Zemo ran across the open field, boots pounding against the hard-packed earth, the clang of his armor echoing through the stagnant air. Omni followed close behind, his robes snapping at his heels. Ahead, a commotion had taken root; a ring of chained prisoners gathered tight, their voices merging into a guttural roar.

  Within that circle, two men stood opposite each other, their shackles clinking with each measured step. The tension between them rippled outward, feeding the crowd’s fever. Omni’s breath caught as he recognized one of them; the one-eyed man from the cage, his grin still sharp and terrible in the daylight.

  Zemo pushed through the throng, shouting orders as several Evokian guards surged in beside him, but the prisoners only tightened the ring. Their laughter and jeers carried the scent of sweat and iron. They wanted blood. They wanted release.

  From the back of the crowd, Omni slowed, his gaze fixing on the man who faced the one-eyed prisoner. Something stirred in him, a spark buried deep in the folds of memory. The young man’s golden hair caught the sun like a blade’s edge, and his eyes, fierce and red as embers, locked on his opponent with unshakable defiance as he continued shouting.

  For a fleeting instant, Omni felt as though he were looking upon the first dawn of a vision he had long awaited.

  “Both of you, on the ground...now!” one of the Evokian guards bellowed, thrusting his spear toward the seething horde.

  But neither man moved. They stood locked in their fury, voices cutting through the shouts. Then came the sound; sharp and final, the thunderous crack of a whip. It tore through the air, striking the one-eyed man across the back, his snarl lost beneath the chorus of gasps and curses.

  Zemo, whip in hand, swung his own with brutal precision. The lash found the golden-haired youth, scoring his shoulder in a streak of red. Before the young man could turn, Zemo and another guard crashed into him, driving him into the dirt. The struggle erupted into a blur of motion: Zemo atop him, fists slamming down again and again with little effect. Meanwhile another soldier fought to bind the prisoners wrists. The mob roared for more.

  On the other side, it took four guards to bring down the one-eyed man, his laughter echoing as he kicked and squirmed, his chains dragging furrows through the mud. The air reeked of foul perspiration, rusted metal, and the animal heat of violence barely contained.

  “Enough!”

  The word split the air like a sharpened knife.

  The lot recoiled as a column of Evokian soldiers forced their way through, parting the circle of bodies. Between them strode a man draped in a vibrant crimson cape, his boots striking the ground in a steady, deliberate rhythm.

  “I will personally cut each of your throats if this noise does not cease!” the man barked.

  The prisoners fell silent, the last shouts dying in their throats. Even the guards stiffened to attention.

  “In case any of you are new here,” he continued, his voice ringing with cold authority, “I am Commanding Officer Bens, soon to Lord over this county.” He paused, letting the words settle like bitter ash. “Each of you belongs to me now. I, with the authority of the Evok Supreme, Master of the Evokian Dominions, will be your only path to salvation. You can either learn to obey… or you can be made to obey.”

  Every gaze, prisoner and guard alike, turned toward him. The red of his cape rippled in the wind.

  Bens strode into the circle, cape snapping, and drew his sword from its leather sheath with a smooth, practiced motion. He moved toward the one-eyed man and signaled for the guards to haul him upright. The circle pressed in, a living wall of faces and shackles, so close the heat from their bodies fogged the air.

  “Tell me, prisoner, what is the cause of all this commotion?” Bens signaled his guards to stand the man up.

  “That bastard tripped me, then kicked dirt on my face while I was on the ground, it was unprovoked,” the one-eyed man said angrily.

  Bens studied him, the blade held point-down like a verdict, trying to read truth from bravado. Sunlight glanced off the one eye’s false lens and made the man seem more mask than man.

  “What is your name?” Bens asked.

  “Domo of the great Omeral clan,” the man responded with burning pride in his eye.

  With a subtle shift, Bens turned away from Domo and crossed the churned earth toward the other subdued figure. Guards heaved the youth to his feet at a gesture. The crowd’s noise softened to a tense hum as everyone waited for the next reckoning.

  “Zemo, pick this man up, go back to position 4, please,” Bens signaled Zemo. The prisoner was picked up off the ground.

  “Tell me, prisoner, what is the cause of all this commotion?” Bens looked into the man's red eyes.

  “That bumbling ogre broke my hand during our transport here,” the man lifted his hand, which he had wrapped in cloth.

  “So it's true you kicked sand in his face,” Bens stared at the young man.

  “And I woulda kicked his head off had these chains not restricted me,” the man responded confidently.

  “What is your name?” Bens asked.

  “Tyrus, son of the Ura,” he responded firmly.

