The rain came down without urgency, a steady veil that softened the edges of Dagavia. Tyrus and Nina moved beneath sagging canopies and stitched hides strung between posts, the muddy path sucking softly under their feet. Straw huts leaned close together, their hearth-smoke curling into the gray air. The scents of simmering stews and baking bread drifted outward, mingling with the low murmur of families inside: laughter, arguments, the rhythm of ordinary lives untouched by war. It was the sound of a village that believed it would wake tomorrow.

  Nina glanced back at him, eyes lingering where his stride favored one leg. She slowed just enough to walk beside him.

  Her gaze dropped. “Your leg,” she said, nodding toward the bandage darkened by rain. “How did that happen?”

  Tyrus did not break stride. “A bandit’s arrow. Last night.”

  She stopped short and crouched despite the mud, peering at the wound as if proximity alone could tell her more. “It’s wrapped well,” she said. “Did you do it yourself?”

  He passed her without looking down. “West aided me with the wound.”

  Nina pushed to her feet and hurried after him. “Did he clean it first? Arrow wounds can—”

  Tyrus halted so abruptly she nearly collided with his back. He turned, the rain streaking down his face like war paint undone.

  “I would prefer,” he said evenly, “that we finish this walk without questions.”

  For a heartbeat, Nina only stared at him. Then something hardened behind her eyes.

  “Hey,” she said, and stepped past him, her shoes splashing through a shallow puddle. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

  He followed, a pace behind.

  “It’s unnecessary," he said.

  She stopped again and rounded on him, incredulous. “Now I understand why you were left outside the pub while everyone else celebrated Master West.”

  “Master West?” Tyrus’s brow creased. The word tasted strange on his tongue. A breath escaped him, almost a laugh, and he shook his head.

  Nina noticed the slight change in tone. “Why is that funny? Is he not a master of the blade?” she asked

  “West is a special man, but he is a long way from being a Master,” Tyrus responded.

  She glanced at him. “How did you meet?”

  Tyrus hesitated. The past days blurred together: chains, screams, steel, and fire; compressed into something that felt far longer than it was.

  “He opened an Evokian prison,” he said simply. “And let me walk out of it.”

  Nina arched a brow. “So he frees you, stitches you up… but he’s not your friend?”

  Tyrus exhaled. “It’s complicated.”

  She smiled without turning. “Complicated how?” A pause. Then, mischievous: “Like…lovers?”

  He stopped short. “What…? No!” Color crept into his face despite the rain. “He’s an associate. Nothing more…”

  “Mm,” she said. “That explains the tension.” She looked back at him. “And the rumor that you’re afraid of girls.”

  “I am not afraid of women,” Tyrus said quickly. “My people simply… live differently.”

  They passed a group of children kicking water through puddles, laughter slicing cleanly through the gray. Nina watched them for a moment.

  “And who are your people?” she asked.

  “I am of the sons of the Ura.”   The words landed harder between them.

  Nina stopped.   Tyrus took two more steps before realizing she was no longer beside him and turned.

  Her eyes were bright. Not with tears yet, but with something tighter. Angry. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

  She stepped closer, rain slicking her hair to her cheeks, and her heel caught on a loose stone.

  She stumbled.   Recovered. And something slipped free. The dagger struck the ground at Tyrus’s feet with a sharp, unmistakable clatter.

  The world narrowed.

  Tyrus’s gaze dropped to the blade, plain iron, worn grip, then lifted to Nina’s face. Training took over, cold and immediate. Distance. Intent. Threat.

  Nina lunged for it, panic flashing across her features.

  Tyrus moved first, placing his foot on the iron.

  His sandal pinned the dagger to the stone. With a flick of his foot, he sent it spinning upward. The iron flashed once in the rain before he caught it cleanly, the motion so fluid it looked practiced a thousand times over.

  Nina straightened slowly. Her hands trembled despite her effort to still them.

  “It’s for my own safety,” she said, the words tight and fragile.

  Tyrus knew that look. He had seen it on battlefields and in burning villages. The fear that came not from guilt, but from knowing the world was cruel enough to require a blade.

  He extended the dagger, handle-first.

  Nina hesitated, then took it with care, as if it might vanish if she moved too quickly. She tucked it back beneath her coat and turned away, breathing hard.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, stepping closer.

  She lifted her chin. “No...” The word came too fast. Her lip trembled, and she masked it with a brittle smile. “I shouldn’t lay the sins of fathers at the feet of their sons.”

