Garth's armor was made of the finest materials that could be found in the Northern continent of Brunel. Crafted by the best artisans and enchanters in the kingdom, it was designed to be lightweight, durable, and flexible, and had numerous protective charms embedded into the metal. In addition to the protection it offered, its magic-resistant properties were also top-notch. However, what truly made this set of gear special was the fact that it was a family heirloom. A treasure that was passed down from father to son for generations, and, as such, was priceless.
This was not the first time that Alistair had seen the suit of armor, but this was his first real battle against the person wearing it.
"You know, I was looking forward to a fight. I've missed the feeling of a real challenge. It's been years since I've had a proper duel, afterall. But..." The corner of Alistair's mouth curled up into a wry grin, "one of us will die tonight, and the other will live to tell the tale, and I, for one, would love to hear about your demise." Alistair's eyes narrowed, his pupils contracting. There was an edge in his tone that implied a certain finality to the statement.
"My favourite student, my beloved disciple." The man chuckled, shaking his head at the boldness of the boy before him, his eyes gleaming beneath the slits in his helmet. "I've heard that you've grown, but this is beyond what I could have imagined. You've become a man, Alistair." Garth, a renowned General of Brunel's armies and a mentor to many young men, including the crown prince, had a reputation that preceded him. He was known to be honorable.
"The greatest honor a master can receive is to see his student surpass him," Garth continued. He then raised his right arm, a signal for the soldiers to retreat, a gesture of mercy, of forgiveness. An unspoken request to stand aside and observe the battle, to stay and bear witness to their superior's triumph, or failure. The men were hesitant, unsure of the outcome. Would they lose their general? Or would their lord prevail against the monster?
They were nothing against him, not a threat. Just cannon fodder, just a bunch of nobodies, a group of fools, who were too stupid to realize the gravity of their actions. They did not know how lucky they had been to survive, how fortunate they were to have been spared by the whims of the man before them.
And those who were swallowed by his darkness were simply transported in the nearby lake. Alistair had no issues with killing but he had no reasons to kill men doing their jobs. Especially the innocent. Even if that job was hunting him. They were all just following orders from the higher ups. So, instead, he decided that they deserved to swim in the freezing water, and get a little bit of exercise in the process.
"Now, let's see how much you've learned from my lessons, Little Prince." Garth smiled, drawing his greatsword from the sheath strapped on his back, and held it tightly in both of his hands. "Come at me."
Alistair unsheathed his own sword and charged, a blur of black, his form indistinguishable from the dark sky above him. The distance between them was closed in seconds. Garth swung his blade downwards, intending to cut his former apprentice in two, but he dodged to the right, and ducked underneath the sweeping strike, and stabbed his own sword into the gap in the armor below his armpit, aiming for a vital point, but the weapon glanced harmlessly off his opponent's enchanted mail. Undeterred, the younger combatant spun away and slashed at him from behind, aiming to sever his spine, a blow that should have ended the duel in his favor.
Garth blocked the strike, a shower of sparks flying as steel clashed on steel. With a grunt of exertion, he pushed the younger warrior backwards, his arms trembling under the strain, sweat dripping down his brow, the veins on his forehead popping.
He was getting old. His body was beginning to fail him. No matter how strong, or skilled one was, Father Time would eventually catch up to him, and that was a truth he couldn't ignore, not anymore. And against someone like Alistair who didn't know what hesitation meant—he was in trouble. He didn't have time to dwell on his thoughts, as his enemy had already moved again. This time, he aimed low, trying to hack at the kneecap. The general parried the strike, but the force behind the attack sent him flying a couple of feet away. As his momentum was spent, his legs gave out and his knees hit the ground. He grimaced, clenching his teeth, the pain from his injured joint flaring up.
"Are you looking down on me, 'Master'?" A voice, devoid of any emotion, asked.
"No," came the simple reply, spoken through clenched teeth. His face was contorted in a mixture of pain, and anger.
"Then, stop holding back." Alistair ordered. He stood there, motionless, staring intently at his opponent, his eyes never wavering from the older man. "You came for my life. Fight me. Honorably. Like the way you taught me to fight."
"Alistair," Garth whispered. He struggled to rise, leaning heavily on his greatsword for support, the muscles of his arms straining under the effort. Finally, he stood on shaky feet, his shoulders heaving, his breathing labored, his heart beating wildly. "Very well. Have it your way." The old warrior's grip on his weapon tightened, and he swung it upward in a wide arc, the wind whistling around the blade. A shockwave of pure kinetic energy exploded outward, creating a massive fissure in the earth. Debris, stones, and dirt were sent soaring through the air, raining upon the surrounding area.
