The Nuwe'rak princess seemed comfortable in the trenches, which suggested she'd spent time hunting here before.

"The territorial predators don't appreciate intrusion, but they're manageable in small numbers."

Swana walked beside Jorghan, her hair catching what little light filtered down into the trench. She'd insisted on coming because she knew more about the beasts.

Jorghan suspected she just wanted an excuse to get away from the dwelling for a day.

"So these sand beasts," Swana asked, her voice echoing slightly off the stone walls.

"How big are we talking? House-sized? Horse-sized? 'Oh no, that's a person-sized predator' sized?"

"Varied," Ski'ra replied without turning around. He had already learned about them within this short span.

"Some are small—manageable. The large ones are the size of a small cart. They're armored, aggressive, and they hunt in families. The real challenge is distinguishing the hunters from the herd animals."

"But the predator type of beasts rarely live around these parts. They are about fifty to a hundred feet in height, very ferocious."

"Fantastic," Swana said.

"So we might accidentally disturb some peaceful sandworms and create a territorial incident with their larger, angrier relatives."

"Essentially," Ski'ra confirmed, and if there was amusement in his rough voice, it was subtle.

They'd been walking for perhaps twenty minutes when Jorghan first heard the sound—voices echoing off the stone walls, distorted by distance and acoustics.

Ski'ra held up a hand, signaling the group to stop.

Everyone went silent, listening.

The voices grew clearer as they approached a branching point in the trench. The passage split into three directions, and the voices were coming from the left branch.

As they moved cautiously forward, Jorghan began to make out individual speakers.

"—completely predictable. They're hiding behind that giant creature as if it can protect them from reality."

"The Berserk Lord won't save them forever. Eventually, someone will be strong enough to—"

"Enough."

A new voice, authoritative and sharp.

Jorghan felt something cold settle in his chest as they rounded the corner and saw the group ahead.

There were eight of them.

Two were clearly Swana's siblings—the twins, Lira and Moredn.

They were brown elves, like Swana and Sik'ra, but taller and broader, with the kind of bearing that suggested they'd spent years training as warriors.

They looked nearly identical, with the same copper hair and skin as their sister, but where Swana had a light humor about her features, these two carried themselves with a hard edge.

The other six were red elves.

Young ones, Jorghan noted.

Probably no more than a century or two old, which was practically adolescent for elves. They wore the insignia of the Nue'roka clan, and they carried themselves with the particular arrogance that came from being born into power.

And at the center of the group stood someone Jorghan had never seen before, but whose identity he understood immediately.

The red elf was tall—easily seven and a half feet—with the same polished amber eyes as El'ran had possessed.

The family resemblance was unmistakable. The sharp cheekbones, the way he held his shoulders, and even the particular angle of his head as he surveyed the trench ahead.

This was El'ran's son, Lamorg.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

The two groups stared at each other across the thirty feet of sand that separated them, and Jorghan watched as recognition flickered across the faces of the Nue'roka elves.

"Well," Sarhita said softly, her tone remarkably calm, "this is unexpected."

Lamorg's expression hardened. His polished amber eyes fixed on Jorghan with an almost physical intensity, and Jorghan could see the exact moment when rage replaced every other emotion in the red elf's face.

"You," the elf said, his voice carrying the weight of seven days of accumulated hatred.

"You killed my father."

"I did," Jorghan said simply.

There seemed to be no point in denying it.

"Then you're about to die," Lamorg said, and he moved. Back when he saw Jorghan kill his father, he was crying, wailing with pain, but he couldn't move as he was fear-struck by Jorghan's aura. He didn't dare do anything or go against Jorghan at that time. But he hadn't forgotten about his revenge. He was burning with vengeance in his mind.

He spent his time thinking about how to kill Jorghan for the past few days.

Seeing Jorghan up close, his anger burst out again.

The red elf covered the thirty feet of sand in what felt like a single motion, his body moving with the kind of speed that came from centuries of combat training. His hand found the hilt of a blade that Jorghan hadn't even noticed he was carrying, and the sword came free in a motion that was smooth and practiced and absolutely lethal.

