The clearing was deathly silent. Only the distant crackle of torches and the rhythmic pulse of the Warden's runeblade filled the air. The towering figure stood motionless, his massive weapon leveled toward Tharion, waiting.
Ceyla, hidden behind the remnants of a broken wagon, had her bow drawn, but she knew this battle was beyond her arrows. She whispered urgently, "Tharion, we can still find another way—"
"No." Tharion's voice was steady, his golden-tinged blade gleaming in the dim light. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but his stance remained firm.
He could feel it—the power within him responding to the presence of this enemy, as if something deep inside recognized the challenge before him.
The Warden tilted his head, as if studying him. "You wield a power you do not understand. And yet, you stand before me."
Tharion didn't answer. Words wouldn't matter here.
With a sudden explosion of movement, the Warden charged.
A Battle of Titans
Tharion barely had time to react. The sheer force of the first blow sent a shockwave through the clearing, splitting the ground where he had been standing moments before. He twisted, rolling to the side just as the Warden's blade carved through the air with terrifying speed.
The moment his feet found solid ground, Tharion countered, his glowing sword arcing toward the Warden's exposed side. Sparks flew as steel met steel, and the impact reverberated through his arms.
The Warden did not budge.
A backhanded strike came toward him like a battering ram. Tharion ducked—barely—but the sheer force of the wind following the swing knocked him off balance. He staggered back, righting himself just in time to see the Warden advancing, relentless.
"You are fast," the Warden mused, his voice a deep, resonant growl. "But you lack control."
Tharion gritted his teeth, dodging another brutal strike. He needed to rethink his approach. The Warden wasn't just strong—he was precise, experienced. A single misstep would be the end.
And then it hit him.
He didn't have to match the Warden's strength. He had to redirect it.
Turning the Tide
The next time the Warden swung, Tharion didn't dodge outright. Instead, he stepped into the attack, pivoting his body at the last second and deflecting the force rather than taking it head-on.
The Warden's blade crashed into the ground, embedding deep in the dirt for a fraction of a second. It was all the opening Tharion needed.
He surged forward, his golden energy flaring as he struck fast and hard—first at the Warden's shoulder, then his leg, then a final thrust toward his chest.
The Warden grunted as the attacks connected, staggering back for the first time. His armor bore glowing scorch marks where Tharion's blade had struck.
Ceyla gasped from her hiding spot. "He's actually hurting him..."
But Tharion knew better than to celebrate too soon.
The Warden lifted his head. Though his face remained obscured by his helmet, Tharion could feel the amusement radiating from him.
"A rare sight indeed," the Warden rumbled. "Pain."
Then, with a sudden roar, the runes on his blade flared—not just with power, but something darker. A swirling black mist coiled around the weapon, twisting unnaturally.
Tharion's instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
The Warden slammed his sword into the ground, and a shockwave of dark energy erupted outward. Tharion leapt back, but the force sent him flying, crashing into the remains of a wooden fence.
He coughed, trying to regain his breath, his limbs trembling.
Ceyla rushed toward him. "Tharion—!"
But the Warden was already moving.
With terrifying speed, the massive warrior lunged toward Tharion, his blade raised for the killing blow.
Unleashing the Light
Time slowed.
Tharion felt it again—that pulsing energy deep within, the same force that had saved him before. It burned beneath his skin, demanding to be set free.
He closed his eyes for the briefest moment—then let it go.
Golden light exploded outward, blinding and brilliant.
The Warden's strike never landed.
Instead, his massive form was thrown backward by the sheer force of the radiant surge. The shadows around him recoiled, hissing.
Tharion rose, his entire body aglow, his blade now pulsating with something more than just energy—it was will, ancient and indomitable.
The Warden knelt, his armor smoking, his runes flickering. Slowly, he stood, letting out a low, rumbling laugh.
"So," he murmured. "You truly are the lost heir."
Tharion's breath hitched.
"What?"
The Warden lifted his sword, now crackling with unstable darkness. "Now I understand why they seek you."
A sudden howl filled the night—a signal.
From the treeline, more figures emerged—cloaked warriors, their masks gleaming under the torchlight. They were everywhere.
Ceyla's face paled. "We're outnumbered."
The Warden stepped back, lowering his blade. "Your fate is sealed, but not by my hand." His glowing runes dimmed, his stance more relaxed. "We will meet again, Heir of the Forgotten Throne."
Then, in a swirl of mist, he was gone.
The masked warriors charged.
Tharion barely had a moment to process the Warden's words before the battle was upon them.