A dome of darkness formed over Alistair, shielding him from the falling rubble. At that moment, the young prince realized that he had underestimated the power of the General, for the debris all surrounded him. Garth manipulated them to compress the very darkness protecting the boy. A cage of rocks and boulders was built around him. And in an instant, it crumbled, revealing the unscathed form of the first heir.
The two warriors locked gazes, neither blinking or turning their heads. They studied eachother's every move, analyzing, and anticipating, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Their swords clashed, and their bodies moved in harmony, their limbs dancing to an unheard rhythm, the movements flowing seamlessly together, perfectly synchronized, almost as if choreographed.
The duel was reaching its peak, the two warriors had become engrossed in the dance of death. Their blades sang, the notes of their melody ringing out across the battlefield. It was a beautiful, yet terrifying sight, a spectacle of skill and power, of beauty and savagery.
Though, it was nothing short of tragic for the soldiers and Alistair's friend to see a mentor and his disciple, and two friends, fighting to the death, killing each other with no remorse, no hesitation, no mercy whatsoever.
"Garth," Alistair called out. The older man didn't answer. "Tell me, where did I go wrong?" He asked. Again, the other remained silent. "I've always done everything they've told me. Followed your teachings to the letter, never once strayed from the path they set before me. But now..."
"You did nothing wrong," the older warrior finally answered. His tone was soft, barely audible. He stared at him with a mixture of sadness, regret, and pride. Pride, because the young man that he had raised, the child that had once been his student had grown into a strong, powerful, and skilled individual, but, more than that, he was also proud of the man that he had become, the kind, gentle, compassionate soul that he had nurtured and raised.
Alistair laughed. A bitter laugh, that was filled with sorrow, and grief, and loss, and despair. It was a painful laugh. A broken one. It was not the sound of joy, or happiness, but the sound of a shattered heart.
"I guess that I really am the villain of the story, aren't I?"
"Yes."
"Am I not the protagonist in your eyes, master? Not the hero, at least?"
"I'm sorry, my dear student, but, no," Garth shook his head and sighed. The old man then charged forward, his weapon raised high above his head. As his blade descended towards the younger warrior, he whispered: "In the grand scheme of things, we're all minor characters."
Alistair blocked the strike, not with his blade but with his bare hands. The sound of his flesh and bones being sliced open echoed in the silence, and blood gushed from his palms, staining the ground red. Despite his injury, however, he held firm and didn't yield to the strength of the general, his gaze focused on his face, his eyes filled with determination and purpose. The wound was deep, and his hand was a mess of mangled tissue and muscle, and his bones were exposed, white, gleaming, the blood continuing to pour. Yet, the pain was nothing compared to the agony in his chest, his soul.
Then Garth did something he'd never done before—he struck to kill, not teach. The general's blade flashed again, a horizontal slash aimed directly at the young prince's neck, and, with the full might of the old warrior's power and weight, it would have been enough to decapitate a giant. But Alistair managed to dodge at the last second, the tip of the blade missing him by a fraction of an inch. He could feel the sharp edge graze his skin, leaving behind a burning trail, a mark of near-death.
"Why are you using your hands to block my attacks, when your sword is in reach?!" Garth demanded, enraged, his voice booming across the night sky. It wasn't that Alistair didn't want to fight, no. It was that the young man had no will left to raise his blade. His mind was preoccupied. Distracted. By memories of the past. Memories that he wanted to forget. He was drowning in his emotions. In his feelings.
"Strike without hesitation, even if the one before you wears the face of your father." He remembered his master's words. It was one of his most treasured teachings. "The only exception is yourself." And that was another. Two, of the many things he had taught him, and, for some reason, the two seemed to contradict each other. One said to not hold back, and the other was telling the exact opposite.
And for the first time, the people saw—not a villain, not a prince—but a man breaking in silence. They could not hear his cries, nor his sobs, for he made no noise. But, they saw his tears. Tears that fell, silently, from his eyes. A river of salty drops that ran down his cheeks. And the tears were accompanied by a flood of emotions, a torrent of conflicting feelings that raged within his heart, threatening to break the dam, to spill forth and drown him, and everyone else. Anger. Pain. Sadness. Sorrow. Despair.
His life had always been a tragedy, a comedy, a farce. And, perhaps, the worst part was, that he was fully aware that it was.
He was born the heir to the throne of a prosperous kingdom, and, yet, at the same time, an orphan. An orphan, whose mother had died during childbirth. And his father, a king, hated him. For reasons beyond his comprehension, his existence had offended the sovereign.
Darkness surrounded his injured hands, replacing them. Filling the holes in his flesh. A pair of black claws appeared on the end of his arms, sharp, and deadly, like the talons of a bird of prey, ready to tear the life from its prey, a beast that thirsts for blood.
