The very air in Volgunder Keep seemed to pulse with anticipation—a tangible tension that mirrored the storm raging inside Liam. Today was the day of the final match, the culmination of the Volgunder Tournament. Every stone in the ancient keep, every fluttering banner outside, bore the weight of expectations. Liam Volgunder, the unlikely finalist—the boy who had stumbled, struggled, and fought his way to this point—was to face Kael Dergovia, the arrogant prodigy and newly minted 3-star swordsman.
Yet for Liam, the atmosphere brought no thrill—only a deep, gnawing dread. Sequestered in a neglected chamber near the armory, he sat on a rough-hewn bench. His new short sword and shield lay beside him. Sleep had eluded him; his mind replayed not only the recent brutalities of the tournament but also Brad's cryptic lessons and the surge of raw, unpredictable power he'd experienced in his fight with Carla.
His fingers traced the healed bruise where Carla's rapier had met the hastily formed chunk of ice—a reminder of both his desperate gamble and the danger inherent in wielding a power he barely understood. The tunic was torn, yet it was the cool sting of his skin that reminded him: he had risked everything on an unstable power. I was reckless, he chided himself, but there was no turning back now.
Liam closed his eyes, attempting to calm his heart. He focused on Brad's teachings—silent movement, agile rotations, the art of anticipating one's opponent. But his mind was a battlefield, haunted by vivid images: Carla's shock, Kael's sneer, his father's troubled, unyielding gaze. And then there was the dragon.
The memory of his dream surged back—fragmented visions of Kael Volgunder, the legendary founder, cloaked in darkness. Whispers of "dragon's blood" and "the price of power" intertwined with flashes of ice and fire. The symbolism felt portentous, as if ancient forces were stirring. He knew that now was not the time for myth or legend—he had a fight to win, and perhaps a kingdom to protect from the upcoming storm.
A sharp rap at the chamber door startled him.
"Liam?" came Gareth's quiet, measured voice.
Reluctantly, he rose and opened the door. There stood Gareth, flanked by Anya and Freya—their faces uncharacteristically somber, their usual banter replaced by the gravity of the moment.
"It's time," Gareth said, his gaze lingering on the short sword and shield. He didn't voice his questions about Liam's unconventional choices, but they hung in the air nonetheless.
Anya's tone, stripped of its usual playful mockery, was earnest as she asked, "Are you… ready?"
Taking a deep breath, Liam mustered what confidence he could. "As I'll ever be," he replied, his voice steadier than he felt.
Before he could step away, Freya approached and, in an unexpectedly tender gesture, rested a hand on his arm. "Just… be careful, Liam," she murmured, her eyes searching his. "We might not say it often, but you're still our brother."
In that brief moment, the fierce rivalry between siblings softened. Liam nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I will," he vowed softly.
Together, they walked toward the arena, an unspoken truce binding them. Every step felt like a step toward an uncertain destiny.
Stepping out into the sunlight, the roar of the crowd enveloped him. The arena was a living tapestry of color and sound—banners for every family danced in the breeze, and the mixed voices of cheers and anxious whispers filled the air. On the raised platform, Arthur Volgunder stood as a silent sentinel, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the center of the arena—a silent reminder of duty.
A herald, his voice booming across the courtyard (amplified by a cleverly designed acoustic structure, not magic), rose to address the gathering. "People of Drakonia!" he bellowed, his tone commanding silence. "Today, we witness the culmination of the Volgunder Tournament! The final match, the moment that will determine our champion!"
The crowd's roar swelled in response. The herald continued, gesturing toward the entrance on the opposite side. "In this corner, representing House Dergovia… Kael Dergovia!"
Kael strode in with practiced arrogance—a confident, almost disdainful smile playing on his lips. Clad in the standard tournament tunic, the three stars on his chest shone brilliantly, echoing the polished elegance of his long, gleaming blade. With a graceful, raise of his sword, he acknowledged the cheers.
"And in this corner," the herald announced, turning towards Liam, "representing House Volgunder… Liam Volgunder!"
The response from the crowd was mixed—hopeful shouts from some, tempered by skepticism and disbelief from others. The whispers echoed his internal doubts: the weakling, the disappointment who had barely scraped by. Could he really stand a chance against Kael Dergovia?
Liam ignored the whispers, drawing his short sword. The plain steel contrasted sharply with the ornate blade of his opponent, yet in that moment, it felt like an extension of his will. He hefted his shield, its weight a tangible promise of protection. He knew that today, every ounce of his training, every lesson from Brad, would be put to the test.
