It was a pleasant enough jaunt, Emerii felt.

  Or so I wish.

  She sighed heavily, letting the weight on her shoulders leave with the prolonged breath. The person in front of her giggled innocently, as if she had no hand in the events that were occurring.

  Frieda, the Divine Hammer, jumped over a small stream, balancing precariously on a rock with one foot and arms outstretched to keep her balance. The whole trail they traveled was a mess; with the breakup of snow and the emergence of new life, the changing of seasons was evident.

  Behind, she could still see their respective armies, if their ragtag group could be called such a thing. Eira still stood at the head, unwavering. A stark difference from the person Emerii had come to know.

  No, that was not true. It was not a facade or a change, but a return to the person she was, at least for the moment. When they had first met Eira on that mountain in Bardoo, she had been the same.

  “Worried about your friends?” Frieda asked.

  Emerii shook her head. “I know your Uxsons will not attack. As for Arty and Royce, it is only a matter of time until we hear word of their success.”

  “Unwavering faith can be detrimental, you know?”

  “You say that as if you do not hold the same sentiment in your own strength. With the way you carry yourself, I’d have to call you a hypocrite.”

  “Oh, it’s two separate things completely. I have absolute trust in myself, but to give that to another is utter foolishness.”

  “Not even your Dark King?”

  “No.”

  Only silence followed, as they meandered.

  Emerii cleared her throat. “I will return to my companions now.”

  “Wait. If I grow bored, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. Perhaps launching an attack would alleviate it.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Frieda.”

  “Threaten? No, Emerii, it is you who does not understand.” Her playful attitude was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating eyes of a Uxson. “I care not for all this playing politics. If I so decided, I could crush you all here. Even if that angered Cwach and we were unable to make Zernau fall in line, it would not matter. The Dradris Kingdoms will all be destroyed in any case. The world belongs to my people. Our fight will come eventually. I will kill you eventually. Tell me then, why does it matter when?”

  A poignant bloodlust fouled the air. The Divine Hammer was attempting to intimidate her, a pressure that weighed on Emerii like the world itself. The lives of those on the road staring down the foreign entities known as the Uxsons.

  Emerii guffawed. “God, you’re such a brat. If you want my attention that much, then just ask.” She walked close to her dumfounded enemy and whispered in her ear, “I’ll happily give it to you.”

  Frieda blushed, and she smiled broadly. “I guess I’m caught. Though I can’t say I won’t attack if I’m ordered or am unsatisfied.” The Divine Hammer reached for Emerii’s hair, holding some of the pale blonde in her hand. “You really should take better care of your hair.”

  “Well, it’s not like I have an entourage like you to help me keep my beauty.”

  This is quite a predicament. How much I would rather be doing battle than dealing with this infuriating woman. Arty and Royce are probably fighting for their lives right now. Even Eira and Mav are doing more than I am.

  At least she was able to distract a Divine Hammer. That was one of the conceits of her coming here, other than her combat prowess. It was not as if she were drawn to Frieda. No, it certainly was not that.

  The clash sent shockwaves throughout the courtyard. Royce watched with an emotionless face. The King and his guards were to his side, those who appeared assured in their victory. Brodwyn was not even watching, turned away from what was occurring. Agency stripped, he could only guess at how she felt. This had to be done; everything else could come later.

  Royce could understand the confidence from Cwach. Brymoor was an outstanding warrior. Equal with, or even more skilled than, Arty. Though in the end, that would not matter. His chosen friend would win.

  The duel was intense and difficult to follow. He was not adept at combat; the speed of the attacks and parries was lost in a blur. The countless feints and skillful techniques deployed were only barely discernible. Still, it made for an entertaining viewing.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  A slight smile crept on the edge of Royce’s mouth.

  Cwach must have taken notice, for he said, “Feeling confident, are you, brat? Brymoor heals any wound he suffers, but look upon the Promised One. Worn out and battered, he will make a mistake that will cost his life.”

  “With all due respect, Your Grace, the power of a deity is not limitless. Arty will break through eventually.”

  “It appears quite the contrary to me. The Lord Prince is completing his duty quite magnificently.”

  Royce sighed deeply. “Is he truly? Perhaps his obligation to you, Your Grace. But what is his true duty to his people and fellow Drajin? To be trapped in an unhealthy situation, waiting for his funeral as his own Kingdom’s death throes are prolonged for but a minute longer? Zernau may assimilate them, but to trust the Uxsons is folly, and if he lives long enough, he too will see this Kingdom fall.”

  “You insult Zernau and me,” Cwach growled, “The future is not as clear cut as you think.”

  “No, it is not. That is why he should leave and be free. Find what he should truly be doing in this world, not constrained by anything else.” Royce’s firm eyes met Brodwyn’s for the first time that day. Surprise, and a slight tear waited in them. He had to suppress his hatred for the old man next to him.

