The night air outside Quitfort reeks of gunpowder and scorched earth. Civilians stumble from their homes, wide-eyed and whispering.
"What in the hells is happening?"
A sharp metallic *clang* echoes through the streets—steel meeting steel. The fight between Gnorm and Caesar has already begun.
Even blind, Gnorm moves like a storm. His longsword whistles through the air, parrying Caesar's twin curved blades with uncanny precision. Sparks fly where metal kisses metal. Caesar lunges, feints left, then slashes low—Gnorm twists aside at the last instant, the blade carving a shallow line across his ribs. Blood beads on the torn cloth, but he doesn't flinch.
"For a blind man, you're really something else," Caesar says, voice laced with genuine respect. He spins both swords in a flourish, the edges glinting under torchlight.
Gnorm's chest heaves, sweat rolling down his scarred face.
"What kind of monster are *you*?" he rasps. "I felt it—felt you pull weapons straight from your mouth."
Caesar laughs, low and dangerous. "You noticed? Really something else, I tell you."
He raises his twin blades again, circling slowly, Gnorm then asked. "I've heard so much about you elite knights. What in the nine hells did the Allthing do to you lot?"
a young girl bursts into the street—slender, armored in light mail, one of Caesar's trainees.
"Caesar! What are you doing? You're scaring the whole damn village!"
Her eyes flick to Gnorm, sword still raised. She freezes.
"Go find the boy," Caesar orders without looking at her. "I'm dealing with something here."
"If you say so…" She hesitates, then sprints off into the shadows.
Caesar reaches into his mouth again—impossibly—and draws forth a massive golden weapon: a shoulder-mounted cannon, ornate and brutal, its barrel wide enough to swallow a man's arm. The street falls deathly quiet.
Gnorm's grip tightens on his hilt. Fear flickers across his face for the first time, but he plants his feet and raises his blade in defiance.
Caesar shoulders the weapon and fires.
A deafening *boom* splits the night. A glowing projectile streaks toward Gnorm—then Julius appears.
One heartbeat the boy is nowhere. The next he stands between Gnorm and the blast, the girl he carried now safely behind him. Time seems to stutter.
The golden shell strikes an invisible wall inches from Julius's outstretched palm.
A small, pathetic puff of smoke erupts—like gunpowder scattered on wet stone—then the shell clatters harmlessly to the cobblestones, its deadly force spent.
The street is silent except for the ringing in everyone's ears.
Caesar stares, mouth open. The massive shell lies inert at Julius's feet, smoking faintly.
Julius lowers his hand.
"I don't want to hurt you."
Caesar's face twists—shock, then fury.
"Who do you think you are? A god? A boy playing at one?"
He steps forward, blades trembling with rage. "You looking down on me, kid?"
"Go with your friends," Julius says, voice steady and cold. "I don't want to fight you. We'll ride out—me and Gnorm. There's no need for this."
Caesar's laugh is bitter.
"What kind of man would I be if I ran from a fight?"
"A wise one," Julius answers.
His eyes meet Caesar's—unblinking, unafraid. A quiet promise flickers there: *I will end you if I must.*
Caesar holds the stare for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiles. He sheathes one blade, pats the girl on the head, and slings the cannon over his shoulder.
"We'll meet again, Julius…"
He turns, already walking away.
"…or should I say *Valthor*."
Gnorm exhales shakily, lowering his sword. Relief washes over him like cool water.
**Outside the town, minutes later**
Gnorm and Julius ride side by side, horses pounding east under a moonless sky.
"We need to ride east," Julius says, voice low. "I felt him. Surtr. He's awake."
Julius nods once. They spur their mounts faster, vanishing into the dark.
**Back at the ruined tavern**
Caesar strides through the wreckage. His companions scramble to their feet, dusting off broken tables and spilled ale.
"What are you lot doing? Slacking off?" Caesar snaps.
Sara rubs her bruised shoulder. "That kid… he's on another level, boss."
"What's the move?" one of the others asks.
Hooves thunder in the distance. Golden Cloaks ride into view—five riders in gleaming armor. One dismounts and approaches Caesar, holding out a sealed scroll.
"Letter from the Allthing Council."
Caesar breaks the wax, reads quickly. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.
"Get ready, everyone," he says, rolling the parchment. "We'll be on the road soon."
The chapter ends with the sound of armor clinking and horses being saddled under the flickering torchlight.
To be continued