As their eyes met, Kael's lips curled into a mocking sneer.
"Don't keep us waiting, Volgunder," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "The audience craves blood and spectacle. I trust you've prepared—though from the looks of those toys, I doubt it."
Liam's heart pounded, but his voice was steady. He looked Kael directly in the eye.
"I'm prepared, Kael. And this is my resolve." He told his rival.
The roar of the crowd receded to a low, expectant rumble as the herald stepped back, leaving Liam and Kael alone in the center of the arena. A taut silence descended, heavy with unspoken challenges and the imminent clash.
Kael Dergovia stood poised, the very picture of arrogant confidence. His weight was balanced, his longsword held lightly in his right hand, the polished steel gleaming. He didn't rush in, didn't attack immediately. He simply observed Liam, a predatory smirk playing on his lips, letting the anticipation build, confident in his superior skill.
Liam, in contrast, felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He gripped his short sword and shield, his knuckles white, his body taut. He knew he was outmatched. But he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't break.
He took a slow, deep breath, trying to center himself. He focused on Brad's teachings: silent movement, fast rotations, anticipation. He had to be like water, flowing around Kael's attacks. He had to be perfect.
The signal was given – a sharp, clear clang of metal on metal. And Kael moved.
He attacked with a speed and ferocity that stole Liam's breath. It wasn't just skill; it was an overwhelming presence, a force of will that seemed to press down on Liam, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Kael's longsword was a silver whirlwind, a hissing, deadly dance of thrusts and cuts, each one aimed with lethal precision.
Liam, fueled by adrenaline and desperation, met the attack with a wall of defense. He raised his shield, deflecting blows that would have otherwise split him open. He parried with his short sword, the jarring impacts vibrating up his arm, threatening to numb his hand. He used the "frost-step" footwork, shifting, dodging, weaving, trying to stay just out of reach of Kael's relentless blade.
Too slow, a voice screamed in his head – his own voice, laced with fear. I'm too slow!
"Pathetic," Kael sneered, his voice cutting through the clang of steel. "Is this the best the Volgunders can offer? A frightened rabbit, hiding behind a shield?"
Liam ignored the taunt, focusing every ounce of his being on survival. He blocked, parried, dodged. He was being pushed back, forced to the edge of the arena. He could feel the eyes of the crowd, the weight of his family's name, the looming shadow of his own inadequacy.
"He's tiring," Gareth observed from the stands, his voice tight with a mixture of concern and frustration. "He can't keep this up."
Anya and Freya watched in silence, their usual mocking expressions replaced by something akin to worried anticipation.
Kael pressed his advantage, his attacks growing even faster, even more powerful. Liam felt a searing pain in his side – a glancing blow that had slipped past his guard. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out.
I have to do something, he thought, panic rising. I have to…
And then, he felt it. A change in Kael. A subtle shift in his energy.
It wasn't just the physical exertion of the fight. It was something… else. Something cold, something dark, something that made the hairs on the back of Liam's neck stand on end.
Kael's movements became unnaturally fast, his strength seemingly amplified beyond human limits. His eyes, normally a cold grey, now gleamed with a disturbing, almost black, light. A faint, shadowy distortion seemed to cling to him, blurring his outline, making him appear even more menacing.
"What… what is that?" Liam thought, fear and a strange, instinctive revulsion warring within him. It felt like the antithesis of his own ice magic, a perversion of power.
"He's toying with him," Kael's father, Boris Dergovia, said with a satisfied smirk, watching from the stands. But beside him. Arthur, his frown has been placed as the change on his son's rival has brought him. "that feeling…"
From the other side. Brad watches it and with fear on what would, that darkness show out. For that feeling "…is dangerous, Volgunder focus".
Kael unleashed a savage thrust, aimed directly at Liam's heart. A blow that, even with his shield, Liam knew he couldn't fully block. This was it. This was the end.
He was doomed. Liam felt the end approaching—too slow, too weak, despite all the training. All this work would be for nothing. As he closed his eyes, preparing for the final blow, one desperate thought surged through him:
Ice.
In that instant, as Kael's sword hurtled downward, something within Liam snapped. Not a conscious decision, but an eruption of a deeper, ancient power—a torrent of whispers from dreams long haunted by words like "dragon's blood… the price…" Now those murmurs pulsed like a raging storm within him.