  Tyrus followed, slower now, leaving space between them. He understood the fear. South of the Merada, the name Ura was spoken carefully. If at all. It was a reputation his people carried with pride. And one he was only beginning to feel the weight of.

  Rain slid freely down Nina’s face now, hiding what she refused to let him see. Tyrus followed in silence, the distance between them no longer measured in steps, but in something newly broken and newly seen.

  The rain softened to a mist, thin enough to cling to skin rather than soak it. Tyrus walked a few steps behind Nina, the distance deliberate now. West’s words echoed uninvited in his mind: ‘they are afraid of you,’ and for the first time since leaving the camp, he wondered if they had been right.

  “Nina,” he said at last. She did not slow. “Do I frighten you?”

  She kept moving, dragging her sleeve across her face to wipe rain and whatever else clung there. When she turned, it was with practiced sharpness.

  “I thought we were done with questions,” she said lightly, but her eyes searched his. Finding no humor there, her tone shifted. “You can be… intense.” She shrugged. “But my father trusts Master West. And if he trusts him, I suppose I should extend that courtesy to you.”

  They reached the temple at the edge of the village, half-swallowed by age and rain. From the outside, it was unassuming. Stone worn smooth by centuries of weather, its walls darkened by moss and soot. No banners. No statues. Only a low, sloping roof and a doorway carved with faded sun-marks, their edges softened by time.

  The true weight of the place waited within.

  Tyrus stepped ahead, pushing open the heavy doors. Cool air breathed out to meet them, carrying the scent of incense, old stone, and damp earth. Inside, the temple unfolded into narrow, catacomb-like halls where lanterns burned low, their flames reflected in shallow grooves carved into the walls. The ceiling arched just high enough to remind visitors to bow their heads; if not in reverence, then in forced habit.

  “Thank you,” Tyrus said, moving instinctively in front of Nina as he crossed the threshold. He looked back to see her standing in the rain before the door closed behind him.

  His footsteps echoed quietly as he moved deeper into the temple, past alcoves where votive candles flickered, and offerings lay stacked: bread, coins, scraps of cloth tied with care. The halls narrowed, then opened into the infirmary.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Six figures lay on stone beds beneath thin, almost worn-out blankets. Omni stood among them, his white turban luminous in the low light, the sapphire at its center catching the glow of the lanterns like a captive star. His voice was barely more than breath as he moved from one patient to the next, hands hovering, never touching, as if the prayers themselves were the medicine.

  Tyrus stopped at the threshold, unwilling to disturb the quiet ritual.

  Omni turned then, sensing him. He inclined his head in a formal bow. “Tyrus”

  He guided him out of the infirmary and into a side hall where the lanterns burned a little brighter.

  “Where is West?” Omni asked, scanning the shadows as if the young warrior might stumble out of them at any moment.

  “West is safe,” Tyrus said. “He is with Nadrin and his men at the gates of Dagavia.”

  Omni exhaled slowly. “Then let us not linger,” but he caught Tyrus looking towards the altar.

  “My people also prayed at sun temples similar to this one.” Tyrus' eyes traced the walls.

  “They are beautiful temples,” Omni added.

  “Tell me, Omni, what claims does a Kesh lord have in our temples?” Tyrus turned to Omni.

  Omni bowed his head and moved closer. “I do not come here as a Kesh lord, I come here as a man who hates to see the people’s pain, I only seek to bring comfort where there is none.”

  Tyrus looked away from Omni

  “Ours is a cruel world, Tyrus, but our lives are our own,” Omni began to make his way out of the temple.

  “Do you believe me to be a cruel man, Omni?” Tyrus asked.

  Omni stopped walking. “Yes, and no one suffers more from it all than you.”

  “Then why do you insist that a man as wicked as me can be some sort of salvation to others?” Tyrus voice echoed in the temple

  “A wicked man does not torture himself wondering if he is cruel, a wicked man does not accept the kindness of a crazy priest and his fibbing slave,” Omni rebutted. “The ancient one did not fight the sun with a sword when he wanted to plant the sunflowers along the river; he put the sword down, picked up a plow, and worked with the sun.” Omni's voice rang through the temple. “Come now, Tyrus, let us find West, so we can leave in the morning,” he concluded.

  The temple seemed to listen as they turned back toward the rain, its ancient halls swallowing their footsteps once more.

  West was fine. At least on the surface.

  At the village gate, Nadrin’s men worked with practiced efficiency, dragging timber into place, angling carts and stone to choke the road into narrow teeth. Torches burned low against the rain, their smoke flattened by the steady downpour. Beyond the barricades, the jungle stood like a living wall; green, silent, always watching.

