The retreat had become a desperate march.

  Captain Marek ran at the head of the battered column, sword still in hand, blood and dust caking his armor. Behind him, the survivors — less than 200 now — staggered forward, some limping, some supporting wounded comrades, all breathing in ragged gasps.

  The trolls’ roars echoed closer, a relentless tide of gray flesh and red eyes. The camp’s wooden walls and gate loomed ahead — a fragile line of logs and sharpened stakes, the last barrier between life and slaughter.

  Gauis stood alone in front of the gate, sword drawn.

  He had come down from the watch tower minutes earlier, moving with the quiet certainty of a man who had faced worse.

  His old knight’s blade — longer and heavier than the knife he usually carried — gleamed in the fading light.

  A few able fighters from the camp had joined him — scavengers, merchants, travelers who had chosen to stand. They formed a thin line, weapons raised, faces pale but determined.

  Marek’s eyes locked on Gauis as he approached.

  He froze mid-step.

  “You…” Marek’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Knight Commander Gauis… the Duelist of the Dawn?”

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  Gauis didn’t turn. His gaze stayed fixed on the approaching horde.

  Marek’s mind reeled.

  Gauis the Duelist. A legend among knights — the man who had once stood alone against entire squads of mages and aura users in single combat, never losing. The one who had earned the title “Duelist of the Dawn” after holding a mountain pass against a Solvaris assault until sunrise, killing dozens before reinforcements arrived.

  The same man who vanished after a betrayal, presumed dead or in hiding.

  Marek — once a lieutenant in the Solvaris Imperial Army — had heard the stories. He had respected them. Feared them.

  And now that man stood here, in Camp Tile, guarding a riverbank settlement against trolls.

  Sir Rowan Hale — the Avalon bounty hunter — overheard the name and stopped dead. His longsword lowered slightly. “Gauis…?” he whispered. “The Duelist?”

  Gauis finally spoke, voice low and cold.

  “Get back. We’ll talk later, Solvaris bastard.”

  Marek flinched at the old enmity, but he didn’t argue. He stepped aside, motioning his survivors to fall in behind Gauis’s line.

  From the watch tower above, Rebecca, Gray, and Tamemoto watched.

  They hadn’t heard the words clearly — the wind carried them away — but they saw the tension in Gauis’s stance, the way Marek’s posture changed from command to deference.

  Gray’s eyes narrowed. “What’s happening?”

  Rebecca’s hand tightened on her staff. “Gauis… is being recognized.”

  Tamemoto stared down. “He looks different.”

  The horde came into view.

  Hundreds of trolls — soldier trolls in the front ranks, giants lumbering behind, their massive forms casting long shadows. The ground shook with their footsteps. Black blood trailed from earlier kills. The roar was deafening — a wall of sound that made the wooden walls vibrate.

  Gray felt his chest tighten.

  Tamemoto’s hand gripped the railing.

  Rebecca’s voice was quiet. “They’re coming.”

  Gauis raised his sword.

  The line held.

  The world narrowed to the space between the camp gate and the approaching horde.

  And Gauis — the Duelist of the Dawn — stood ready.