Jorghan reacted without thinking.

He sidestepped, the blade whistling past where he'd been standing a fraction of a second before, and he threw a punch that the red elf deflected with contemptuous ease.

"Come on then," Lamorg growled, his form coiling for another attack.

"Let's see what the so-called Berserk Lord is made of."

Jorghan could have transformed. He could have accessed the power that was always waiting just beneath his skin and ended this before it began.

But something in him recognized this for what it was—a teenager's grief and rage expressed through violence.

And as much as this elf wanted to kill him, Jorghan didn't particularly want to kill this elf's son.

So instead, he fought.

The red elf was good.

Better than good.

He fought with a precision and technique that spoke of formal training under someone genuinely skilled. Every strike was calculated, every movement efficient. He was trying to find weaknesses in Jorghan's defense, testing his speed, and evaluating his capabilities.

But Jorghan had something the red elf didn't—he'd fought El'ran. He'd faced seven hundred years of accumulated combat experience and survived.

This elf, for all his training and all his skill, was fighting with maybe a century of experience.

The difference was subtle but significant.

Jorghan ducked under an overhead swing, came up with a counterattack that forced the red elf to retreat. The sand beneath their feet kicked up with each movement, creating a small dust cloud that made it harder to see clearly.

Around them, the other elves had formed a loose circle, watching the fight without intervening.

"Come on, brother!" One of the twins—Lira or Moredn, Jorghan couldn't tell which—called out to his siblings.

"Don't just stand there!"

"Brother?" Jorghan looked at Swana, who was just as confused as him. Sik'ra was frowning, watching his siblings. They haven't been on good terms ever since they left the floating islands.

"Stay out of this," Lamorg snarled, not taking his eyes off Jorghan.

"This is my fight."

He pressed the attack again, pushing Jorghan backwards across the sand. Jorghan was just giving him a benefit, as he wasn't interested in him.

The red elf was fast, and he was clever, and he was absolutely determined to land a killing blow. But Jorghan had the advantage of reflexes honed by a system that constantly analysed his combat performance, continually providing him with tactical suggestions.

Jorghan blocked, then ducked.

The blade that had been aimed at his head whistled past his ear.

He swept.

The red elf jumped, his form arcing over the attack with impressive grace.

But the moment he landed, Jorghan was there, moving inside the elf's guard, grabbing his wrist, and using his momentum against him.

Lamorg went flying backwards, hitting the sand hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He lay gasping for a moment, his sword fallen beside him, staring up at Jorghan with an expression that mixed defeat with furious confusion.

"I didn't want this fight," Jorghan said quietly.

"I still don't. Your father made a mistake in coming against me, and I suggest you think carefully before you do the same."

For a long moment, the red elf just lay there, breathing hard, his polished amber eyes burning with a hate that seemed almost liquid in its intensity.

Then, with an effort that clearly cost him, he pushed himself up on his elbows.

"This isn't over," he said, his voice rough.

"This isn't finished."

"Maybe not," Jorghan acknowledged.

"But it's not happening here. Not today."

Swana had moved to stand beside Jorghan, her hand resting casually on a weapon at her belt. "You lot need to move along. We've got beasts to hunt."

For a tense moment, it seemed like the situation might escalate further.

But then Sarhita stepped forward, her liquid gold eyes fixing on Lamorg with an authority that transcended physical strength.

"The young and soon-to-be patriarch would be wise to withdraw," she said calmly.

"This is Nue'rak territory. This is a hunt sanctioned by my clan. Any further aggression would constitute a territorial violation."

She didn't raise her voice.

Didn't threaten.

Just stated facts.

But those facts carried the weight of political consequences that even a grieving, angry young elf recognized.

Lamorg pushed himself to his feet, brushing sand from his clothes with more force than was necessary. His hands were shaking with barely controlled rage.

"Fine. We'll leave. But this isn't finished, Berserk Lord. You took everything from me. I won't forget that."

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