  West and Nadrin sheltered beneath a rough wooden canopy, rain rattling against its planks. West pressed his thumb to his temple, willing the ache behind his eyes to behave.

  “So what should we expect, Captain?” West held his pulsing head. “More of the ones we ran into last night?”

  Nadrin lifted his cup of tea, steam ghosting around his beard. “Perhaps. The Canaries are a poor excuse for soldiers. Too young. Far too eager.” His gaze never left the treeline. “Most of them die before they gain any kind of experience. Normally, I'm the one who has to chop them down.”

  West shifted his weight and hesitated. “How… young?”

  That earned him a sideways glance. Nadrin took his time answering. “Your age. Some younger. No older than your Ura friend.” He shrugged. “What they lack in skill, they drown us in with numbers.”

  West swallowed hard, the taste of ale turning sour. “Then I won’t fight them.”

  Nadrin turned fully now. Disapproval was written across his hardened face.

  West met his eyes, unblinking. Whether it was the drink or the Dragon humming at his side, something encouraged him. “I mean no insult, Captain. You protect your people as you see fit.” He tapped the hilt of the Red Dragon. “But this blade won’t be used on boys who never had a chance to be anything else. Not anymore...”

  He stepped closer and thumped a fist against Nadrin’s chestplate. Not hard, but firm enough. A warrior’s declaration.

  For a long moment, Nadrin said nothing. His mind stayed on West words. Rain slid down his armor. The jungle breathed.

  Then West cracked a grin. “How did that sound, Captain? I’m working on my ‘King’ voice. For when they crown me in Evokia.”

  Nadrin barked a laugh before he could stop himself. He caught West by the back of the neck, fingers like iron. The other he used, wagging a finger in mock warning. “You are a very funny man, Master West.”

  The grip loosened, but the weight of his next words did not.

  “I hear you,” Nadrin said. “I cannot force you to fight; they are our enemies, not yours.” He nodded once. “That choice is yours, but I have none.”

  West exhaled, rainwater dripping from his hair. “They might come anyway. Big as a swarm. All to lay claim to the man who killed Dresdi.”

  Nadrin’s smile turned sharp. “Then they’ll finally gather in one place.” He glanced back at his men. “And we’ll make it costly.”

  “Where are they coming from?” West stuck his cup out into the rain to try to catch some water.

  “It’s just a bunch of refugees from further south, orphans of the war, Dresdi’s bloody bastards, just a bunch of broken souls with no homes,” Nadrin responded. “The final remnants of the kingdoms of the southern river, it never ends with these people.” Nadrin nodded his head. “All these boys know is war; they were born into it and will die in it, but I cannot allow their tragedy to be an excuse for them to hurt my people.” Nadrin raised his clenched fist.

  West frowned. “Southern river kingdoms?”

  Nadrin nodded. “Born violent. Raised in blood and war.” His eyes flicked toward the road leading back into the village. “Same lineage as your Ura.” He clenched his fist. “I pity them. Truly. But I won’t let their tragedy become my people’s hell.”

  The rain fell harder. West blinked hard. The rain felt colder all at once. “Tyrus is the last Ura…” The words slipped out before he could stop them, uncertain even to his own ears.

  “Their kingdom burned,” Nadrin said, already moving forward. His boots sank into the mud as his gaze locked onto something beyond the gate. “But its filthy sons still crawl out of the ashes to haunt us.”

  West dragged a hand down his face, trying to steady the world. “Captain…I was told the Ura warriors were all wiped out. Dresdi’s doing months ago… at The Crying River massacre.”

  Nadrin snorted. “The strong died there. The rest scattered.” His voice sharpened. “Cowards. Orphans. Traitors. They still haunt these jungles.” He lifted a hand, signaling his men as he stepped closer to the jungle’s edge. “Same violence. Less discipline.”

  Leaves rustled.

  The boy stepped out of the foliage again; small, soaked, shoulders drawn tight beneath a threadbare cloak. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead.

  West stared as Nadrin addressed the young messenger. “This kid again…”

  Nadrin lifted two fingers. Steel whispered as patrolmen shifted, forming a loose ring around the child. “What is it now, Canary?” Nadrin barked. “Come back to beg for mercy?”

  The boy swallowed. He opened his mouth, closed it again. When he spoke, the words came haltingly, as stones dragged through thick mud.

  “C-Captain Na…Nadrin,” he began, breath hitching. “On b-behalf of the Ca—Canaries…” He winced, tried again. “We—we wish to e-extend our con…congratulations to y-your guest.”

