In that instant, the two men froze.

The sound came from behind them, carried through the haze.

It was unfamiliar yet too composed to belong to a dying man.

Bennet turned, every muscle tensing.

Kieran's blade was half-drawn, his eyes searching the smoke.

"You buried my men," the voice continued, calm and deliberate, "You buried their screams beneath your clever traps. And now you think to crawl out of their graves?"

A shape emerged through the mist—tall, unbroken, wrapped in the tattered remnants of a commander's cloak.

His armor was scorched, but his movements were steady, eyes glinting with unnatural light.

"Eryndor," Kieran whispered, disbelief and dread lacing his tone.

The man smiled—a slow, cruel curve of his lips, "Did you really think you could escape oh so easily?"

His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of authority that made the air itself still.

Kieran let out a thin breath, blade steady.

"Well," he said dryly, "I don't see myself in a prison—or dead."

His stance tightened, steel lifting to meet Eryndor's gaze.

Bennet shifted beside him; a faint ring of metal hung in the wind.

The ridge trembled again, dust rising from the shattered stone.

Sparks drifted like fireflies, catching the dying light.

"That may be true… But alas…" Eryndor took a single step, voice soft but cutting, "You've run far enough."

The wind howled suddenly, scattering the smoke, revealing the full ruin of the battlefield—bodies half-buried, fire still burning where oil had seeped into cracks.

Bennet's eyes hardened, "Then come finish what you started."

The three men stood in the growing twilight, the air between them alive with tension. The ridge groaned again, as if warning what was to come.

The fog behind Eryndor did not simply lie in the trees; it seemed to breathe.

It rolled in slow, tidal bands that warped the trunks, doubling silhouettes and splitting shadows until the ridge felt misprinted, a page struck twice by a heavy press.

Eryndor stood very still. He did not raise his blade.

The quiet certainty in his posture did the cutting for him, and those faintly luminous eyes never left the short space between Bennet and Kieran—as if he were already measuring where their bodies would fall.

Just then, a shadow peeled from the mist at his shoulder and hardened into a man of exact lines—plate unmarred, cloak straight, a crimson blade purring in his hand.

Whenever the vice commander shifted his grip, the edge left a faint red smear in the air, an afterimage burned onto the fog. His gaze settled on Kieran with the indifference of a surgeon about to make a precise cut.

"You've made quite the mess," he said, voice smooth, unhurried, almost apologetic, "It's only fitting the forest watches your end."

Seeing the vice-commander appear, Kieran's eyes narrowed as recognition clicked into place—the tilt of the crimson blade, the surgeon's stillness, the tar‑sweet reek of pitch that belonged to Nareth. Rumours ran through his head like a litany: villages blackened without fire; beasts that kept moving until the master bled out

"That's his right hand," he breathed, "The butcher of Nareth."

"Stay sharp," Bennet said, jaw locking. He did not look away.

But as they expected an attack, the sound narrowed once again.

The fog sagged like cloth heavy with rain, then drew tight and folded in on itself. Heat pressed their faces; ash‑motes wavered; a low thrum set their teeth on edge. In the hush, a coin‑sized ember opened—watching.

Darkness gathered around it and held.

The Netherbreed was already there, crouched in a gouge of scorched earth beyond Eryndor, steam coiling from its plates.

Bennet didn't blink. Heat washed through him and settled into weight.

He loosened his grip to feel the leather again, set his left foot back, and let the tremor in the ridge pass up through his bones so it wouldn't throw him later. The old drill came back without asking: blade low, shoulders soft, breathe from the belly.

"So that's the Netherbreed…" he mumbled, his voice low—intrigue flickering once, then hardening into vigilance.

Kieran's face changed—bravado replaced by something else, annoyance tightening into wary focus; his jaw set, a muscle ticking in his cheek as his eyes narrowed to slits against the furnace‑breath.

"Perfect," he muttered, low and tight, more irritated than afraid, "Getting away just got a lot harder."

As if it heard Kieran's comment, the Netherbreed roared. Its reply tore the fog into scrolls.

The roar traveled through the trees and came back as a pressure that made the ribs ache; when the sound died, it left a cleaner silence, as if the noise had stripped useless air from the world.

"Do not hold back. Spawn of darkness," the vice murmured to the beast—softly, almost fondly as fine gravel around the beast began to dance and at that moment, Eryndor raised two fingers.

A single leaf cut loose from a branch above them, tumbled into the heated air, crisped to nothing before it could touch the ground.

They moved.

The Netherbreed moved first.

It came on like weather—no complexity, only pure force.

Foreclaws hit the ridge and plowed trenches; stone sleeted past.

Clang!

Bennet rolled inside the first sweep and met plating with steel.

