Garran couldn't help but be taken aback by what he saw. Just before the blade could pierce his flesh, Torin simply vanished—one moment a massive figure hurtling toward him, the next nothing but empty air and the faint echo of displaced wind.
The knight stood there for a fraction of a second, his sword still extended, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
Where—
His gaze was soon attracted by a single snowflake gently gliding down, falling toward his blade. It landed on the broad side of his sword, a tiny white star against the dark steel, and lingered there for a moment before melting. He frowned, his brow furrowing beneath his helmet.
A snowflake? In the middle of the Azurian Sea, under a cloudless sky?
Then something reflected on his blade—a flash of movement, a figure suspended in the air behind him—and he stiffened.
Torin was right behind him, still in the air, his spear angled downward for a devastating strike. The ancient bone gleamed in the sunlight, its tip aimed at the gap between Garran's shoulder and breastplate.
Instinct took over. Garran spun, his sword swinging in a horizontal arc to deflect the spear. The two weapons met with a thunderous clash that echoed across the water, the force of the impact shattering the boat beneath Garran's feet.
Wood splintered and sprayed outward, but the knight remained unphased as the enchantments on his greaves activated, allowing him to stand on the water as if it were solid ground.
Torin, however, had no such foothold. With nothing to support him, he went flying backward, his body tumbling through the air. He twisted, his muscles coiling as he braced himself, his boots extending beneath him.
A faint white light began to shine from the soles of his leather boots, pulsing with a cold, steady glow. Small snowflakes glided beneath him, forming a delicate layer of frost that spread across the air itself.
A cold mist leaked from the soles of his boots, swirling and coalescing into a surface that was not quite solid, not quite liquid—something in between.
Soon enough, he stilled, standing upright in the air as if it were solid ground. The cold mist intensified beneath his boots, forming a platform of frozen air that held his weight with ease. He planted his feet, adjusted his grip on his spear, and met Garran's gaze with a sharp, confident grin.
Garran blinked under his helmet, his gaze dropping to his greaves. The elven-made enchantments that had seemed so wondrous just moments ago now felt almost pedestrian compared to what he had just witnessed. He let out a low, gravelly chuckle.
"That's a fancy pair of boots you have there, young man."
Torin's grin widened, a flash of pride in his eyes.
"I know, right?" He shrugged, the motion casual, almost cocky. "The best part is that I made them myself." He paused, tilting his head. "Well, not from scratch. I had help. But you get the idea."
Garran brandished his blade, the greatsword catching the sunlight as he settled into a low, ready stance.
"Sharp words," he said, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement.
Torin raised his spear, holding it in a reverse grip over his shoulder, the tip angled downward.
"My spear is sharper," he said, and hurled it with enough force to disappear before the untrained eye.
Garran's instincts screamed a warning. The spear flew faster than he had expected—a blur of ancient bone and cold steel that seemed to bend the air around it. He stepped aside, his body moving on pure reflex, and the spear whistled past him, embedding itself in the water behind him with a hiss of steam.
He set his gaze back on Torin, and his eyes widened. The vambrace on Torin's arm had transformed, unfolding into a shield with numerous sharp blades at its edge. The shield detached itself and came flying toward him, spinning fiercely as it closed the distance, the small blades glinting under the sun like a whirlwind of death.
Torin came sprinting behind it, his feet stepping over the air with practiced ease, his eyes locked on his opponent.
Garran took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs, and then he moved. His sword swung in a wide, horizontal arc, meeting the spinning shield with a resounding clash of steel. The impact sent sparks flying, and he managed to deflect it just enough to send it skittering across the water's surface.
He wanted to follow up with a swing at Torin, but the Nord was already too close, his fist clenched and flying toward him. Garran gritted his teeth, his body instinctively shifting to lessen the impact as the blow connected with his helmet.
The force of it rang through his skull like a bell, and he staggered back, his vision swimming for just a moment.
As the knight shook his daze off, he quickly discovered that the impact had dented his helmet, distorting the eye slit and impairing his vision. He could see only a narrow sliver of the world through the crumpled metal, and the edges of his sight were blurred and unfamiliar.
