Viscountess Vaessa had seen many strange things in her long life. Despite her youthful features, she was old—far older than most lived to be in the Lancephil Kingdom—and yet nothing in her decades of noble duty had prepared her for the sight before her: barbarians sitting atop the walls of Matilla City, laughing over different conversations as if they had always belonged there. Stranger still, she had grown used to it.
The Lancephil Kingdom had warred against them for a while, and she had never thought of their kind in a good light. When Duke Arzan sent a small army of them to reinforce her city, she had felt torn between fear and gratitude. They were taller than any Knight she had ever seen, broad-shouldered, wrapped in furs and iron. Each one carried the presence of a man who had killed their whole life. Even their mounts—the massive, scaled bulldrakes—were enough to unsettle trained warhorses. Her own family had trembled at the sight of them.
But after a month of living under their protection, her fear had softened into something like respect. Despite their crude manners and thunderous laughter, the Lombards were honorable and fearless. They guarded Matilla’s walls through the night, met every ambush Thalric’s agents sent, and treated her soldiers as equals rather than pawns. In that time, she had learned that savagery and honor were not always strangers.
They had their oddities, though. Like wanting to finish a game of cards even while a fight loomed over the horizon as if death could wait until the last wager was settled. Vaessa raised her head to see three Mages approaching from the north on top of kraels while the Lombards on the wall grumbled about lost coins.
They were a sight to hold—those kraels—sleek, leathery flying beasts the size of a warhorse, with talons sharp enough to pierce plates and long, fin-like tails that steered them through the air. Their wings shimmered faintly with mana, scattering light like oil on water. They looked like they could hold the weight of several men and were tamed exclusively by the Dukal house of Raktor.
Over the past week alone, Matilla had been attacked three times by these flying units. Whoever commanded them had learned that the ordinary horses and Mages they had sent at first were easy to capture.
But even as the flying beasts drew closer, the Lombards sitting on the wall barely turned their heads. A few of them squinted toward the sky, muttered something in their own guttural tongue, and went back to their game of cards. The soldiers stationed nearby were less composed. Nervous glances passed between them; one young guard even tightened his grip on his spear until his knuckles went white. They all knew the truth—the city’s wards wouldn’t hold much longer.
Repeated strikes had left the barrier vulnerable, webbed with fractures, the faint glow of its seals flickering like a candle on its last breath. The Mage that could fix it had died last month. He didn’t die for war, no, but to an illness that even the best potions they had couldn’t mend. His apprentices had tried to take over soon to keep up with everything, but their work hadn’t been the same. It was all sloppy and rushed.
Viscountess Vaessa stood on the battlements, watching the distant specks growing larger against the gray sky. She felt a shift beside her, heavy steps that seemed to push the stones deeper.
Chieftain Yafgar stopped at her side, his shadow falling across her. “I apologize,” he said, his deep voice calm despite the danger. “My tribe members—especially my son—take things easy when they think they can win without effort.”
Vaessa followed his gaze to the table propped against the inner wall, where Ragnar, his son, sat cross-legged with a broad grin, tossing cards and laughing as he pocketed another man’s coin. He looked as though war was the farthest thing from his mind.
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I’ve seen them fight on these walls for a month now. I know what they can do. But are you sure they’ll be able to capture the beasts this time? The last three attacks, they all escaped.”
Yafgar gave a short chuckle, his bearded smile oddly good-natured. “Unfortunately, my people cannot fly like Lord Arzan. If we could, this would be much simpler.” His gaze followed the approaching shadows in the sky. “Though, I’ve been thinking of taming flying beasts for the tribe once this civil war is over. A chieftain should look to the skies as well as the ground.”
Vaessa pointed upward, where the kraels were now close enough that she could see their riders’ robes rippling in the wind. “Like them?” she asked.
The chieftain’s grin widened, though his tone remained dry. “They’re good creatures, but they wouldn’t be able to carry our weight. I’m sorry, Viscountess, but Mages are far thinner than the average Lombard.”
She blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or feel insulted—she wasn’t sure if the chieftain’s remark was a compliment or if in Lombard terms “thin” was an insult. She let the thought slide and asked, “So what beast are you thinking of?”
Yafgar’s dark eyes brightened. “A wyvern wouldn’t be bad. Ragnar heard soldiers talking about them.”
The image came to her so clearly she felt the chill of it: Lombards on wyverns, dropping from the sky like living spears, faces and furs filling an enemy’s worst nightmares. The thought made her stomach tighten with equal parts dread and grim approval.
She turned back to the horizon and saw the kraels and their riders closing fast. Her face went serious; she bit the side of her cheek. “I can handle the Mages this time,” she said. “I know a spell that could freeze them in their tracks.”
Yafgar shook his head slowly. “That might help, but Lord Arzan told us to hold this city, and I believe it’s our duty to do so. You can just sit back and watch.” He glanced at Ragnar. “And to be honest, Ragnar suggested a plan against the flying beasts recently.”
Vaessa raised an eyebrow. “And what plan is that?”
“You’ll see soon,” Yafgar said, and she saw the faint traces of a smile on his face.
