”

  West exhaled through his nose. “And… his abilities?”

  Nadrin slowed, weighing each word. “I have seen him tear a man’s face clean off with those claws. Perhaps… do take care and be mindful of that.”

  West blinked once.

  Nadrin caught the motion, sliding an arm across West’s shoulders. Heavy, reassuring. “Do not be nervous, Master West. The Gods are behind you!”

  West shifted, shrugging him off with controlled force. “I would not be here if I did not listen to my nerves, Captain.”

  Nadrin studied him, calm, unshaken. “Whatever happens today, your legend is already sealed in this village. We will honor you on the first rain of the season every year. I must thank you.”

  West said nothing, offering only a tight, small smile, and kept walking.

  The gates of Dagavia loomed ahead, stone darkened by old rain and older blood. Beyond them, the square waited: full and expectant. Nadrin’s patrol lined the edges, watchful, in absolute silence. And at the center, on the bare stone where the duel would unfold, stood Beiru.

  West’s gaze locked onto him instantly.

  Beiru was young. Perhaps younger than West; no older, certainly. He carried a loose, deliberate confidence, each movement vigilant, effortless, the kind that left nothing to chance. There was no obvious resemblance to Dresdi, yet the echo lingered: the sharp planes of his face, the ruby-red eyes reflecting Tyrus’s own. Silver hair lifted in the wind, falling again like a banner as Beiru turned to fully regard West.

  They faced one another, still.

  “So this is the mighty West,” Beiru said, voice calm, almost courteous. “An honor.” He bent into an exaggerated bow, more mockery than ritual.

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” West said, hands raised in awkward gesture.

  Beiru smiled and spit on the ground. “My only grievance is that your blade met him before mine” he raised his hand. “I do not press this claim to honor or avenge the man. It's simply a matter of…convenience”

  West turned as Omni stepped beside him.

  “What a web we weave for ourselves,” Omni murmured, straightening West’s collar. His fingers trembled beneath the motion, betraying him. “You have always been very special to me, West.”

  “What's all this, Master Omni? Are you crying?” West’s voice hitched despite his attempt at levity. “You don’t think I can win, do you?” His laugh came thin, brittle.

  “I weep only because I am selfish,” Omni said, gripping West’s shoulders as if to anchor him. “I do not wish to lose you.”

  West straightened, letting out a short, soft snort. “You’re in good hands with Tyrus, Master Omni.” His hand brushed briefly against Omni’s arm, firm and steady. “Whatever happens, our journey does not end in Dagavia.”

  He turned, scanning.

  Tyrus was already coming forward.

  “West—” Tyrus began, but West pressed the Red Dragon into his hands. The weight of it was immediate, heavier than it should have been between them. Tyrus’s fingers closed around the hilt, hesitating just a fraction.

  “Just until I get back,” West said, nudging the sword, the motion light yet insistent.

  Tyrus held the blade, eyes locked on West’s. He adjusted the strap at his side with careful precision, breathing even, mindful. “It will be waiting,” he said quietly. “When you return.”

  Omni lingered a heartbeat longer, tilting his head slightly, committing West’s face to memory. Then he stepped back, allowing Tyrus to guide him into the crowd, their movements fluid, an unspoken understanding bridging the gap between them.

  West turned back toward the stone, toward Beiru.

  Nadrin stepped forward, carving a narrow path through the murmuring crowd. “Come then, Master West.” He guided him to the center. “Beiru! I trust your men have the good sense to honor the results of this duel.” His finger rose, sharp and final. “Banon. Trips. Sidion. I never want to see you anywhere on this side of the river.”

  “And I trust the Red Dragon will be handed to me upon my victory.”

  Nadrin looked at West. West met his gaze and nodded once. The agreement was sealed without ceremony.

  The drum stopped. The sudden silence landed heavier than its sound ever had.

  “We will not fight on this stone,” West said, stepping forward, guiding Nadrin aside as he pointed toward the churned earth beside the square. “Let’s fight there.”