  “Son of the Ura,” Bens smiled with a sort of doubt. “A warrior from the Ura, and in my possession,” Bens stared at Tyrus, trying to decode his face.

  A flicker of curiosity crossed Ben' s features. He motioned for a nearby guard to step closer, as if the next move required counsel rather than command. The guard approached; Artim, leaning in with the easy insolence of a man used to reading soldiers’ faces.

  “Artim, this man claims to be a warrior from the Ura,” Bens said, half sarcastic, half intrigued. Artim stared into Tyrus' ruby red eyes before breaking into a chuckle. “Shit… I don’t think he's kidding, Captain.” Artim broke into a coyote grin.

  Bens pivoted back to the group, hungry for spectacle now that suspicion had been sated by possibility. He raised his voice until it cut clean through the murmurs and the clink of chains. “Some of you already know me as a cruel master, and if you don't, you will. BUT! I am not an ungrateful man. You wanted to see a fight? Well...let’s see a fight!”

  The words dropped like a gauntlet. The prisoners answered with a great, rising roar; joy and desperation braided into the same sound, and the camp became, for a moment, a volcano of hunger and hope.

  Bens’s grin widened, his voice carrying like a whip crack across the field.  “What do you say, Tyrus son of Ura? How about a sword fight for the boys?”

  The crowd erupted in hoots and jeers, stomping the mud beneath their shackled feet. All eyes fixed on the young man, his golden hair damp with sweat, his right hand bound in cloth, his gaze steady as a drawn bowstring.

  Tyrus raised his broken hand. “I would prefer we do this without a sword.”

  A ripple of disbelief passed through the prisoners. Even the guards stilled.     “A fist fight? Bens looked in at Tyrus, his expression twisting into disgust. “We are not savages, a warrior of your pedigree should have not issue using your left hand”

  He flicked two fingers, and a guard stepped forward to unshackle Tyrus. The heavy chains slithered down his arms and fell into the mud with a wet, metallic thud.

  Bens drew his own sword and extended it towards Tyrus, the polished steel catching a flare of sunlight. “I’d like to see what a warrior from the great Ura can do with my sword.”

  At another signal, the guards freed Domo and thrust a blade into his waiting hands. The one-eyed man’s excitement was almost feverish; he began to swing the sword in wide arcs, testing its weight, grinning like a man who had waited years to spill blood again.

  Tyrus, by contrast, stood calm. He gripped the sword awkwardly in his left hand, testing its balance once before glancing back towards Bens, who watched with a cruel sort of curiosity. Then, without a word, Tyrus drove the blade’s tip into the mud. The sound was sharp, final.

  He raised his right foot and stomped down hard on the exposed steel. The blade snapped from the hilt with a crack that echoed through the camp. The broken sword stood upright in the mud like a marker on a grave.

  Tyrus turned and handed the hilt to Bens.          “I pray this held no sentimental value to you,” he said, his crimson eyes locking with Ben's cool teal ones.

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  The commanding officer’s grin faltered; its edges hardening into something between irritation and intrigue. Around them, the pack drew breath and held it, sensing that something dangerous had just shifted.

  From behind the wall of prisoners, Omni watched the scene unfold in silence. The air trembled with noise; shackles rattling, men shouting, boots sinking into mud, but to him, it all seemed to move within a strange, distant stillness. His eyes lingered on the two figures at the center: one calm as dusk, the other wild as flame.

  Zemo appeared at his side, breathless from the rush. “My apologies,” he said, trying to sound composed, “duty calls and all that.”

  Omni turned toward him with a soft, knowing smile.

  “I could escort you back to your room if you’d like, Lord Omni,” Zemo offered, straightening his helmet.

  “That’s not necessary,” Omni replied, his gaze never leaving the circle of men. “We can watch the coming attraction from here.”

  Zemo blinked, clearly startled. He hadn’t expected a man of prayer to call a fight an “attraction.”    “I find these things quite barbaric, to be honest with you,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “A mighty Evokian soldier like you?” Omni’s tone was light, yet there was a thread of sincere curiosity in it.

  Zemo let out a soft, weary laugh. “I’m no soldier,” he admitted. “It’s…mandatory duty.” His eyes dropped to the ground, the words carrying the weight of a truth too often repeated.

  Omni studied him for a moment, then placed a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder. “We are all prisoners of something greater than us,” he said quietly. “Time will release us all in one way or another.”

  Zemo bowed his head; not in ritual, but in quiet understanding. Around them, the men began to hush. Domo and Tyrus had taken their places. The circle tightened. Breath by breath, anticipation began to solidify in the air like fog before a storm.

