The commander resembled a storm in human form.
His axe swung with a speed that seemed impossible for a man of his size — each strike powerful enough to break bone and armor alike, the weight of it was nothing to him, a tool he had wielded for so long that it felt like a part of him rather than something he carried. He pushed Dray back step by step, relentless, his scorched face contorted into a mix of a smile and a snarl.
Dray's sword met every strike. Deflecting. Redirecting. Seeking the angles that kept him alive instead of those that advanced, because advancing was not an option for him, and he was aware of it.
Gully was aware too.
"I hope you liked King Adam's gift to me, elf." His tone was calm, like a man handling business rather than fighting for his life. "Strength. Speed. Beyond what your magic can match." He launched another strike, and Dray absorbed it with his blade, staggering slightly. "You cannot win this. You never could."
He spoke as men do when they have already concluded something to be true — without passion, without uncertainty, with the flatness of a statement rather than a boast. This made it worse. A boast could be countered. This was merely a man informing another of what was about to unfold.
Dray's arms were on fire. His shoulders felt like they were burning. Magic flickered around him — the blue light gathering and dispersing, enhancing his strength and speed — and even with it, even with all it provided, he was losing ground.
Agnes approached from the side.
Her kick was directed low — targeting the knee, which was unprotected and vulnerable if struck correctly. Gully anticipated it. He turned, and her boot hit his shin guard instead, the force reverberating up her leg. Without hesitation, he swung the axe handle like a club — horizontally and quickly, forcing her to leap back to avoid losing her head.
He glanced at her as she landed. "Cute." His pale eyes shifted back to Dray. "But you are not part of this, princess."
"Your highness—" Dray's voice sliced through the room, sharp with a hint of something that was almost fear. His gaze met Agnes's for a brief moment, assessing. Then he turned back to Gully and drew the blue light into his palm.
The sphere of crackling energy shot from his hand and crossed the room.
Gully lifted his axe. The magical bullet struck the flat of the blade and exploded — blue light bursting outward, the force pushing him back a step, his boots scraping against the floorboards. He steadied himself and looked at Dray across the smoky distance.
"Still using the same tactics, elf." He rolled his shoulder casually. "Haven't you learned?"
He charged.
The overhead swing came swiftly and brutally, aimed to cleave Dray from skull to sternum. Dray's enhanced speed allowed him to move sideways — just barely — and his blade found the opening between Gully's chest plate and arm guard, embedding itself. Blood flowed. Gully did not hesitate.
The horizontal sweep followed instantly, the axe arcing back along its path, striking Dray's raised sword arm. The armor held firm. The impact did not stop at the armor. It penetrated inward — through the plate, through the padding underneath — and struck the bone. Something in Dray's forearm snapped. Not a clean break. A fracture, sharp and immediate, completely altering what that arm could do.
His hold on the sword faltered. His teeth clicked together.
Agnes was already in motion.
Her kick was swift and high, the heel of her boot striking directly against Gully's face. His head jerked to the side. Before he could fully process it, her elbow found the opening between his helmet and chest plate, driving into the vulnerable area of his throat.
Gully stepped back.
He paused for a moment, the axe dangling in his hand, his pale eyes shifting to Agnes with an expression that hadn't been there before. Not fear. Something more cautious than that.
"I almost forgot our little princess was a swordsman." He moved his jaw slowly, as if checking if it still worked as he expected. "That was quite a strike, I must say."
Agnes stood firm. Her hands were up, her weight shifted forward, her gaze fixed on him and nothing else. "I will never forgive you, Gully."
The statement was not a threat. It was not said with anger or trembling. It emerged like something that has been held for a long time and finally finds its place — calm, complete, already resolved.
Gully regarded her for a moment.
"Unlike you, princess." His tone was almost soft. "I have learned to let go. And to pursue with greater strength."
He swung.
Agnes ducked under the axe's arc and came up on his right side, her boot striking hard against his right ear. The impact was exact and thorough. Blood trickled down the side of his neck.
She did not hesitate.
Her fist struck his abdomen before he could fully react to the kick. Once. Twice. Three times, each blow landing in the same spot, the force building.
Before her fourth punch, his hand gripped her wrist tightly.
The hold was instant and complete — a grip that required no effort, simply existing, like iron molded into fingers. She tried to pull away. Nothing budged.
Her other fist swung around.
He seized that arm as well.
For a brief moment, they remained still — Agnes trapped, both arms in his grasp, neither moving. Then Gully yanked.
He pulled her arms sideways, slowly and purposefully, causing her shoulder joints to give way. The cracking sound was clear. Agnes screamed — a raw, uncontrolled sound, the pure expression of something in her body that was not meant to move being forced to move.