Garth's expression turned grim, the look in Alistair's eyes reminded him of a wild beast, a monster. A monster, whose fangs were bared, its eyes narrowed, its nostrils flared. The aura around him had changed. Before, the air was tense, heavy. Now, however, it was cold, chilling to the bone.
And it pained the General, for never in his life did he consider Alistair a monster. Alistair, the young boy that loved to read, and play, the young child that enjoyed riding horses and climbing trees. Alistair, the child who had been abandoned, the boy who had been betrayed. Alistair, his student, his pride, his joy.
The two clashed again, and, this time, the ferocity of the fight intensified tenfold.
It wasn't a battle anymore. It was a war, a battle between a dragon and a lion; the lion may not win the fight, but the dragon would not leave the battlefield unscathed, either.
A crimson streak painted across the golden lion etched on Garth's chestpiece. A legacy stained by his own student's love.
"Alistair..." his voice trembled, his heart heavy. The boy was no longer recognizable. He had transformed into an animal. A feral, vicious creature. His mouth was agape, saliva dripping from his lips, his tongue hanging out, and his pupils were dilated. "What has become of you, boy?"
A slash. Another wound on his shoulder. And the crimson on his armor increased.
"What do you see, when you gaze at me?" The words came slowly, spoken softly, yet, filled with such intensity and force. "Do you still perceive me as your mentor? Or perhaps a friend?" A quick step to the left and a swing of his claws. And then, another cut, another crimson mark on his plate, a scar that would remain there forever, a mark of his sins, and failures. "Maybe, a rival?"
—A boy on a wooden horse, laughing beneath the summer sun.
"Faster, Uncle!"—
"Or maybe," a thrust, a piercing blow, a gash in his abdomen, blood spurting, a pool of crimson forming on the cobblestones. "an enemy."
The man groaned, clutching at his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding. His vision blurred, the pain becoming unbearable. Still, he gritted his teeth, and forced himself to stand. He gripped his weapon tightly, and, despite the wounds that covered his body, he continued to fight. To struggle against fate. Against death. Because, that was the way of the knights of old, to never surrender. To fight till the last breath, till the final moment, to give everything in their power, in defense of their home, their honor, and the kingdom that had sheltered them from the cruelties of the world.
Even if Garth knew that...Alistair would never be a threat to Brunel. This was a meaningless duel, in the end. A battle, a contest, between a teacher and a student...And, at the same time, it was a farewell...
"Goodbye, my dear pupil. It was nice to meet you," Garth whispered, and he raised his sword one more time. He knew that, no matter how hard he tried, there was no victory, nor defeat. Just a bitter end.
"For the King, for the kingdom, and for you." He spoke his last, as he swung his blade. Not to hurt, not to kill. No. Instead, to carve a piece of himself into the young man's memory. A gift, from an old man, who wished that his student could live, could find happiness, could find a place in this world. That, his life wouldn't end in tragedy. That, his journey wouldn't be one filled with sorrow, regret, and loss.
So that the child could become the greatest king the realm would ever know.
The moment his sword should've met flesh, Alistair twirled on his heel, evading the strike and, his arm pierced the general's chest.
As the light from Garth's eyes faded, and the last remnants of the strength drained away, his hand reached for his disciple's face. A warm touch. The last warmth of a dying flame. And, at that instant, a single drop of tear fell on the boy's cheek.
"If I taught you one thing... let it be this." Garth coughed. He spat out blood, his lungs failing. "...Don't cry alone. It doesn't suit a man."
"...Pft...ha ha, that's so unlike you." The young prince smiled, tears streaming down his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around the fallen man. "Thank you… Uncle."
And then, silence.
The soldiers fell to their knees—not from grief. But because the ground itself shuddered. The shadow under Alistair's feet stretched outward—the darkness expanding. From it emerged tendrils of blackness that writhed and twisted. They crawled over the surface of the earth, enveloping the corpse. Slowly, the body sank into the abyss, vanishing beneath its dark embrace, a final farewell to a man, who had served the realm well, who had fulfilled his duty to the country, to his family, to his people. And, to the boy, who had once been his student, his child.
He wouldn't let the Kingdom lie and say that the man was a traitor when they officially tasked Garth to assassinate him. So, the best course of action would be to make the man vanish, as though he never existed. Alistair would take the secret to the grave and would tell no one, even the woman that was the General's lover and his mother.
And, so...all the soldiers remaining disappeared. Swallowed, and forgotten.
However, he left one single soldier alive. The sole survivor of the ordeal, a man in his mid-thirties, with a sturdy build and a stern expression.
A man who will spread rumors about The Night the General Was Devoured by the Crownless King.
—"The crown weighs most on the head that kneels at every grave."