"Gh!"

The impact rang to his shoulder and numbed his grip, but he stamped his heel, bit into turf, and rode the recoil back into stance.

Kieran slid under the second arc, the world a smear of scorched grass and heat. His daggers bit along a seam and wrote a bright line there; the blood that hissed out pitted the ground.

"It bleeds fire," he barked, half warning, half dare.

"Off its breath!" Bennet shouted, "Eyes, Kieran—stay with me."

"I'm here," Kieran snapped, jaw set.

Eryndor walked through the debris as if crossing a court.

"You think savagery can match command?" he asked, lifting his blade in a casual salute.

"It keeps us breathing," Bennet said, "That's enough."

Bennet answered him with weight as he met the commander head on.

Clang!

"Heavier than your traps," Eryndor said lightly.

"Traps don't talk back," Bennet grunted.

The first heavy diagonal met a minimal parry; Eryndor turned the force into the earth and stole the angle.

"Your tells are loud," Eryndor observed.

"Then listen closer," Bennet shot back.

Bennet feinted low–high; Eryndor's riposte brushed his cheek and left a thin taste of iron.

"Bleed later," Bennet told himself, crowding, trying to smother space; Eryndor pivoted on a heel and pecked a pommel into Bennet's ribs hard enough to shake a breath loose.

"Still here," Bennet wheezed.

"For the moment," Eryndor said.

On the other side, the vice-commander moved with quiet economy—no waste, no hurry—while Kieran changed height and rhythm the way a thief changes names.

"Predictable," the vice-commander murmured as three beats flashed—high, low, turning stab—and he answered with one parry, one void, and a line that opened Kieran's forearm.

"Cheap," Kieran hissed.

"Efficient," the vice-commander said.

"Like what you did in Nareth?" Kieran shot back.

"I remember only outcomes," the vice replied.

Kieran switched his off‑hand to reverse grip and breathed through the hot needle of pain. He flicked a pebble to bait a strike; the vice didn't look—he listened to the pulse.

"Keep your eyes on me," Kieran needled.

"Arrogant..." the vice replied.

Boom.

"Brace!" Bennet barked.

The Netherbreed slammed all four claws at once.

A ringed shockwave rolled out, skipping stones, tearing roots, buckling knees. Old oil along the rock face ignited in pockets and threw the battlefield into strobing light.

Eryndor smiled into the sway as if it were a terrain feature he had ordered.

"Good," he said, "Let it tidy the field."

"Ridge wall!" Bennet snapped.

"Then watch me," Kieran threw back as he turned to the Netherbreed.

"Chase me," Kieran called, knifing between boulders, and threw a rune‑etched dagger; a clean blue flare erupted and died, the blade clattering on and stealing the beast's sight for a blink.

The Netherbreed screamed and scythed after him, carving a furrow that funneled it toward the rock.

Kieran stamped a root‑knot as he ran, marking a trip point for later.

Eryndor cut across the field and met Bennet with a backhand that notched his cheek.

"Clever," he said, voice all frost, "Not clever enough."

"You're talking to stall," Bennet said.

"I'm savouring my kill," Eryndor replied.

"You'll choke on it," Bennet said as he head‑feinted left, raked Eryndor's vambrace, and paid for the space with a slice along his shoulder.

The vice-commander whispered; shadows drew long from his crimson steel like threads pulled from night.

One found Kieran's arm and burned black.

"Hot," Kieran hissed through his teeth, "Get off of me."

"Hold," the vice-commander ordered.

"Break," Kieran snarled, tearing free with a grunt, kicking scree into the vice-commander's eyes, vaulting off a stump, and running the angle he needed, "I won't wear your leash again."

The vice-commander spread his fingers; blood‑runes floated, triangulating heat and heart‑rate through the smoke.

"Count your breaths," he warned.

"I'll count your mistakes," Kieran shot back.

Bennet planted his sword and pushed the way the drillmasters had taught—past muscle into will.

"Create me an opening," he spoke as he sent aether into his sword which was embedded beneath the stone.

Boom!

A pale shockwave rippled underfoot and jolted the Netherbreed's stance for exactly a breath.

"Now!"

"Taking it," Kieran answered, "Not dying here."

A springy sapling bent and threw him up the creature's side.

Both daggers hammered into the shoulder seam; heat kissed his face as plates ground open. He let one hilt stay as a rung and tumbled clear as a foreclaw scythed past his ribs.

The other dagger wrenched free on the roll and skittered across the stone to stop at Bennet's boot, spinning once before it stilled.

Eryndor's left hand lifted. The creature froze mid‑thrash; its eye‑cores brightened like twin furnaces.

"Enough play," he said, "End them."

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