Gully headbutted her.
The metal of his helmet struck her forehead. Her skin split instantly. Blood streamed into her eyes, and she collapsed, her legs giving out, the floor rising to meet her as she fell and struggled to get back up.
Dray clenched his teeth. He managed to stand, his broken arm dangling, magic flickering in his free hand like a flame in the wind. He was upright. But that was nearly all he had left.
Gully turned to confront him. Something had shifted in his expression — the careful evaluation, the almost-gentleness was gone. What was left was something older.
"First the betrayal of our kingdom," Dray said, his voice strained from the pain of speaking. "And now this? Have you no shame, Gully?"
Gully closed the gap between them and punched him in the face.
Dray's head jerked back. He had anticipated the hit, but his body didn't react quickly enough — the fracture had drained him, the arm that should have blocked the blow hanging uselessly — and the punch landed hard, his vision fading to white for a moment.
Gully loomed over him.
"Shame." He spoke the word as if he were examining it from all sides and found it lacking. "I have grown stronger, Dray. Stronger than you will ever be. And you call this shame?" His voice rose a bit — not to a shout, but to a level of something that had been suppressed for a long time and was now choosing to break free. "Wake up. We could have both been the mightiest warriors in this land. In this vast land — us. Together."
He paused.
A change crossed his face. Then he laughed — a brief, genuine, and ugly sound.
"Who am I fooling." The warmth vanished from his voice entirely. "Partner with an elf. Repulsive."
He lifted the axe.
The blade glinted in the lamplight as it ascended, darkened from use and stained with old blood, and Gully's arms were fully extended above him, the weapon at its peak, while Dray's hand shook.
Agnes witnessed it from the floor.
Her vision was clouded with blood, her shoulders were in ruins, and her arms wouldn't respond as they should. But her legs still functioned. She located them beneath her and pushed.
Her boot struck the axe head from the side, just below the blade — not enough to halt it, not nearly enough, but enough to shift it. The weapon twisted in Gully's grip, altering the arc of its fall by inches.
Dray raised his left hand.
His right arm hung limply where it had been — useless, the fracture having settled into a fact of his body rather than a new pain. His left hand was his weaker hand, the one he had never used to lead, and the blue light that gathered in its palm was small. But it was concentrated. It was near.
He did not miss.
The beam struck Gully under the chin and moved upward.
The sound it produced was short, damp, and definitive. The light passed through flesh and bone as easily as it would through paper — without any resistance, without slowing down — and it exited from the top of his head, disappearing completely.
Gully's eyes widened.
Then they shifted elsewhere. Somewhere that was not the room, not the lamplight, not Dray in front of him — a place that was not anywhere at all. His body remained upright for a moment longer than it should have, the axe still raised, the muscle and armor holding the position by memory alone. Then it collapsed. Backward, all at once, the sound of him hitting the floor was loud, final, and complete.
The room settled into the silence he left behind.
Dray swayed. His left hand fell to his side, the light fading from his fingers. His breathing was ragged and uneven, the breath of a man whose body was trying to process everything that had just happened.
Agnes was on the floor.
Her shoulders had taken the brunt of it, and she was aware of it — the arms that should have moved to support her, that should have pressed against her ribs where the pain resided, could not fully respond. She attempted to lift one hand, but all she managed was a shaky half-movement, the joint refusing to move as it always had before. She let her arm rest. Breathed through the ceiling. Waited for the room to stop spinning.
Then warmth came to her side.
Dray knelt next to her, and wrapped his uninjured arm around her as if the pain in his own body no longer mattered.
"Your highness." His voice was shaky. "Are you okay? Please be."
Agnes looked at him. A cut ran down her forehead, with blood drying near her eyebrow. Her shoulders were in bad shape. Her ribs had been hurting since the chains.
"I'm okay," she replied. "I'm alive, at least." After a moment, she added, "Let's go back. Now."
Dray nodded. His eyes scanned the room — the fallen soldiers, the lamplight still glowing as if nothing had happened, the remnants of the broken chains scattered on the floor. He turned toward the door.
Reerie was standing in the doorway. She had just arrived.
Her dagger was stained with blood. Her leg had a burn — a large, angry mark shaped like a musket muzzle on her calf, with the surrounding flesh red and swollen. She hadn't bandaged it. It seemed she hadn't thought about it at all. Her eyes swept the room once — Gully's body, Dray and Agnes on the floor, the overall situation — and her face revealed nothing.
Dray locked eyes with her. "The soldiers?"
She nodded once.
"Good." He attempted to stand straight. The wince came before he could fully straighten up, and he settled for a position in between, accepting it as his current state. "We have to move. Now."