  Beiru arched a brow. “Bare hands, in the mud?” He glanced at one of his men. “What savagery do you intend for me, Godslayer?” A short laugh, sharp and amused. “You want us to roll like pigs?”

  West rolled his neck, stretching deliberately, shoulders loosening. “Nothing like that. The stone just wrecks my back.” He gestured again, casual as if choosing a tavern bench.

  Laughter rippled through the crowd, easing the tension for a heartbeat.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Fine.” Beiru shrugged off his fur cloak, tossing it aside, and pointed toward the mud. “After you.”

  West paused.

  He swept the crowd; shoulders pressed together, strangers’ faces straining toward the center, eyes already anticipating blood. Omni’s head was bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. Tyrus was rigid, taut, every muscle coiled around the moment.

  West lifted two fingers in a brief salute. Then he stepped into the mud.

  It sucked at his boots, cold, heavy, intent on dragging him down. Beiru followed, boots sinking less, posture loose, controlled, confident.

  The mud changed everything. Each step became strategic, each movement guarded. The square itself, once ceremonial and clean, now demanded a ritual of its own; one that tested balance, focus, and resolve as much as steel. The duel had moved from theater to crucible, and both men understood it without a word.

  West extended his hand.

  Beiru took it.

  Grip firm. Eyes locked.

  “Fight!” Nadrin roared.

  West struck first.

  His fist shot forward, sharp and desperate. Beiru moved before it landed. Three brutal punches slammed into West’s ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. Mud spat underfoot as he staggered back.

  Beiru’s claws swiped.

  West’s cheek split. Warm blood dripped into the mud.

  “Just a little blood,” Beiru whispered, stepping in with an uppercut.

  West slipped aside at the last moment, the punch grazing his jaw. He answered with an uppercut of his own, solid and clean, but Beiru recovered instantly, snapping a high kick into West’s chest. West skidded backward, sinking into the mud.

  Beiru laughed, sharp and calm. “That one hurt. I can see it.”

  He circled, eyes scanning, measuring. Then he surged forward again.

  West blocked the first punch and countered, but Beiru twisted, hooking a leg behind West’s knee. The world drifted. West dropped to one knee as a slap dragged across his face, claws tearing fresh lines. Mud swallowed the blood.

  “Get up, West! Show me the hands of the man who killed Dresdi!” Beiru barked at West

  A knee drove toward his face. He barely raised a forearm. Impact rattled his skull. West collapsed fully into the mud. Beiru was on him immediately.

  Weight slammed down. Beiru tried to pin his arms, but they slipped, slick from lard-coated gloves. Just as West had planned.

  Snarling, Beiru shifted, finally trapping West’s hands with one arm. The other fist rained down in a flurry. West turned his head, absorbing blows with bone instead of flesh.

  Beiru’s smile vanished. Claws dragged down West’s chest, deep. Blood bloomed instantly, faint steam rising into the cold morning air.

  Beiru rose and kicked mud into West’s face. “This is your champion, Nadrin!?”

  The crowd went silent, breathless, horrified.

  Nadrin spat onto the ground.

  “Come on, West! Don’t let this little shit take you down!”

  Tyrus’s shout cut through the square, raw and fierce. His hand clenched around the Red Dragon. “You’re tougher than him!”

  The crowd stirred. Voices rose. Hope flickered.

  Beiru clapped slowly, mockingly, as he circled West.

  West pushed upright. Mud coated him, hiding the blood, the cuts, and his trembling beneath. The sun broke through the clouds, warmth pressing against swollen skin.

  “What a day,” he muttered.

  Beiru stopped clapping. Focus snapped back.

  West exhaled, dropped into stance, leg extended, body balanced. He smiled, just a little. An invitation.

  Beiru stepped forward, eyes on the exposed knee.

  “West! No!” Tyrus’s voice pierced the square.

  Beiru struck.

  Foot came down hard. West pulled it in and swept at Beiru’s back foot. Beiru caught it instinctively. Exactly as planned.

  West’s roundhouse cracked into Beiru’s guard. Force sent him stumbling backward into the mud.

  West kicked a spray of filth into Beiru’s face and disengaged.

