❖❖ Chapter Eleven ❖❖
Iber the Tall, commander of the Black River mercenaries, stood like a shadow torn from countless wars—his towering frame clad in scattered pieces of battered armor, eyes narrowed with a killer's focus, a sly grin playing at his lips.
Viserys froze where he stood, staring at the blood spilling from his chest. This was no time for games, and there was no reason—none—that this man should intervene.
"What are you doing here? This isn't your fight."
Iber chuckled, nodding toward the Fourth Minister sprawled behind him.
"Oh, but it is now, Viserys."
His words carried unshakable confidence—and something more. Something that reeked of betrayal.
Viserys arched a brow, suspicious.
"What…?"
Iber had always been a man of shadows, yet one truth was well known: his burning hatred of the elves.
"Did you sell your soul for coin? Pathetic scum."
Iber stepped closer, his hand drifting toward the greatsword strapped to his back.
"Forget me, knight. That fool of a minister… you can't kill him."
There was no room for debate in his tone.
But Viserys was not a man who took orders—least of all from a mercenary. His grip tightened on his blade, eyes darkening.
"And you think you can stop me?"
"Your blood hasn't stopped flowing. That wound through your chest—death is only a matter of time."
The air in the chamber shifted. The Fourth Minister was no longer the only enemy. The true battle had begun.
A battle without end.
Viserys pressed the fight from the first clash. Blades screamed, sparks scattered, steel rang. His strikes were sharper, faster, more precise—driving Iber back, narrowing the field as though fate itself had decreed the outcome.
He was quicker. Deadlier. More experienced.
But Iber was no mere mercenary lord by chance. He hadn't clawed his way to command by being weak.
With a sudden feint, he twisted aside, slipping under a killing blow. Pivoting with vicious speed, he slammed a gauntleted fist into Viserys's side, following with a savage slash toward his shoulder.
Pain seared Viserys's body, but he refused to yield. Bending low at the last instant, he drove a brutal kick into Iber's knee, forcing him off balance.
The knight seized the moment—his sword flashed, descending on Iber's hand.
A scream split the chamber.
One of Iber's fingers was severed, blood spraying. He staggered back, staring at his mangled hand in shock. His breathing grew ragged, yet he would not let weakness claim him.
"You're bleeding out, you bastard!" Iber snarled, rage shaking his voice.
But Viserys pressed forward, blade raised for the killing strike.
And then—
"Hellstorm!"
The Fourth Minister rose behind them, eyes blazing with madness. He thrust his arm skyward, and a thousand fireballs materialized—fragments of a dying sun—raining down toward Viserys.
"Damn it—"
Viserys leapt back, narrowly dodging the onslaught. Exactly as Iber had planned.
"You're mine!"
Before Viserys could recover, Iber surged forward, steel flashing.
The end had not yet come.
Viserys fell to his knees, blood dripping from his lips. Yet he made no cry of pain, no sign of defeat. His eyes locked on Iber's—burning, unyielding—as if even now he remained the true victor.
Iber laughed through his agony, through the blood pouring from his ruined hand. He staggered closer, gripping Viserys's shoulder, whispering in a ragged, venomous voice:
"I've waited for this. You, damned knight—the one who ruined my work, who stole my prisoners that day. Do you remember them? Because I never forgot."
Behind them, the Fourth Minister chuckled, his gaze alight with cruel delight. His voice was calm, but steeped in death:
"I admit your strength, human. You are worthy of your station. But you chose the wrong enemy."
Then silence fell.
The minister's eyes shifted—to Rosaria, and her son, Idian. There it was: his true prize. His goal from the beginning—to erase Martin's bloodline.
He moved with terrifying speed, his body slicing through the battlefield like a shadow, hand outstretched toward Rosaria—
Pain stopped him cold.
A blade of lightning speared through his foot.
There he stood. Barely upright, leaning on his sword, smiling through blood and agony.
"You will not lay a finger on the Lady… or the young master."
His head lifted, sparks of lightning crackling around him, eyes burning with defiance. His voice rang steady, unbroken:
"I am your opponent. And I will kill you here."
Rage boiled in the minister's veins. His roar shook the chamber, torn between fury and disbelief.
"You worthless dog! Iber—finish him!"
The mercenary, drenched in blood, broken but not beaten, lunged forward to strike.
But Viserys was not merely a soldier. Nor only a knight.
"King's Dominion."
The words ripped from his throat, and the air itself shuddered. The very world bent beneath his will. This was no technique.
It was sovereignty made manifest.