The air splits with a vicious metallic hiss as Bran’s axes whip through it, two wide, whirling arcs in perfect rhythm. He spins with fury, each blade trailing a blur, creating a whirlwind of steel that gives Daniel no room to breathe.

  Around them, guardsmen clash with brigands, driving them back as fresh militia pour through the breach. Archers scramble up ladders toward the walls, loosing arrows in an effort to claim the valuable vantage point, forcing back the brigands firing at the troops below.

  But Daniel’s focus stays locked on Bran. He catches the first axe mid-swing, his longsword hooking beneath the curve of the blade just as Bran shifts into an overhead strike. The second axe crashes down a heartbeat later, hammering into Daniel’s guard with brutal force.

  Young, strong, and slightly taller, Daniel pushes back with disciplined form, leveraging his full weight.

  But Bran has twice the width and barrels forward like a siege ram, his strength crashing into Daniel’s guard. The older man leans in close, his breath rancid, grinning through crooked teeth.

  “Feel that, lordling? That’s weight of a real man. A pampered little shit like you could never understand what it takes to build strength like this.”

  Daniel pushes back but Bran continues to bear down, too strong to throw off.

  “What's the matter boy? This all you got? You tired? Hungry? Bet you got a wet nurse waiting for you behind the line.”

  With a laugh, he drives a boot into Daniel’s stomach, breaking the clash.

  Daniel stumbles back but catches himself quickly, feet resetting into a strong stance. The plate absorbs almost all of the blow, unable to even knock the breath from him.

  He glares and steps in again, sword flashing—but Bran’s axes are faster. One hooks under Daniel’s blade, yanking it aside with ease. The second axe comes whirling through the opening, aimed straight for Daniel’s throat.

  "Hmph."

  But he twists just in time, the edge glancing off his pauldron with a screech of steel, his armor easily deflecting the blow. Quickly, Daniel brings his longsword around in retaliation, the steel edge ringing off Bran’s spangenhelm, knocking it from his head, revealing greasy, brown hair that spills to his shoulders.

  Bran growls, eyes blazing. “Pretty swing, lordling. Pretty sword and armor too, nothing but the best for Edwin's son. But what're you really underneath? Huh? Just soft skin and softer guts. You ever earn a scar, or do your servants bleed for you too?”

  Daniel chuckles unbothered, taking a deliberate step forward. “Is this what the peasantry sounds like when it whines?” He tilts his head, condescending. “Better armored. Better armed. Better born. That’s the goddesses will. Her design as it should be.”

  Bran snarls, rage flaring, and his axes swing faster, harder. Daniel deflects each blow, using the length of his sword to keep distance, sharp stabs darting in, forcing Bran to shield his head.

  Bran lunges, trying to hook the blade again, but Daniel anticipates it. He jerks the sword back and pivots, slashing in a tight reverse swing that slices across Bran’s cheek, drawing blood.

  “Surrender to your betters, lowborn scum. Prostrate yourself, and I may show mercy.”

  Bran spits at him, eyes focusing as his rages cools....

  Then he lunges—dashing left, both axes flashing in a deceptive sweep. Daniel steps back, blade raised—but too late. One axe leaves Bran’s hand, spinning through the air before smashing full-force into Daniel’s helmet.

  The world jolts.

  Daniel staggers, vision reeling from the brutal impact. The blow rings through his skull like a bell, and he stumbles backward, crashing shoulder-first into a brigand locked in combat with one of his guardsmen. All three collapse in a heap of flailing limbs and curses.

  Bran grins and surges forward, closing the distance before Daniel can fully rise. Daniel sees the blur of motion and swings on instinct, but Bran ducks low, slipping under. In the same breath, he spins behind Daniel and drives the edge of his remaining axe into the back of the knee, where the plate ends and only mail guards the joint.

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  "Grrrghh!" Daniel grunts as pain blooms through his leg.

  The mail halts the blade from slicing through, but the crushing impact buckles him, and he drops hard to his knees. Bran wastes no time. He kicks Daniel forward into the snow, the young knight hitting the ground with a grunt. Bran tosses aside his axe and draws a curved dagger, slamming his weight down onto Daniel’s back. He grips the knife tight and drives it toward the narrow gap under Daniel’s armpit, aiming to punch it straight through to his heart.

  But Daniel shifts beneath him and the dagger scrapes hard against the plate with a sharp clang. "Fuck!" Bran snarls, pulling back for another stab—

  —but a militia man charges from behind, screaming, swinging a scythe. Bran twists, catches the shaft in one hand, and drives the dagger up into the man's throat. The militiaman crumples with a wet gasp, blood splattering across the snow.