At that moment the game finally finished. Ragnar leapt up, swearing, “Fuck, I lost again!” Brugnar, a stony-faced Lombard, slapped the table and grinned. “You’ve a lot to learn. Now as a result of losing, you need to go fight those Mages now. Do your job right so we can trap them this time. If you let them fly away, you’ll never take the mantle of a berserker.”
“I’m already one,” Ragnar growled, rolling his shoulders as he stood. “Those Mages have annoyed me enough to fill my rage for a lifetime.”
He strode toward the battlements, the stone groaning faintly under his weight. One of the Lombards—a scarred veteran with arms like tree trunks—rose and handed him a massive iron mace, the head studded with spikes and engraved with faint seals that glimmered faintly in the light. Ragnar grinned, spinning it once, the air whistling from the motion.
Viscountess Vaessa couldn’t help but watch his every movement, curiosity stirring beneath her unease. They had tried to take down the beasts before with spells and arrows, but the kraels were too nimble. Their riders darted in and out of range, and even when the beasts were clipped by arrows, they always managed to recover, their powerful wings catching the air before the ground could claim them. Killing them had proved near impossible.
The creatures now swooped low, sleek bodies slicing through the wind. Their leathery wings spanned nearly thirty feet, and each flap sent dust swirling off the ramparts. The Mages on their backs raised their palms, spell structures igniting to life as streaks of light gathered—crimson, violet, and pale blue.
Then the sky thundered.
A volley of spells rained down on the ward—fire lances, compressed wind blades, and streaks of crackling mana that tore through the air like thunder. The barrier flared bright, the seals along its surface pulsing wildly as it struggled to absorb the impact. The shockwave made the battlements tremble beneath her boots, the sound like the crash of a hundred drums. Cracks spidered across the translucent surface of the ward, and for a moment Vaessa thought it might shatter completely.
She knew their goal—to weaken the ward until it broke, to make Matilla bare for a proper siege. And truthfully, she had no answer for it. The city’s best Mages were still novices other than her, and she herself could only buy time, not victory.
But as the light faded and the ward’s glow dimmed to a frail shimmer, she saw movement from the corner of her eye. Ragnar was no longer watching idly. His gaze had locked on the three Mages above, who had lowered their Kraels to strike again—this time aiming straight for the weakest point at the ward’s center.
His lips curled into a grin.
A heavy thrum filled the air, and she felt it before she saw it—a wild surge of mana bursting from him. The stone beneath his boots cracked, fissures running like lightning through the wall as he crouched low and leapt.
Vaessa couldn’t help but gasp at the sight. The force of it shattered part of where he stood, sending chunks of rock tumbling down the outer wall. Ragnar soared upward, a blur of muscle and fury, his mace trailing light behind him.
The kraels shrieked, their riders yanking the reins, diving to the side. They had learned from past attempts—the Lombards often tried to leap onto them, and dodging had saved them every time.
But this time—
Instead of missing the beast and plunging to the ground—as Viscountess Vaessa had expected—Ragnar’s boot hit air. For a heartbeat she thought her eyes deceived her, but then he pushed off it, climbing higher as if invisible steps held him aloft.
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His mace spun in his grip, whistling through the wind. The kraels shrieked, their riders shouting in alarm, but Ragnar was already upon them. With a single swing, he brought the weapon down on the nearest Mage’s head. The crack echoed over the battlefield. The Mage’s body went limp instantly, falling from the saddle and dropping on the ground.
Ragnar landed squarely on the beast’s back. The krael screamed, wings beating violently as it bucked under his weight. The creature twisted and dove, trying to throw him off, but he grabbed hold of the reins, muscles straining, he showed his teeth and smiled while dragging his tongue over his upper teeth in temporary victory.
The other two riders turned on him at once. Twin bursts of mana flared in the sky—one a spear of flame, the other a lance of crackling lightning. They hit Ragnar dead on. The air exploded in light and heat, and Vaessa flinched.
But when the glare faded, Ragnar was still there.
Even from this distance, she could feel the storm of power raging around him. His aura burned wild and furious, his eyes alight with mana, glowing faintly red through the smoke. Rage carved across his face as he took the spells head-on, his body steaming with raw energy.
The krael beneath him screamed again, thrashing in panic. One of the enemy Mages had misfired, his spell struck the beast Ragnar rode, tearing through one wing and sending it spiraling out of control. It crashed downward, straight toward the ward.
Vaessa gasped, expecting him to fall with it. But Ragnar didn’t panic.
Just before impact, he pushed off the saddle and jumped again, this time catching the leg of another krael as it tried to veer away. The beast shrieked, flailing wildly, its wings struggling to keep balance as Ragnar’s weight dragged it down.
The Mage riding it panicked and began forming a new spell structure on his palm, the glowing circle expanding toward Ragnar’s face. It would have hit point blank—if Ragnar hadn’t grinned.
With a roar, he swung his mace upward. The blow landed square against the krael’s chest, the seals along the weapon flaring like molten gold. The shockwave shattered the forming spell, scattering mana through the air in sparks.
And instead of holding on, he let go.
