Sigurd appeared at the edge of the clearing, unarmed, the Akkadian bracelet that gleamed on his wrist, a stark reminder of who he had been. He was ready. Yacha stepped forward.
Without a word, Sigurd uncorked the glass bottle and drank from it. He took up two axes.
Before they began, Sigurd broke the silence.
"Before we start, Yacha, know that I hold no grudges. I, Sigurd Normen, leader of Skara Brae, was once a leader of the Orionis as well."
Yacha, stunned into silence, now understood how Sigurd had known everything all along.
"I, Yacha, a soldier in the elite division of the Seiken Army, the Orionis, am ready to fight," he declared, his voice steady, even as his heart warred within him.
And so, they took their stances, ready to face one another, not just as warriors, but as men caught between duty and love, honor and sorrow. The night would bear witness to their final battle, though the stars above, indifferent to their pain, shone on.
The night air was crisp, the stars bright above. Their axes gleamed in the moonlight. With a sharp motion, Sigurd swung one of his axes in a wide arc. Yacha barely had time to react, meeting the blow with his axe, the force of it reverberating up his arms. Sigurd's strength was overwhelming; Yacha could feel it in every clash of their weapons. Yet, he held his ground.
Sigurd's eyes glinted with a fierce light as he pulled away, his hand crackling with energy. Yacha's heart raced as the older warrior channeled the earth beneath him. The ground trembled, and in a burst of raw power, jagged spikes of rock shot up from the earth, hurtling toward Yacha. He leaped back, barely avoiding the deadly strike, but even so, the shockwave sent him stumbling.
Sigurd was relentless. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a wave of fire. Yacha raised his hand, summoning his fire attribute in response. The flames collided in a roaring explosion of heat, the blaze temporarily blinding them both. But Sigurd wasn't finished. He followed up immediately, his body surging with thunder as he swung his axe crackling with lightning.
Yacha barely parried the strike, his arms shaking from the sheer force of it. Sigurd's thunder attribute was far more powerful than his own. Every swing carried the weight of a storm behind it, and Yacha found himself being pushed back, inch by inch.
But Yacha refused to give in. He channeled his earth attribute, causing the ground beneath him to harden and rise, forming a protective barrier. Sigurd's next attack, a violent downward slash, shattered the barrier, but it gave Yacha enough time to reposition himself.
Sigurd's expression remained unreadable as he raised his hand, and the ground beneath them shifted. From the earth, thin metal needles sprouted like thorns. They launched toward Yacha with terrifying speed, their sharp tips aimed to impale him. Yacha rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the first wave, but Sigurd was already preparing another attack.
Yacha felt the sting of one of the needles grazing his shoulder, but he didn't stop. He retaliated with a thunderous strike of his own. The energy crackled down the length of his axes as he brought them down toward Sigurd. For the first time, Sigurd had to step back. His eyes narrowed as he blocked the attack with a single axe.
The power disparity between them was undeniable, but Yacha wasn't backing down. He matched Sigurd's strikes with everything he had, their axes ringing out in a brutal symphony of steel. Each blow from Sigurd sent shockwaves through Yacha's body, but he held on.
Sigurd's eyes flickered with something akin to respect as he paused for a moment as if appraising the younger warrior's resilience. But then, with a swift motion, he raised his hand again, summoning more of the metal needles. Yacha braced himself, his heart pounding in his chest.
Oscar stood at the edge of the clearing, his jaw clenched in amazement, unable to look away from the duel unfolding before him. He had always known Sigurd was a force of nature, but Yacha, this kid, was holding his ground. No, more than that, he was thriving in the chaos, trading blows with a man who could crush mountains. Oscar's heart raced as he watched. How could a boy like him be so strong?
Behind him, Ursang stared at the fight, his fists tight at his sides, his expression unreadable. Inside, his emotions churned. He couldn't deny the sharp sting of jealousy that flickered through his veins. Yacha had grown, and become something far beyond the boy he once knew. That realization gnawed at Ursang, yet, mingled with that jealousy, was something else, a sense of pride.
The clearing was alive with tension. The air is electric with the combined power of two warriors wielding the thunder attribute. It was a sight none of them would ever witness again. Sigurd, a master of his craft, and Yacha, a boy who had grown into a formidable soldier, were locked in a battle that felt more like a conversation than combat. Their axes collided in brilliant sparks, the sheer force of their strikes making the earth tremble beneath their feet, yet neither spoke a word.
But there was more than steel and strength exchanged in those moments. Every swing, every parry. Carried a silent dialogue between them, a conversation no one else could hear. For Yacha, each step forward, each defensive block, was a question.
*Why did it have to come to this?*
And Sigurd, with his powerful, almost effortless movements, answered without words.
*Because this is the way of things.*
Deep in the forest, axes clashed. The flares of their magic were all over the place, which drew unwanted attention. The creature who hid deep in the forest was attracted to the aura Sigurd and yacha released.