The clearing held its breath.

  Mist rose from Zafran’s skin—pale green and deep blue, like seafoam under moonlight. It flowed from his breath, his stance, his every movement. Calm. Composed. Deadly.

  Across from him, Varzen blinked once, then gave a short, bitter laugh.

  “…Ocean Tide?” he muttered. “Unexpected. And troublesome.” One hand wiping blood from his cheek.

  No answer came.

  Zafran didn’t speak.

  The ground fractured as Varzen’s staff slammed down—but Zafran was already gone, shifting sideways, cutting in low with a sword blur.

  Steel met staff—loud, sharp, jarring.

  Strike. Block. Shift. Duck.

  Chaos surged with every movement of Varzen’s—flashes of warped light, cracks in the air, bursts of gravity that tugged at Zafran’s balance. But the mist-wrapped knight was always a breath ahead, weaving between destruction with unnatural flow.

  Varzen snarled, twisting his staff, casting a wave of blackened flame. If grazed Zafran arm while he darted under it, then he rose behind him, and cut upward.

  Varzen quick step off, but still, that cut draw a thin line of blood on his arm.

  The first mark.

  Varzen hissed. He swung wide—Zafran ducked again, spun, and sliced forward. His movements were tight. Precise. No wasted effort.

  Another clash. Sparks burst.

  “You are good,” Varzen said, as he deflect another slash “Better than anyone I’ve seen at your age.”

  And then their weapons locked. Faces close. Eyes sharp.

  Then Varzen stilled.

  His gaze held Zafran’s. Longer than before.

  “Those eyes…” he said.

  Zafran didn’t blink.

  “…That face.”

  A flicker of realization passed over Varzen’s expression. Then—

  “Balin.”

  Zafran didn’t react.

  Not a word. Not even a change in breath.

  But his sword pressed harder.

  Varzen swing hard, pushing him away.

  “Ah,” Varzen breathed, circling. “So that bastard really did have a son. You’ve got his posture. His silence. Same damned glare. I’d know that look anywhere.”

  Zafran didn’t move.

  Varzen’s tone dipped. “He ruined everything. Ten years ago, we had it all set. Your father… set us back a decade.”

  Another breath.

  “Do you know how he died?”

  Zafran exploded forward, fast and lethal.

  Their weapons collided, Varzen step back, retreating behind a wall of chaos, but Zafran didn’t stop.

  “I don’t care,” he said, voice colder than frost.

  His sword met the chaos staff again and again. Every strike was sharper. Deeper. Intentional. One blow forced Varzen’s foot back. Another forced his guard high. On the third, Zafran twisted through—pivoted—and struck a clean diagonal cut across Varzen’s chest.

  A line of red bloomed.

  Right above the old scar.

  Varzen staggered, touched the wound, saw the blood.

  He laughed.

  “Just like him. Same timing. Same damn cut.”

  He grinned wider.

  And slammed his staff into the earth.

  Boom.

  The crystal erupted with violet light.

  A wave of energy burst outward, warping the air, bending trees, distorting the sky.

  Zafran flew—tumbled across the dirt, mud splashing over his armor.

  He hit hard. Rolled and then stood up quick, only to meet with the charging Varzen.

  His staff spinning, chaos burning at his heels.

  His next swing is imbued with chaos magic, powerful and destructive, Zafran parry it but got send off away again by the explosive force, he flew, thudded on the ground.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “You’re skill, Ocean Tide,” Varzen breathed, walking forward slowly. “But you’re alone.”

  And then—

  From the side—

  A flash of frost.

  A shard of ice lanced in from the smoke.

  Varzen’s eyes flicked sideways.

  He didn’t hesitate—his palm opened, and a tendril of chaos unfurled from the void, catching the shard in midair and snapping it apart with a whip-crack of warping energy.

  His gaze narrowed.

  She stood just beyond the flame-lit haze—barely upright, her frame trembling, blood slicked across her left side. Her breathing was shallow. Her steps uneven.

  But her eyes?

  Her eyes still burned.

  “I’m not letting you finish this alone,” Isolde said. Her voice was broken, sanded down by pain—but steady.

  She took one limping step forward, then another.

  Zafran moved instinctively, wordless, stepping to her side.

  Varzen’s brow twitched.

  Then the ground began to freeze.

  With a sweep of her blade, Isolde dragged a crescent of frost across the battlefield. Shards of ice erupted from the earth in jagged spirals, splitting soil and stone alike, driving toward Varzen in a wave of frozen teeth.

  He slammed his staff down. Chaos surged—a thick, oily shield writhing in front of him.

  But the ice punched through.

  One shard grazed his forearm—cutting deep, leaving a hiss of frostbite in its wake.

  He staggered. Just a half-step.

  But enough.

  Zafran surged in behind it—no delay, no call, no command. His sword swept high, fast and deliberate. Isolde was already moving opposite him—low, wide, cutting beneath Varzen’s guard.

  The two of them flowed like a mirrored strike.

  A rhythm forged not in drills—but in fire.

  Zafran’s blade clanged off Varzen’s staff. Isolde came from behind him—he twisted, blocking just in time.

  Steel screamed against enchanted iron.

  And still, they moved.

  Zafran stepped forward with sharp footwork, baiting a counter—Isolde collapsed in from the flank. He cut, she deflected. She advanced, he opened space. Perfect tempo. A breath behind one another, never overlapping, never wasting a motion.

  Varzen clicked his tongue—low and sharp.