  “Getting a little cocky, asshole.” He gestured for Beiru to rise.

  Beiru pushed himself up, chest heaving, nostrils flaring. He wiped the mud from his face, fury restrained beneath a thin, deliberate smile.

  “OK… ok,” he muttered, biting down on his own tongue.

  Then he rushed West. Fast.

  West shifted just in time, boots sucking against the mud as Beiru’s strike cut through the air.

  “Don’t run now, West,” Beiru said, laughter tight, carrying strain.

  West dropped low, leg extended, spine coiling exactly as Tyrus had drilled. His breath rattled in his chest. Blood hit the mud with a wet spatter.

  “Not expecting this one,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

  “Oh, you foolish fraud,” Beiru replied, stalking forward with unhurried steps, coiling power into each motion. “You know nothing of our people.”

  Tyrus had gone silent. The crowd might as well have vanished. Every twitch, every shift of weight was etched in West’s mind. He understood the danger. He knew the timing.

  Beiru surged.

  They collided with a wet, violent thud. West dug his heel into the mud, spine screaming as Beiru tried to wrap him up. Arms slammed against arms. Beiru’s face crashed against West’s waistband, slick with mud and sweat.

  Beiru snarled, freeing one arm to lock around West’s waist. Then he lifted.

  West’s feet left the ground.

  In the same heartbeat, he drove his elbow down against his abdomen.

  Glass cracked.

  The vials hidden beneath his waistband shattered. Liquid soaked the fabric, vapors blooming, subtle, sharp, and unseen.

  Beiru hurled West over his shoulder. Strength and force were real. So was the damage. But the poison had already begun. Limbs dulled, balance faltered, edges of vision dimmed.

  To the crowd, it looked like hesitation. A pause in the middle of victory.

  West slammed into the mud, chest hitting the stone hidden beneath. Pain exploded, body threatening shutdown. He forced it not to.

  He rolled.

  Beiru dropped to one knee, silver hair hanging forward, shoulders sagging.

  West moved fast.

  He tore free the waistband, letting it vanish into the mud. Then he lunged.

  Beiru reacted too slowly. Arms lifted, heavy and uncooperative.

  West seized the arm and pivoted, spinning around him with every ounce of strength left.

  Beiru turned, vision clearing just enough to see West’s position. He did not feel the break. The shoulder snapped clean as West completed the rotation.

  Beiru tried to rise.

  West drove his knee into the jaw. Impact snapped him to the mud instantly.

  West collapsed beside him, chest heaving, eyes locked on Beiru’s unmoving form.

  The Dagavian crowd erupted, roaring. West still did not trust it.

  Beiru was out.

  West pushed himself upright onto his knees, mud and blood streaked across his skin. He kept his eyes on Beiru, half-expecting him to rise.

  The Canaries murmured among themselves, sharp and tense.

  Nadrin stepped forward. “It’s over!” he shouted.

  One Canary moved toward Beiru, nudging him with the boot twice. No response. He turned back and gestured. The duel was done.

  The crowd surged toward West. Nadrin reached him first, hauling him to his feet and pressing a small dagger into his hand.

  “It’s over, Master West.”

  West stared at the blade, breath ragged. “What’s this?”

  “You need to finish him,” Nadrin said.

  They guided him toward Beiru, dragged clear of the mud. The overseeing Canary inclined his head. “Neck,” he said quietly.

  West looked to Nadrin.

  “It’s tradition,” Nadrin replied. “Your tribute.”

  West knelt, fingers brushing mud and blood as he gripped Beiru’s still head. He gathered a fistful of silver hair, each strand thick and cool in his palm. The dagger cut through the strands, determined, slow, until they came free.

  He rose, lifting the hair for the crowd to see. Silence held them all, the weight of choice settling like a cloud over the square.

  “I claim my victory not by taking a life,” West said, voice steady, carrying over the square, “but by perhaps allowing a new one to bloom.”

  He let the hair fall into the mud, watching it settle among the blood and footprints.