  The fight was about to begin.

  Tyrus stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he stood face-to-face with an ecstatic Domo.

  “Let us remember,” Domo bellowed, voice splitting through the air, “it was he who decided to go into this duel without a sword!” He thrust his blade toward Tyrus, the sun flashing across the steel like lightning. The throng erupted; jeers, laughter, and the chants of men starved for violence.

  Domo lunged. The first swing cut through empty air, followed by another, then another. Each stroke was wild with hunger. Tyrus gave ground, each step a measured retreat, his movements fluid and precise. The rhythm of the fight was chaos to everyone but him.

  Mud splattered. Iron sang. The air grew thick with breath and heat.

  Domo roared and swung harder, desperate to land a single strike. But in his frenzy, his footing faltered. Tyrus slipped to the side, a blur of motion, and with one deft sweep of his leg he managed to stumble Domo.

  The one-eyed giant fell forward, straight into the waiting blade that Tyrus had left jutting from the mud.

  A sound escaped him; not a cry, but a wet gasp as the steel burst through his stomach and out his back. Blood spilled in a dark, steady rhythm, dripping down the length of the blade. His single eye widened with disbelief. His mouth opened, leaking crimson. For a heartbeat, he seemed suspended between two worlds, unsure whether to fight for life or surrender to death.

  The horde went mad. Guards and prisoners alike howled with primal excitement. The noise rolled through the camp like thunder, shaking the very air.

  Tyrus turned to Bens, his expression unreadable.

  “Finish him then,” Bens commanded, his voice cool, almost ceremonial. “Do not let the man suffer.”

  Domo let out one last, hollow breath; then slid further down the blade until his body went slack.

  Bens began to clap slowly. Each soft strike of his hands echoed louder than the crowd’s frenzy. He signaled to his guards, and the circle tightened around Tyrus. Spears rose in unison, their tips glinting like the teeth of a beast.

  Tyrus raised his hands, calm and defiant. He didn’t beg. He didn’t move. He simply waited.

  “He will put on a good show for Supreme General Dresdi,” Bens said, his grin thin as glass.   “Give him a private room.”

  The guards moved in, their spears herding the prisoners back toward their work lines. The noise of the mob began to fade, replaced by the rhythmic clinking of chains and distant, echoing commands.

  Zemo and Omni approached, the old man's eyes still lingering on the blood-stained ground.

  “Zemo! That was quite the duel, wasn’t it?” Bens said with a wide, satisfied smile.

  “It was…certainly an interesting one,” Zemo managed, his tone tight.

  “Lord Omni, this is Commanding Officer Bens,” Zemo said, stepping aside to make the introduction.

  Omni inclined his head. “Lord Bens,” he greeted softly.

  Bens clasped his hands together. “Ah, Lord Omni, an honor. I was told about your arrival. I hope my men were not too tough on you.”

  “Not any more tough than the last battalion of Evokian soldiers I’ve encountered,” Omni replied, a flicker of humor behind his weary smile. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Bens.”

  Bens chuckled and reached out, clasping Omni’s hand. “Zemo, see that two guards are assigned to the cell, please.”

  Zemo gave a respectful nod and hurried off, glancing back once at the priest.

  “Walk with me, Lord Omni,” Bens said at last, his red cape swaying behind him.

  The two men walked away from the noise of the group, their footsteps muffled by the churned mud of the camp. The cries of the prisoners and the clang of iron faded behind them, swallowed by the thick silence of the jungle’s edge. A thin mist was beginning to rise, curling around their boots as if reluctant to release them back into the stillness.

  “Zemo is a good soldier, a kind man,” Omni said, glancing sideways at Bens.

  Bens gave a short laugh, his red cape brushing against the grass. “My nephew? He’s a kind man, yes…but a soldier? Not so much. Zemo’s heart belongs to the monastery. He’ll make a great holy man one day, not a fighter.”

  “We pray his vision is promised,” Omni replied, his tone warm, almost paternal.

  Bens nodded thoughtfully, his expression softening. “Lord Omni, I want you to know… If it were up to me, I’d release you immediately. But unfortunately, that’s outside of my command.” His voice carried an edge of regret, one that felt genuine beneath the formality.

  They passed the outer perimeter of the camp, where the earth turned dry and pale, dotted with abandoned tools and the skeletons of half-built shacks. A pair of guards saluted them as they passed, the setting sun cutting a dull glare across their armor.

  “This war will end soon,” Bens continued. “And when it does, I want you to know, the people of the Kesh will always be welcome in these lands.”