He reacted—not solely by his own will, but as if another presence had taken hold. A cold, brutal rage filled him, alien yet achingly familiar. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Ice.
Not defense. Annihilation.
A wave of cold exploded outward, transcending anything Liam had ever achieved. This was no mere chill; it was a visible, crackling force. In an instant, frost bloomed across the arena—on the ground, his weapons, even on his tunic.
His short sword, once an unremarkable blade, became an extension of winter's fury—encased in thick, jagged ice that glowed with a fierce blue light. No longer a one-star weapon, it pulsed with raw, ancient power. His shield transformed as well; intricate, mosaic-like frost patterns spread over its surface, reinforcing it into a bulwark against encroaching darkness.
The overwhelming cold shocked Kael, halting his momentum like a sudden plunge into the depths of the Spinebreaker Mountains. But it wasn't merely the cold that unnerved him. As the ice surged, Kael's eyes widened in terror. His carefully concealed power erupted in response—shadowy tendrils flickered around him, coiling in a demonic dance. His eyes burned with unholy black fire, and a corrupting aura twisted the very air about him.
"What… what is that?" Gareth gasped from the stands, his voice barely a whisper. Anya and Freya shrank back, their faces ashen with fear.
High above, Arthur Volgunder watched with ice gripping his own heart—not solely from Liam's dazzling display, but from the demonic force now clinging to Kael Dergovia. Arthur lunged forward, intent on stopping the madness, a desperate cry tearing from his throat—but he was too late. Nearby, Boris Dergovia roared in a sound that mingled rage with a perverse pride.
The two forces collided with cataclysmic intensity: Liam's chilling, ancient ice pitted against Kael's corrupting darkness. And then, a voice—deep, cold, and edged with centuries of rage—cut through the chaos. It was not Liam's own voice, but something else entirely:
"Pitiful Dergovia," it hissed. "A mockery of fate—to share a name with me, yet wield such an abomination! I shattered this darkness before, and I shall shatter it again!"
Bolstered by his demonic energy, Kael sneered. "You think ice can stop me, weakling? I am far beyond your pathetic magic!"
He was wrong.
Liam—driven now by the force that had overtaken him—launched himself forward in a blur of ice-enhanced motion. No longer hesitant or purely defensive, he became a weapon honed to a razor's edge, fueled by a fury he barely understood. Every motion was precise, every strike driven by the combined weight of his training and this ancient, overwhelming power.
Kael attempted to parry with his longsword, but the impact was catastrophic. Liam's ice-clad blade met Kael's weapon with a force that shattered the elegant longsword into a cascade of razor-sharp fragments. The sound of splintering steel mingled with the roar of the crowd as Kael's demonic aura flickered and his eyes widened in disbelief.
"He… broke it?" Gareth whispered, awe and terror intertwined in his voice.
The strike was not graceful—it was brutal and decisive. With a strength that defied his slight frame, Liam disarmed Kael completely. The dark energy surrounding Kael sputtered like a dying flame as the wounded fighter reeled, his arm a mangled ruin. Liam pressed his advantage, each movement swift and inexorable, until he finally stepped inside Kael's faltering guard.
In one final, shattering moment, Liam brought the point of his ice-covered short sword to rest lightly just below Kael Dergovia's chin.
"Yield," he commanded, his voice low and resolute.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned over the arena. Then, the malignant presence that had driven Liam's transformation receded, leaving him trembling, breathless, and utterly bewildered by the power he had unleashed.
Silence.
Liam didn't speak the word. And so it did happen as it all became so still and only one to be there, now... to a winner... he gave the greatest victory that everyone can.
The Herald stared, drenched in a cold sweat, eyes wide with a terror that mirrored the awe of the crowd. Finally, he stammered, ".....uhm.....Liam, the winner."
…THE WINNER"!!!!?… the,…Volgunder one had won." he managed to choke out.
THE TOURNAMENT, OVER, BELONGS TO…. THE ONE… ONLY …LIAM VOLGUNDER…The herald proclaimed, his voice wavering between shock and forced formality, as if the very words were a nightmare he struggled to accept.
The silence shattered.
The crowd erupted, not in unified cheers, but in a chaotic maelstrom of sound. Shock, disbelief, awe, and fear mingled in the roar. Some cheered, yes, hailing the unlikely victor, the Volgunder underdog who had somehow, impossibly, triumphed. But many others whispered, their faces pale, their eyes darting nervously between Liam and the shattered remnants of Kael Dergovia's sword. They had seen something… unnatural. Something that defied the known laws of combat, of reality.