  “Mercy,” he said, simple and quiet. “I grant the young Beiru mercy.” West said to an excited and mesmerized crowd

  Then he turned, moving toward a stunned Tyrus and a visibly shaken, relieved Omni. The crowd exhaled as one, murmurs spreading, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and recognition of the restraint they had witnessed.

  Tyrus grinned and placed the Red Dragon into West’s hands.

  “It’s heavy, isn’t it?” West let out a weak laugh through labored breaths.

  He turned toward Omni, who was hastily wiping at his face.

  “Master Omni,” West said, attempting a smile, “are you still crying?”

  Omni did not answer. He stepped forward, pulling West into a sudden embrace.

  West stiffened as pain flared through his ribs. A faint groan escaped him. “Stop, Master,” he said gently. “I’m hurt.”

  Omni froze, then eased back, mortified. “Forgive me,” he whispered, hands hovering, uncertain. “We should get these wounds treated right away” Omni began to scan West.

  Nearby, Nadrin said nothing, gaze fixed on the Canaries, thoughts elsewhere.

  A Canary jabbed him sharply in the ribs. “You deal with him, Nadrin. He’s not only a traitor, but now an embarrassment.” The Canary turned away, disgust curling his shoulders.

  “And our agreement?” Nadrin called after them. “Banon, I never want to find you in our domains or legal lands.”

  Banon paused, glancing back. “We will flee your realms, Captain,” he said. “But no guarantees for the other gangs.”

  Nadrin stepped forward, men tensing around him, unsure of his intent.

  “Listen carefully, Canaries,” Nadrin said. “You are permitted to leave the lands of Dagavia and her people.”

  He scanned the masked figures, black garb, yellow bands, faces without names.

  “Should any of you return,” he continued, “you will not be arrested. You will not be captured. You will find only death.”

  Silence pressed down.

  “If any of you wish to lay down your weapons and atone for your sins,” Nadrin said, voice steady, “now is the time.”

  No one moved.

  Nadrin turned away.

  “How kind of you, Captain,” Banon called, mocking.

  Nadrin lifted his chin just enough to meet his gaze. “Don’t fuck this up,” he said, and walked past.

  He returned to West, who now leaned between Tyrus and Omni, barely upright. Without ceremony, Nadrin dropped to one knee. Several men followed.

  “Master West,” Nadrin said, bowing his head. “As Captain of the Guard of Dagavia, I pledge my allegiance to you and your sword. For your deeds. For your sacrifice. Thank you.”

  West gestured weakly for them to rise. “You flatter me, Captain,” he said, voice thin.

  Nadrin stood. “See that our hero is given a warm bed and proper care.”

  His men moved immediately. Tyrus took West’s weight without complaint, carrying him toward the gates.

  Behind them, Omni lingered as Nadrin’s men shackled the unconscious Beiru.

  “And what will become of the boy?” Omni asked quietly.

  “We will hold him in the dungeon until an Evokian patrol arrives,” Nadrin replied. “Then we will sell him into slavery.”

  Omni flinched. “Surely some grace can be granted.”

  “A beast like Beiru does not deserve grace,” Nadrin said, eyes fixed on the shackles. “Perhaps true mercy would have been ending his cursed life.”

  “At least allow me to tend his wounds,” Omni pressed. “What use will the Evokians have for a one-armed slave?”

  Nadrin hesitated.

  “By law,” he said finally, “Beiru is now the property of Master West. His fate is not mine to decide.”

  He turned away, barking orders to ensure Beiru was secured.

  Omni watched him go, then looked back toward West being carried through the gates. After a heartbeat, he gathered his robes and hurried after them, unease heavy in his chest.

  Behind Dagavia’s walls, the crowd celebrated, shouting, stamping, lights gleaming as though nothing had been broken.

  Beyond them, old enemies scattered, wary and watchful.

  And somewhere between mercy and consequence, a debt had been written, one that none of them yet understood.

  The weight of it pressed quietly against West’s ribs, Tyrus’s grip, and Omni’s conscience. Victory had been claimed, yes, but the cost: silent, unresolved, and patient. Already waited for the moment it would demand payment.