  Another wave of tendrils lashed out from his staff, but Zafran spun through them, mist rippling around his frame like armor. Isolde shattered the rest with a rising wall of ice, which burst into spikes beneath Varzen’s boots.

  He leapt—barely avoiding being impaled.

  His cloak snagged. Tore.

  He landed off-balance.

  Zafran didn’t let him breathe.

  A horizontal strike forced Varzen back. Isolde followed with a downward cleave that cracked the air with frost. Their swords moved like a storm—too fast, too coordinated.

  Varzen grimaced. His heels dug into the softening earth, his magic flaring wider now—desperate pulses to repel them.

  But they were in.

  Another beat—Zafran fainted left, Isolde swept right.

  Varzen blocked one—

  The other cut through.

  A shallow line of blood bloomed across his shoulder.

  He growled.

  His counterattack was wild—chaotic pulses burst outward, forcing them back.

  But even then—they reset. Together.

  Breathing heavy.

  Still standing.

  Still ready.

  Varzen circled them, slower now.

  “I underestimated you both,” he said, licking blood from his lip. “You two are such a perfect match.”

  But even as he spoke, his eyes tracked Isolde’s left leg. Her limp. Her slower recovery after each strike.

  He saw the cracks.

  And he pressed.

  His staff whipped wide—caught Isolde’s blade and knocked it sideways with a clang. She staggered, weight uneven. Before she could reset, the ground beneath her feet shimmered.

  Then collapsed.

  A gravity burst flipped reality—her body plunged downward as if the world had pulled her spine into the ground. She gasped, knees buckling—

  And Varzen struck.

  His staff drove into her ribs like a battering ram.

  She flew.

  Her body hit a tree with a sickening crack. She crumpled, blood streaking the bark behind her.

  Zafran turned— “Isolde—!”

  But he was cut short.

  Varzen’s palm flared and a tendril of pure chaos slammed into Zafran’s chest. He grunted, thrown backward like a ragdoll, skidding through mud and shattered bark.

  Silence fell for half a breath.

  Varzen exhaled.

  Calm.

  He turned to where Isolde lay, unmoving.

  And smiled.

  “It’s time,” he murmured, raising his staff. “Let’s end this little chasing game, Lady Isolde.”

  The gem pulsed violet.

  The air dropped.

  Tendrils erupted—long and thick, black as oil, curling like veins across the sky. They pulsed with intent, stretching toward her body.

  Then—

  A blur.

  Zafran threw himself between them.

  His sword trembled in both hands. He stood over her, chest heaving.

  “Heroic,” Varzen said, tilting his head. “But—”

  Heat.

  The tendrils surged.

  Veins of unmaking, black and writhing, lashing toward Zafran and the fallen Isolde like the open maw of some eldritch thing.

  And then—

  A sound.

  A roar.

  No spell spoken. No warning cried.

  Just fire.

  A massive torrent of flame erupted from across the clearing—broad, blinding, and alive with wrath.

  It came not as a sphere, but a sweeping gush, like the gods themselves had opened a furnace and poured its contents straight across the battlefield.

  The air screamed.

  The tendrils didn’t burn. They didn’t even ignite.

  They vanished—disintegrated, vaporized in the sheer heat. The very magic that had coiled to devour was erased, undone by raw force.

  Varzen’s eyes went wide.

  He didn’t speak.

  He moved.

  Too slow.

  The torrent struck.

  He threw a wall of chaos into its path, twisted the space around him, tried to bend light itself to deflect it. He dove sideways just in time—but the edge of the blast caught him.

  His left arm—engulfed.

  He screamed.

  A sound of pain and fury that cracked across the ruined village like a thunderclap.

  The ground exploded in his wake—wood and stone and ash flying skyward. One house caught the full brunt of it and ceased to exist, swallowed whole in fire. A second buckled inward. The shrine at the center of the village split apart, melted like wax in a forge.

  In the silence after, there was no wind. No crackle of flame.

  Only ringing—and white heat curling from the scorched ground.

  Varzen stumbled out of the smoke, his cloak in tatters, one side of his body blackened and slick with ruin. His left arm hung limp, burned to the bone, skin bubbled and peeling. His breath rasped through clenched teeth.

  And yet—

  He smiled.

  Not because he’d won. Not because he had power left.

  But because something beneath his cloak—tucked inside—was glowing.

  A faint red hum, pulsing low.

  He looked at Karin across the wreckage.

  She stood at the far edge, not advancing. Not threatening.

  Just… still.

  Arms out. Shoulders tense. Fingers curled.

  Her breath came in short bursts.

  Her robe was burned at the edges. Her hair a mess of sweat and ash. But there was no divine glow. No miracle light. No god behind her.

  Only power.

  Spent. Real. Hers.

  The ground still hissed beneath her boots.

  Even the air bent away from the heat that radiated off her skin.

  Varzen looked at them—Zafran, standing firm; Isolde, broken but unyielding; Karin, blazing with power.

  He laughed. Low. Dry. Pained.

  “I’ve met too many… unexpected things today.”

  His eyes flicked between them, something sharp behind the smile.

  “Fate has its way of dragging blood back to blood… Doesn’t it?”

  He touched the glow inside his cloak, the faint pulse still steady.

  “Ice wolf, Ocean Tide, and The Flame”

  And in a blink—he vanished, swallowed by a ripple of warped space.

  The heat lingered.

  The fire still danced along the skeletons of buildings.

  Karin collapsed to one knee, sweat rolling down her brow.

  And for the first time in hours—

  the clearing fell quiet.