Liam, released from the strange, cold fury that had possessed him, suddenly felt the exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, the short sword clattering to the ground beside him. As he fell, his torn tunic ripped further, revealing the intricate, snowflake-shaped stigma glowing faintly on his back.
Gareth, Anya, and Freya stared, frozen in place, their faces masks of stunned disbelief. They had seen their brother, the weakling, the disappointment, move with impossible speed, shatter a master swordsman's blade, and unleash a power that chilled the very air. It was… incomprehensible.
But Kael Dergovia, even disarmed, defeated, and in agonizing pain, was not finished. The demonic energy that had fueled his unnatural strength still coursed through him, twisting his features into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He lunged at Liam, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, his intent clearly murderous.
Arthur Volgunder, who had been moments away from intervening when he saw the demonic energy in Kael, now moved with a speed that belied his age. He was in the arena in an instant, a blur of motion, intercepting Kael's attack with a brutal efficiency that spoke of years of battlefield experience.
"Is this the prodigy you bragged about, Boris?" Arthur's voice was ice-cold, laced with a fury that made even the hardened warriors in the crowd flinch. He didn't even look at his son; his gaze was fixed on Boris Dergovia, who had risen from his seat, his face contorted with rage.
Before Boris could respond, however, a new voice cut through the chaos.
"Hold!"
A tall, imposing figure stepped into the arena, flanked by two knights clad in gleaming silver armor. He wore the white and gold robes of the Holy Kingdom, and his face was grim, his eyes filled with a chilling certainty. He was an ambassador, a representative of a power that transcended the petty squabbles of Drakonian nobility.
"That energy… that taint," the ambassador said, his voice resonating with authority. "Demonic. This youth," he gestured towards Kael, "has either consorted with demons or is himself tainted. Either way, he has committed a grave crime against the Holy Kingdom, a crime punishable by death."
At a signal from the ambassador, the two knights moved swiftly, seizing Kael and restraining him, despite his struggles and curses. Boris Dergovia roared in protest, attempting to intervene, but the knights held firm, their faces impassive.
The ambassador ignored Boris's fury. He turned his attention to Liam, who was still kneeling on the ground, his head bowed, his body trembling. He approached him slowly, his eyes fixed on the glowing stigma now visible on Liam's back.
A soft gasp escaped the ambassador's lips. He knelt beside Liam, his voice losing some of its harshness.
"History… repeating itself," he murmured, almost to himself. "Magic and demonic energy… in the same day… after five hundred years…"
He turned to Arthur, who stood frozen, his face a mask of conflicting emotions: horror, confusion, and a dawning, terrifying understanding.
"Your son, Lord Volgunder," the ambassador said, his voice now filled with a strange mixture of awe and urgency, "is a blessing to your kingdom, and perhaps to the entire continent. Care for him. Protect him. And seek guidance." He paused, his gaze intense. "I strongly advise you to send a messenger to the Elvish Kingdom. They are the last known wielders of elemental magic, though it has been centuries since such power was seen. If you are fortunate, you may find ancient texts, knowledge that can help him control what he has awakened. Because make no mistake," he lowered his voice, glancing towards the struggling, cursing Kael Dergovia, "what we have witnessed today is only the beginning. If demonic forces have infiltrated one of the strongest families in the North, darker days lie ahead. And Liam Volgunder… he may be the only key to our survival."
The ambassador rose, his gaze sweeping across the stunned crowd. "This tournament is over," he declared. "Let the final match of strength decide not a kingdom, but, the fate of us all."
Liam remained on his knees, lost in a haze of exhaustion and confusion. He had won. He had survived. But the victory felt hollow, tainted by the terrifying power he had unleashed, by the darkness he had witnessed, and by the uncertain future that now stretched before him. He was vaguely aware of shouting, of movement, of the cold seeping into his bones.
Then, a hand touched his shoulder, a firm, reassuring grip. He looked up, his vision blurry.
It was Brad.
The red-haired swordsman said nothing, his expression unreadable. He simply knelt beside Liam, carefully helped him to his feet, and then, with surprising strength, lifted him onto his back in a fireman's carry.
Liam, too weak to protest, simply closed his eyes and let Brad carry him away from the chaos, away from the stares, away from the whispers. He didn't know where Brad was taking him, but in that moment, he didn't care. He was safe, at least for now.