A groan slipped from Atlas’s throat as consciousness clawed its way back to him. His head pounded like a drum, blood trickling where the blow had landed.

  When his vision cleared, he realized where he was.

  The center of the village square.

  Tied fast to a wooden flagpole, rope cutting into his wrists and ankles, his storm held prisoner as his fury rose higher. Around him, soldiers in King David’s colors patrolled lazily, laughing as they dragged villagers into the open. The once-bustling square was now a stage for conquest.

  The banner of David’s kingdom snapped above him in the night wind, a symbol of dominance nailed into the heart of the town.

  The laughter hushed when a new figure strode into the square. The soldiers straightened, stepping aside as though the very air thickened around him.

  He was tall, with a lean build that carried no wasted motion. His armor was blackened steel trimmed with jagged silver, designed more for intimidation than ceremony. A half-mask covered his lower face, etched with cruel lines, while a crimson cloak trailed behind him like blood on the wind.

  At his hip hung a pair of curved daggers, their blades faintly glimmering as though slick with venom. His eyes—cold and calculating—locked onto Atlas with the sharpness of a predator.

  “Finally awake, are we?” His voice was smooth, cutting through the silence. “Good. I’d hate for the son of Gerald to die without knowing whose hand placed the knife.”

  He stepped closer, boots crunching on broken stone. “My name is Corvus Rael. Right hand to General FrostBane… and the man who paid those little rats you so eagerly slaughtered in the woods.”

  Atlas’s jaw tightened, his storm-gray eyes burning with hate as he pulled against the ropes until the wood groaned. “I don’t care who you serve,” he snarled, voice like thunder under strain. “I don’t care what title you wear.”

  He leaned forward as far as the ropes allowed, his teeth bared in rage.

  “I’ll kill you. Corvus Rael. I’ll tear you apart with my own hands.”

  The soldiers shifted nervously at the venom in his words, but Corvus only smirked, tilting his head as though amused by the boy’s fury.

  Corvus circled Atlas slowly, boots scraping across the stone square. His eyes flicked to the Stormtalons lying at the base of the flagpole where the soldiers had tossed them after his capture. With a casual grace, he bent down and scooped them up.

  He twirled the twin blades effortlessly, testing their weight, the curved edges gleaming faintly in the firelight. “So these are the infamous Stormtalons,” Corvus mused, his voice dripping with mockery. “Weapons said to cut faster than the eye can follow. A shame they’re wasted on a boy who doesn’t even know what kind of storm he carries.”

  The soldiers chuckled at their commander’s words, the sound ringing in Atlas’s ears like a taunt.

  Corvus turned the blades this way and that, spinning them with a flourish that spoke of a man utterly confident in his skill. He smiled thinly beneath his half-mask, then looked directly at Atlas. “Tell me, prince—shall I keep these when I send your corpse back to your brothers? They’ll look much finer in the hands of someone worthy.”

  Atlas’s storm-gray eyes blazed. He pulled against the ropes, the wood of the flagpole creaking under the strain, his fury burning hotter with every mocking word.

  “Go on,” Atlas snarled, his voice raw, low, dangerous. “Spin them around. Pretend they’re yours. It won’t matter. Because the moment I’m free, I’ll take them back… and then I’ll carve that smug grin off your face.”

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  The soldiers jeered, shouting for their commander to silence him. But Atlas wasn’t done—he leaned forward, teeth bared like a wolf, his words slicing through the din.

  “Unless, of course… you’re too much of a coward to face me yourself. One on one. You, me, and the storm.”

  The square went quiet.

  Corvus tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then a low chuckle escaped him. He clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp in the silence, before tossing the Stormtalons into the air and catching them with practiced ease.

  “Cocky little whelp,” he said, stepping closer, his voice full of cruel amusement. “But I like that fire. And I’ve always enjoyed putting princes in their place.”

  He gestured sharply to his men, who hesitated, then began untying Atlas from the flagpole, their faces pale at their commander’s decision. Corvus spread his arms, the Stormtalons gleaming in his hands.

