Leon walked through fire.
Not the flames of death or destruction. The kind that didn't burn skin, but scorched resolve. Every step toward the Herald felt like dragging the weight of a thousand battles behind him. The air was thick. Charged. Like the world held its breath.
The Herald waited.
He stood still, one hand lowered, the other behind his back. His armour looked molten—black metal threaded with flickering veins of orange. His eyes glowed beneath a visor, watching.
Watching Leon alone.
Behind, the valley screamed. The third wave had begun—cutters tearing through formations, the mountain's soldiers fighting to hold the line. But Leon didn't turn.
This duel had been chosen the moment the Herald stepped through.
No words were spoken. No introductions.
The Herald moved first.
A flicker. Then he appeared in front of Leon, faster than sight.
