Chapter XXII – Five Blows and a Lion's Pride
"Very well then" Rodrik exclaimed
He turned around
Auron stood in the circle, blood dripping from his lip, body shaking with the effort to remain upright. Around him, the soldiers of House Arvel watched in breathless silence. Frost shimmered faintly from his skin, fading and returning in slow pulses like a dying flame.
Rodrik stood opposite him, eyes unreadable. The commander's breath came out steady, forming small ghosts in the cold air. He had already struck Auron four times, each one a hammer of precision and trained control. The young man should have been broken. He was not.
"Still standing," Rodrik said quietly. "Impressive, maybe you should listen to Lucian and back off kid. I am starting to realize that situation was desperate and you did your best, even though it was a bad decision"
Auron's voice was hoarse, cracked from blood and effort. "You said five."
Rodrik's gaze softened for just a heartbeat
Then he stepped forward. The ground cracked beneath his boots as his aura flared golden. The air seemed to thrum around him, the faint echo of a lion's roar hiding beneath each breath.
The strike came.
A blur of motion. A burst of power. The fifth blow landed squarely against Auron's chest.
For an instant, nothing.
Then the sound hit; the echo of impact rolling through the clearing like thunder. Auron staggered, feet digging trenches in the frozen mud. His vision went white. The world became pain. His knees buckled. The whisper of the wolf within stirred, a wild snarl rising in his blood.
Let me out, the voice said.
No. He refused.
Auron forced air into his lungs, pushed against the ground, and straightened. Slowly. Agonizingly. Until he was standing again, bent but unbroken. His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. Steam curled from his shoulders.
Rodrik stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression. Then, to the shock of his soldiers, he nodded once.
"That," he said, "is what courage maybe stupidity looks like."
The circle erupted. Murmurs turned into cheers.
Men who had called for blood now struck their fists against their armor in salute. The noise washed over Auron like a tide, but he barely heard it. His body trembled, his vision swam, yet somewhere inside, a quiet pride began to burn
They respected the fact that auron stood up himself, he did not turn to a someone else to help him, he took the blow head on alone.
Lucian stepped through the crowd, leaning on a staff, pale but awake. His silver-threaded cloak caught the wind. "He stood through all five," he said softly. "The gods bear witness."
Rodrik exhaled and extended a hand to Auron. "You should have fallen. You didn't. The my fifth strike is supposed to humble even knights. You may be reckless fool, boy, but you are no coward."
Auron hesitated, then grasped Rodrik's hand. Their grips locked; bloodied, strong, and wordless.
Rodrik turned to his men. "The tribunal is ended. He has faced judgment, and earned his life."
The soldiers saluted. Some bowed their heads slightly. Others looked at Auron with a kind of reverence. The young man had gone from accused to tested, from tested to proven.
When the crowd dispersed, Lucian limped to Auron's side. "You stubborn bastard," he said, voice trembling between scolding and pride. "You nearly died proving a point."
Auron coughed, half a laugh, half pain. "Worth it."
Rodrik chuckled quietly. "You'll regret those words tomorrow. When you wake and every bone screams." He glanced toward the distant hills, where the convoy waited. "Come. We have a long road ahead. You'll walk it as my student."
Auron blinked. "Student?"
Rodrik met his eyes. "You want redemption don't you? You want to say sorry to all those who died because of your weakness? Then learn from someone who knows what it means to carry guilt. You'll train under me until we reach Ashford."
Suddenly the face of godfrey, and every person who died in the beast born incident flashed before the eyes of auron.
The offer hit Auron harder than any blow. He nodded once. "Yes, Commander."
"Not Commander," Rodrik corrected with a faint grin. "Teacher."
****
That night, the fire crackled between three battered silhouettes.
Lucian sat nearest the flames, staring into them with quiet reflection. Finn leaned against a broken wagon wheel, nursing Auron's wounds, the cold wind tugging at his hair. For a long time, no one spoke.
The healers under Rodrick had done a great job patching up finn but auron being a stubborn man had refused their healing because godfrey had always advised against leaning on divine healing.
Then Lucian said, "We lost too much to stay the same. I won't let that be meaningless."
Finn lifted his gaze. "Then what do we do?"
Lucian raised his cup of wine. The light of the fire caught his eyes; steel-gray, weary, determined. "We make a vow. From this night, we stop being the survivors of someone else's story. We become the ones who write it."
Auron met his gaze, and for the first time since the battle, there was no hesitation. "Then let's get stronger. Strong enough that next time, we won't need saving."
Finn grinned. "Strong enough to make us independent."
Their cups clinked together. The sound was small, almost drowned by the wind, yet it felt like a promise sealed by fire and blood.
Across the camp, Rodrik watched in silence. His armor hung from a branch beside him, his cloak fluttering gently. He smiled, faint but genuine.
"Let them burn bright," he murmured. "The world could use a few more fools who still believe in vows."
The red moon drifted higher, painting the camp in the color of iron and dawn. The wounded slept. The healers whispered their prayers. And by the fire, three broken boys began to dream; not of what they had lost, but of what they might still become.
*****
By morning, frost covered the field again. Rodrik roused them before sunrise, voice sharp as steel.
"On your feet. The capital's road doesn't wait for late risers. Today, we start over."
Auron rose, body aching but mind clear. Finn groaned. Lucian watched from his tent, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The road to Ashford had begun; not in glory, but in grit.
And somewhere within the frost and silence, the first sparks of purpose caught flame.