Without hesitation, he reached up and tore the helmet from his head, tossing it aside where it clattered across the water's surface before sinking.
Beneath the helm, his face was weathered and lined, his grey hair cropped short, his eyes sharp and pale as winter steel. He was older than Torin had expected—well into his fifties, at least—but his gaze was steady, his jaw set with unyielding resolve.
He met Torin's eyes with a look that promised he had no intention of yielding.
And as soon as the helmet was gone, Torin was upon him.
Torin's hands were raised high, gripping something that wasn't there—a gesture that seemed almost theatrical, like a warrior about to bring down an invisible hammer.
Garran braced himself, his body tensing for the impact that never came. Torin's hands were empty, but as they swept downward, Skaldrfong materialized in his grasp, and he drove the spikey base of the spear toward Garran's chest.
Again, Garran had no space or time to dodge perfectly. He twisted his body, and the tip of the spear tore through his armor, planting itself into his shoulder instead of his chest. The metal shrieked in protest, and a spray of blood followed as the weapon found its mark.
Garran gritted his teeth, his jaw tight with pain, but he didn't falter. He raised his foot and delivered a devastating punch to Torin's abdomen, the force of the blow sending the Nord stumbling back three steps.
The knight took the chance, raising his sword high before bringing it down in a brutal arc. Torin reacted instantly, raising his spear with both hands to block the strike. The weapons met with a thunderous clash, and for a moment, the two warriors strained against each other, their muscles coiling, their breath coming in sharp, measured bursts.
Torin was preparing to push Garran away with brute force, to create distance and regain the initiative, but the knight had other plans. He slid the blade of his sword to the side, angling it toward the fingers of Torin's left hand.
The move was quick and precise, designed to disarm rather than wound, forcing Torin to remove that hand from the spear or lose it entirely.
Torin had no choice. He pulled his hand back, and the spear tipped to the side. The blade of Garran's sword slid alongside it, catching the edge of Torin's shoulder. The Nord's flesh was already reinforced with magic, hardened to nearly the strength of ebony, and he even swayed to the side to dodge, but the blade still managed to shave a whole layer of flesh from his skin.
With a wince, Torin launched himself backward, his boots skimming just above the water's surface before he settled a short distance away. He let go of the spear, allowing it to fall into the water with a soft splash, and raised his hand, hovering it over his injured arm. Golden light poured from his palm, warm and steady, as the wound began to knit itself closed.
"The finest swordsman of High Rock, huh?" He said, his voice carrying a note of grudging respect. "I suppose they don't call you that for nothing."
Garran scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound. He was breathing heavily now, a thin line of blood trickling from the wound in his shoulder, but his grip on his sword remained steady.
"For a Nord they call the Mountain Breaker," he said, his eyes scanning Torin's form, taking in the healing light, the discarded spear, the way he stood so effortlessly on the air. "You sure fight with a lot of finesse. I expected more brute strength and less cleverness..."
As the bleeding finally stopped, Torin lowered his hand, the golden light fading. He flexed his fingers, testing the newly healed flesh, and nodded in satisfaction.
"I never liked that name," he said, his voice flat. He raised his arm once more, his palm open, ready. "And cleverness is the best weapon within my arsenal."
Garran was just about to reply—a retort, perhaps, or a cutting observation—when Torin's shield suddenly dug into his back. The sharp blades on its edges were rotating like a mill's saw, tearing through the leather and gouging into the plate beneath.
The knight groaned in pain, his body arching involuntarily, but he reacted quickly. He spun on his heel, his elbow driving into the shield with brutal force, and sent it flying across the water.
He watched with wide eyes as it flew around for a moment, spinning wildly, before curving back toward Torin and settling onto his vambrace with a soft click.
Torin's other hand extended to his side, and Skaldrfong materialized in his grasp, the ancient bone gleaming in the afternoon light.
Garran's face darkened, his jaw tight.
"I'll take that back," he said, his voice low and cold. "You don't fight with finesse. You just fight dirty."
Torin brandished his spear and pointed it at the knight, his grin sharp and unrepentant.
"You have no idea," he said, and without ceremony, he lunged again.
...
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