  Omni inclined his head. “I appreciate that, Lord Bens. May your vision be fulfilled with time.” His eyes drifted to the training pit below, where a few soldiers still sparred in the fading light. “That was quite the duel we saw.”

  Bens chuckled, folding his hands behind his back. “Yes, that Uranian warrior was quite the performer. I wouldn’t think a holy man such as yourself would be a fan of combat.”

  Omni smiled faintly. “It’s the finish I’m not a fan of,” he said. “But the combat…it can be quite graceful.”

  Bens nodded in agreement, the last of the sunlight flickering across his features, revealing both admiration and unease.

  The last streaks of daylight were thinning across the horizon, painting the camp in bruised shades of orange and violet. The air carried the mingled scents of sweat, smoke, and iron; remnants of the day’s chaos lingering like ghosts.

  “Lord Bens,” Omni began softly, “would it be possible for me to visit the young Uranian warrior, so that I may pray for him tonight?”

  Bens stopped walking, his boots pressing into the dirt. “Pray… for him?” he repeated, his brow furrowing. “There’s nothing that can be done for him now. His promise has already been fulfilled. Supreme General Dresdi has already conquered the Ura.” His tone was factual, yet faintly bewildered, as though the notion of praying for the conquered had never once crossed his mind.

  “Nonetheless,” Omni said gently, “It is for the promise of us Kings and Lords that we bless all of our subjects, no matter how cursed.”

  The phrasing gave Bens pause. He studied Omni, the lines in his face tightening as he weighed both the request and his own responsibility as Lord of his domain. For a brief moment, the flicker of torches cast shadows that danced between them. One draped in red, the other in white.

  Finally, Bens nodded. “I will grant you a moment with my prisoner, just be careful. Those Uranians can be quite the tricksters.”

  Omni bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Bens lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. A nearby guard straightened instantly and approached, his armor clinking with each step.

  “At your order,” the guard said.

  “Enk, please escort Lord Omni to the Uranian warrior for a quick prayer,” Bens instructed. Then, turning back to Omni, his tone lightened, though his eyes remained wary. “Lord Omni, I hope to see you tomorrow morning for our Evokian breakfast. Please, join us.”

  Omni offered a warm, almost disarming smile. “Thank you, Lord Bens. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  Bens gave a curt nod before turning away, his red cape catching a final gleam of fading sunlight before vanishing into the dark. Omni stood quietly for a moment beside the guard, listening to the low hum of the camp: the shovels, the coughs, the wind pressing through the thin canvas of the tents.

  Then he followed Enk into the deepening night.

  The path to the prison quarters wound down through the lowest end of the encampment, where the air grew damp and the ground turned to cold mud. The night had taken full claim of the sky, and only the torches burned; flickering teeth gnawing at the dark.

  Omni followed Enk in silence, the faint jingle of armor echoing between the narrow passageways. When they reached the cell, two guards stood at attention beside a heavy wooden door, the scent of rust and old smoke seeping through the cracks.

  “Lord Omni,” Enk said, nodding to the sentries. They returned the gesture, unbarring the door with a creak that seemed to groan from the earth itself.

  Inside, the room was narrow and dim. A single candle burned low on a stone shelf, its flame trembling against the draft. Tyrus sat chained near the corner: bare-shouldered, weary-eyed, his expression carved from ice. His hands were bound, but his back was straight.

  “You have a visitor,” one of the guards announced.

  Tyrus looked up. His voice came sharp, unbroken. “I don’t need your prayer.”

  Omni inclined his head. “Guard, I’d like to pray for Tyrus in solitude, if we could?”

  Enk was taken a back, then bowed. “As you wish, my lord.” He looked at Tyrus “Don’t step out of line” The door thudded shut behind him, leaving the two alone in the hollow dark.

  Omni sat down across from the Uranian warrior. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence was not empty; it hummed, like air before a storm. Omni’s eyes swept the room, ensuring no hidden listeners.

  “I am Lord Omni,” he said, voice calm and low. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Tyrus said nothing. His gaze was steady, guarded, his breath shallow and measured.

  Omni leaned forward slightly. “I’m not going to waste your time,” he began. “There are currently plans in place for me to be extracted from here tonight by my follower. I’d like to propose a deal with you.”

  Tyrus’s head lifted, the faintest shift breaking his stillness. His eyes, dull from exhaustion moments ago, flickered with something new.

  Curiosity had struck him;

  “What kind of deal?”

  The candle shuddered. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, a horn sounded in the distance; soft, then gone.