  “One on one it is.”

  The ropes fell away, frayed from the soldiers’ knives, and Atlas rolled his shoulders, the burn of freedom setting his storm alight again. He flexed his wrists, eyes never leaving Corvus as the man twirled the Stormtalons one last time in his hands.

  With a mocking flourish, Corvus tossed them into the dirt at Atlas’s feet. The curved blades stuck upright, humming faintly as though eager to return to their master.

  Atlas bent slowly, his storm-gray eyes locked on Corvus the entire time. His fingers curled around the hilts, and the moment his grip closed, a faint current of wind stirred the square, swirling dust around his feet.

  Corvus’s smirk deepened beneath his half-mask. He raised his twin daggers in a loose, confident stance, his body poised like a coiled serpent. “Show me what the son of Gerald is really worth.”

  Around the square, the conquered villagers huddled together in doorways and corners, eyes wide with dread. Mothers clutched their children close, old men leaned on one another, and no one dared breathe too loudly.

  For them, this was not just a duel. It was a trial of fate. If Atlas fell, it would mean the last spark of hope Gerald’s sons carried could be extinguished right there, before their eyes.

  The soldiers of David jeered and laughed, slapping the flats of their blades against shields, hungry for blood. But still, their eyes flicked warily to Atlas—his storm tugged faintly at their cloaks, the air itself beginning to shift.

  Atlas slid into his stance, Stormtalons angled behind him, his body brimming with energy. His gaze was unshakable, focused only on Corvus.

  Corvus lowered slightly, his daggers gleaming, his smile calm and cruel. The tension between them stretched taut, every heartbeat drawing the square closer to eruption.

  The villagers held their breath. The soldiers’ chants died down. Even the wind seemed to pause.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, they both moved—

  Atlas surged forward, the storm answering his fury. Corvus darted low, faster than a serpent’s strike, both men crashing toward each other with speed and strength that blurred to the naked eye.

  The clash was inevitable.

  The clash erupted like a thunderbolt.

  Atlas’s Stormtalons cut arcs of silver through the night, every slash trailed by a hiss of wind sharp enough to rattle shutters. Corvus met him with equal ferocity, his daggers flashing like fangs in the dark, parrying, twisting, snapping back with strikes so fast they blurred.

  The two became a blur themselves—steel against steel, sparks leaping in every direction as their blades collided in rapid succession. Villagers gasped and ducked as gusts of air swept through the square, knocking debris and dust into the air.

  Atlas lunged high, Corvus slid low. Atlas struck in a storm of slashes, Corvus weaved between them, his cloak flaring as if he were part shadow. Every motion came and went faster than the eye could follow, the noise of their duel like a roaring storm mixed with a serpent’s hiss.

  The villagers clutched each other, stunned. Mothers shielded children’s eyes, yet even the children peeked through fingers, eyes wide. This wasn’t just fighting—it was something beyond human, beyond what they had ever seen.

  Even David’s soldiers, hardened killers, leaned forward with unease. Their jeers had gone silent, replaced by whispers. This is no ordinary prince. Corvus is holding back… isn’t he?

  The fight surged across the square, Atlas pressing with raw speed, his storm growing wilder, his strikes heavier. But Corvus’s smile never wavered. He twisted away from a vicious strike, their blades ringing in a furious clash.

  And then—he began to talk.

  “Not bad for a boy with daddy’s shadow on his back,” Corvus said, his voice sharp and steady even in the chaos. “But tell me—what happens when your precious Marco chooses the sea over you? When your people cheer his name, not yours? You’ll still be the spare. The storm with nowhere to land.”

  Atlas’s eyes flared, his grip tightening. His storm surged, but his strikes faltered just enough to show hesitation. Corvus’s smirk widened beneath his half-mask.

  “That’s what eats you alive, isn’t it?” he pressed, deflecting another slash with ease. “No matter how fast you swing those blades, you’ll never outrun him. You’ll never be the king.”