  “Foolishness, Brymoor is on our side to the end. Your idealism will only lead you to your doom.”

  I wasn’t really talking about that idiot Prince. Royce’s smile grew wider. “Perhaps, I’ve been told similar things before. However, if we don’t reach for it, what is the point in living? Arty shows the way, and we will get there. Eventually.”

  The clash of blades drowned out Cwach’s scoff and reprimand. Royce only needed to keep his eyes on the man’s back before him. For inspiration, for the path ahead. Arty, the golden grizzly cub, would undoubtedly surprise everyone there, likely even himself. But not Royce.

  Artowen thrusted, but was rebuked. He backed off, attempting to catch his breath. Surprisingly, Brymoor did not give chase. A limit, or perhaps a refocusing. It was not as if the Lord Prince had come out unscathed from their clashes, and a deity was not God. Instead of refreshing his body from tiring, he had to focus on healing, or he had simply taken a break from his deity usage entirely.

  One might think now to press the advantage, but Artowen had already learned that the foe before him was one to set traps. Besides, he welcomed the brief reprieve.

  “You truly are skilled, Lord Prince!” Artowen called out brightly.

  It seemed to have taken Brymoor aback, as he rubbed his head bashfully. “You are as well. I thought you were one to ride the coattails of your aunt, but your strength is true.”

  “We’ve both worked hard, haven’t we?” He couldn’t help but let out a lighthearted chuckle that agitated his wounds.

  A moment of silence, where no battle was taking place, where the onlookers were completely silent.

  “Would you admit defeat, Artowen? I will have you spared, and you could join me. Of course, you will have to relinquish your title, but I need men like you.”

  “Ah, I knew I could never hate you.”

  “Then-”

  “But you will still lose.” Artowen raised his sword, aiming the tip at Brymoor’s heart. “I did not choose this, but this life was still given to me. I must live up to expectations, I must complete my role.”

  “So be it.”

  “But you also have something you must accomplish as well, maybe that you’ve lost along the way. Tell me, for someone who defies the usual jewelry and gold of wealth, you wear a pendant. You were careful of it as we battled. It has a special meaning to you.”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “With the end of this battle, you will remember your own promises. Come, Brymoor.”

  The man raged as he surged forth. The flurry of slashes was more precise, more devastating than any that had come before. Still, Artowen held his ground, one with the tempo of the battle.

  Brymoor swept low with his blade, but Artowen jumped, bringing down a strike in mid-air. The Lord Prince dodged by rolling away on the ground.

  Artowen pursued, landing minor strikes that would not matter in the end. They were completely even. His deity had made up for the difference in technical prowess.

  If this were months prior, he would be reprimanding himself for his lack of ability. If this were months prior, he would have lost. Not anymore. The journey was far from over, but he had already learned so much, experienced so much. This moment was simply another memory that he would draw upon and learn from.

  Brymoor should have kept the same speed while Artowen grew tired and slowed, but there had been a miscalculation. The tenacity of the Promised One; he always showed his true strength at the end of a prolonged battle. Reserves of stamina and determination that pushed him forward.

  The Lord Prince continued to back away as Artowen ever increased the pace of the battle. He could not heal wounds, but it did not matter. Every scratch empowered him, sharpened his mind as he tried to create a flaw in his foe’s defense.

  Brymoor lunged in close to return to infighting, an area of combat that Artowen had little experience in.

  It won’t matter!

  Dropping his sword, Artowen grabbed both arms of his opponent. Brymoor attempted to pry loose, but with Artowen’s deity increasing his grip strength and arms, the man was having no luck. The Lord Prince even tried to kick him away to no avail.

  “What are you doing?” Brymoor desperately demanded.

  “You’re more skilled than I am at the moment, an insurmountable opponent in the way of my dream. Even so, I’ll win! I’ll prove I’m stronger!”

  Artowen arched his back, then dragged Brymoor in, releasing the deity in his hands and putting everything he had into his back, neck, and head. He slammed his forehead into the Lord Prince’s face in a devastating headbutt.

  The mind controls a deity. If I can’t take him out with a strike, I’ll muddle his mind.

  Blood sprayed from every direction. A stream spilled from Artowen’s head, reddening his hair and impairing his vision. Brymoor’s nose was broken, his face a smeared mess that was impossible to tell apart. The man fell away, but caught himself at the last moment.

  Despite a shaken brain, Artowen grabbed his sword and spun, aiming for the head once again.

  “I am the Promised One, and I will be the Drawalda!”

  Brymoor brought his sword up and blocked the powerful strike at the last moment, managing not to lose his head. However, the force was too much. He stumbled, barely keeping to his feet as his knees wobbled, the grip on the sword looser than his tether to life.

  Artowen stepped in, his blade arced for the final strike of the duel, soaring through the air, carving a path toward their desired future.