  Daniel growls as the corpse hits the ground. He throws his weight into Bran, tackling him sideways. They crash into the snow, rolling through the slush, limbs flailing as they grapple for control of the dagger. It flashes dangerously between them, the blade grazing Daniel's neck, slicing clean through the chin strap of his helmet.

  Bran snarls and tears the helm away, casting it aside. He pins Daniel down, arm raised.

  “This is the end, lordling! I’m gonna gut you and show your corpse to that gutless father of yours!”

  Daniel snarls at that, locking his grip on Bran’s wrist and driving a boot into his chest, hurling him backward into the snow. They’re both breathing hard, soaked in sweat and blood, but it isn’t over. They scramble across the churned ground, desperate hands grabbing for whatever they can.

  Daniel seizes one of Bran’s fallen axes, short, solid, but unfamiliar. Across from him, Bran rises with Daniel’s own longsword in hand, testing its weight with a cruel smirk.

  Daniel’s heart races.

  Dammit... This axe? Against a longsword?

  It’s a poor match by any standard. He’s barely trained with such weapons. Bran, by contrast, handles the sword with familiar ease.

  Daniel draws his dagger and pairs it with the hand axe. Crude, but it would have to do. Bran eyes the weapons and lets out a bark of laughter. “Fine steel,” he says, nodding toward the longsword in his grip. “Think I’ll keep it.”

  Despite the situation, Daniel’s smirk doesn’t falter. “A sword is a noble’s weapon. Tools like this...” he gestures to the axe, “Is better suited to someone of your station.”

  Bran’s eyes narrow, his knuckles whitening on the hilt. “Yer’ve got yer father’s arrogance,” he mutters. But after a beat, a bitter grin splits his face. “At least yer’ve got guts to go with it. Unlike yer coward of a father.”

  Daniel’s glare sharpens. “My father is no coward. It’s your faithless master and his pack of murderers who fear a proper fight. That’s why you’ve spent your time skulking in the hills and preying on the helpless instead of facing us.”

  Bran smirks, undeterred. “Tell me, boy... did yer father ever tell you why he and his brother parted ways?”

  Daniel says nothing, jaw tight.

  Bran chuckles darkly. “Didn’t think so. Maybe I’ll share the story with you... Once I've gutted you with yer own sword.”

  Bran lunges in, thrusting for Daniel’s face with deadly precision. Daniel deflects with his dagger and swings the axe in a desperate arc, but the reach isn’t enough. Bran leans back, letting the blow whistle past, then drives forward again, stabbing toward Daniel’s throat.

  Steel rings against steel as their blades clash in a blur of strikes and counters. But Daniel loses ground, each step retreating from Bran’s relentless advance. The longsword’s length gives the brigand every advantage, and Daniel’s clumsy swings with the axe can’t keep pace.

  "What’s wrong, lordling? That fancy training not working without yer fancy weapon behind it?”

  He swings again, the blade crashing against Daniel’s wrist, sending his dagger spinning away into the snow.

  “When I was half your age, I was killing men with wooden spoons.”

  Another strike rakes Daniel’s neck, just beneath the jawline. Blood pours down his gorget, hot and sudden.

  “Pathetic. Just like your gutless, goat-fucking cur of a father. Liliana would be ashamed to look at either of you.”

  Daniel roars and charges, abandoning all form. He can’t match the reach of the longsword, he doesn't have the skill with an axe—but as Seven once did to him, he commits to raw momentum.

  Bran lunges with the blade, but Daniel bats it aside with the axe and crashes into him, shoulder-first, tackling the larger man to the ground.

  They slam into the snow, a violent tangle of limbs. Bran grunts and fumbles for his knife, but Daniel wields two weapons that are even faster.

  "Hrraarrghh!!"

  He rains down fists, gauntleted blows smashing into Bran’s face. Each strike thuds wetly, crunching cartilage and shattering bone. Bran tries to cover up, arms raised, but his broken nose has his eyes flooding, the pain blinding him.

  “Die, brigand scum!” Daniel roars, fists pounding. “Rot in the dirt where you belong!!!”

  With a desperate roar of his own, Bran manages to hurl Daniel off, but not far. Daniel rolls, grabbing the fallen axe from the blood-muddied snow. He spins and lunges before Bran can reach the hilt of his sword.

  “DIE!” Daniel bellows, driving the axe down.

  The blade splits Bran’s skull with a sickening crunch, cracking through bone and deep into his head. His body twitches violently, one hand flailing for the sword.... then falls still. Blood pools fast, dark and steaming in the snow, as the last breath rasps out of his ruined throat.

  Daniel stands over him, panting, fists trembling, watching as the brigand collapses forward into the snow, axe still buried deep into his skull.

  Dead.