Ragnar hit the ground in a roll, dust kicking up around him. When he rose, he did so with the ease of someone who’d been born to survive impact. Viscountess Vaessa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. He looked entirely unhurt. Of course he was—Barbarians were built like mountains, and Ragnar was not just a barbarian; he was an Enforcer.
But the danger wasn’t over.
The last krael screeched overhead, its rider pulling hard on the reins. Maybe the sight of his comrades’ deaths had broken his composure, or maybe fury made him reckless, but instead of retreating, the Mage pressed his palms forward. Bolts of mana screamed through the air toward Ragnar, explosions of light streaking over the plain. The beast circled just out of reach of the city’s walls, staying high enough to attack but far enough to avoid the crossbows and spells.
Vaessa frowned, her fingers twitching toward a spell, but before she could act she felt a massive hand on her shoulder. Chieftain Yafgar stood beside her, calm as a man watching the tide.
“Shouldn’t we help Ragnar?” she asked sharply, her eyes flicking from the young warrior below to the Mage above.
Yafgar shook his head. “No need. His breakthrough came faster than we expected. His command of wind now rivals any Mage’s. He’ll handle both the Mage and the beast.”
Below them, Ragnar was already moving, dodging the spells that tore up the ground in flashes of light. His figure darted between craters, each explosion barely missing him by inches. He wasn’t fighting back—not yet. He was waiting. Vaessa’s eyes narrowed as she began to understand. He was letting the Mage burn through his mana reserves.
The enemy was only a second-circle spellcaster—young, overeager, and impatient. He paused between each casting, building his spell structures with wide, sweeping gestures that betrayed inexperience. Ragnar saw every hesitation and made use of them, sprinting in close before darting aside again, forcing the Mage to waste energy.
Each spell that fell came slower than the last.
Then, when the Mage finally took too long—when the spell circle hung half-formed in the air—Ragnar moved.
Mana flared beneath his feet, wind gathering in visible swirls. The ground cracked from the force as he leapt upward, propelled by a rush of air that coiled around his legs like living ribbons. He stepped on the air again and each burst of wind carried him higher and faster.
The Mage panicked, eyes widening as Ragnar shot toward him and tugged desperately on the krael’s reins. The beast banked and attempted to pull away, but it was too slow. Ragnar’s last step sent him hurtling forward like a cannon shot.
He landed squarely on the creature’s back, his mace already arcing through the air.
The weapon came down with a sound like thunder.
The Mage’s protective spell shattered under the blow, his head snapping sideways before the rest of him followed, tumbling lifeless from the saddle. The krael screamed, wings faltering.
At once, the Mage and the beast plummeted from the sky, spinning wildly before slamming into the ground with a thunderous crash that sent dust spiraling into the air. Ragnar leapt free a heartbeat before the impact, using the same air technique as before—stepping on air as if the wind itself bent to his will. He landed smoothly, rolling once before rising to his feet.
Without hesitation, he strode toward the wreckage, boots crunching over cracked earth and shattered stone. The krael’s wings twitched feebly, and the bodies of the fallen Mage lay twisted beneath it. Ragnar bent low, checking one after another with the sharp focus of a man who didn’t celebrate until he was certain his enemies were dead.
From the walls, the soldiers erupted in cheers. The Lombards roared loud enough to shake the battlements, stamping their feet and slapping their shields together in a booming rhythm. But Ragnar didn’t even glance their way. His eyes stayed on the ground, his shoulders tight with concentration, the weight of battle still in his stance.
Chieftain Yafgar grunted beside Viscountess Vaessa, watching with a faint, proud smile. “He’s still not learned to use his anger properly,” the chieftain said. “But at least now, he’s in control of it. The technique he used—those [Air Steps]—he made that himself.”
Vaessa turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”
Yafgar nodded. “Yes. When he unlocked his elemental affinity, he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to fly like Lord Arzan. Kept trying to jump into the air and glide. It was foolish then, but it seems his stubbornness paid off. That’s what came of it.”
Vaessa glanced back at Ragnar, still standing over the wreckage. Her lips curved faintly. “A rather impressive technique,” she murmured. “With refinement, it could become a proper spell—something even lower-circle Wind Mages could use to move through the air.”
Yafgar chuckled, deep and rough. “Maybe. But knowing Ragnar, he’ll just try to jump higher next time.”
Before she could reply, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed up the stone stairs. A soldier appeared at the top—Watcher Thalen, one of the men assigned to relay updates from the main front. His armor was dusty from running and his breathing sharp.
“Viscountess Vaessa!” he called out, bowing quickly. “A message from the main forces just arrived.”
Both Vaessa and Yafgar turned as the man ran forward and handed her a sealed parchment. The wax bore the sigil of Duke Blackwood’s house. She broke it immediately and scanned the lines.
Her eyes widened, and a slow, disbelieving smile tugged at her lips.
Yafgar caught the change in her expression. “What is it?” he asked.
Vaessa looked up, the corners of her mouth lifting fully now. “Duke Arzan,” she said. “He’s done it. Aldrin has surrendered.”
Yafgar’s brows rose, and she continued. “He plans to surround the capital—trap it from all sides, starting with destroying Thalric.”
***
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