  He turned toward West and clapped. Soft, small, and fearful. After a beat, a few of Nadrin’s men joined in, more out of mockery than respect.

  “…to West,” the boy finished, voice trembling. “F-for his v-victory over G-General Dresdi.”

  Nadrin crossed his arms. “And?”

  “No, sir,” The child took a deep breath. “We, the Canaries, would like to propose a deal. It’s a duel with the warrior of the West.” The young boy pointed at West. “Beiru the Yellow has made a challenge, do you accept?” the young boy finished

  West stared at the finger, then at the boy, then slowly at Nadrin. “What’s happening?”

  Nadrin began to pull the hairs on his goatee. “What makes little Beiru think he can request a duel with a warrior of Master West's caliber?

  “He, he killed his f-f-father,” the young boy once again pointed at West.

  West choked, rainwater and laughter tangling in his throat. “I…what?” He bent forward, coughing. Nadrin held a hand out, steadying him.

  “Dresdi sired many bastards,” Nadrin said hatefully. “Bastards have no claims, but amuse us.”

  A few men laughed.

  The boy flinched but pressed on. “If—if Beiru w-wins…” His voice wavered. “…he k-keeps the R-Red Dragon.” He swallowed hard. “A-and if y-you win, his f-forces will t-turn and flee.”

  Silence fell.

  Despite the drink fogging his head, West felt the weight of it land squarely on his shoulders. The rain seemed louder now. He felt Nadrin’s hand settle there, firm and expectant.

  “You said you wouldn’t fight raiders,” Nadrin said quietly. “But this is one man.”

  West laughed weakly, swaying just a bit. “Captain,” he said, blinking rain from his eyes, “I’m a little drunk.”

  Nadrin straightened, rain sliding from the rim of his helm. “We can have one dead man on the field,” he said evenly, “or fifty bleeding out in the dirt.” His eyes locked onto West. “This is your kingly moment.” He seized West by the shoulders and gave him a sharp shake. “Think of the lives that can be saved. On both sides.”

  West swayed, blinking. “Did the kid say it was Dresdi’s son?” The name still felt unreal in his mouth.

  “One of many,” Nadrin said, annoyingly. “His bastards are scattered across this cursed continent.”

  West pulled free and went still. For a breath, the rain, the men, the gate, all of it faded. He thought of Omni’s voice. Of restraint. Of the promise buried inside the weight of the blade at his hip. Then he turned to the crowd of Dagavians preparing for battle. In his mind, he had already accepted the fight; it was now a matter of how he was going to win it.

  Tyrus and Omni pushed their way through the gathering crowd.

  “I won’t allow this sword,” West said, his voice steadier now, “to slaughter the innocent.” He lifted his chin. “But I will grant your champion a duel. No blades. Only hands.”

  The rain hissed between heartbeats.

  “Yes! Go and tell that rotten little bastard we will have a traditional unarmed duel at dawn?”

  “Yes, s-sir,” the boy said. He lingered, rain dripping from his lashes, staring at Nadrin as if searching for something human.

  “You want another plate of food?” Nadrin asked, the edge softening just a fraction.

  “Yes, sir.”

  One of the patrolmen guided the boy away.

  Omni and Tyrus made their way to West.

  “A duel?” Tyrus said, shocked. “I thought you were trying to prevent bloodshed.”

  “Mercy is not a language they speak,” Nadrin replied. “We will make an example of Beiru.”

  West was confused. “Thats why I said no blades.”

  “A traditional duel at dawn is a death fight with or without a weapon,” Tyrus was serious.

  Omni leaned in, his white turban darkened by rain, the sapphire at its center catching what little light remained. “What are you doing?” he asked, low and sharp.

  Nadrin stepped in. “Lord Omni, you need not worry. Master West has saved many lives today. If you will excuse me, I am needed,” Nadrin walked away and met with Nina, who was amongst the gathered crowd. She caught Tyrus' eyes looking back at her.

  Omni and Tyrus both turned their attention to West with disapproving expressions.

  West rested his hand on the hilt of the Red Dragon. The steel felt warmer than it should have. “I'm trying to tame this thing.”

  Tyrus stepped closer. “You’re letting it speak for you,” he said, nodding toward the blade.

  West exhaled slowly, then smirked. “I’m only holding it because you’re too afraid to.”

  Tyrus snarled, but said nothing.

  “I’ve got a plan, and I'm going to need both of you to help me,” West whispered.

  He staggered off into the rain.

  Beyond the gates, the jungle swallowed the messenger boy whole. He ran until Dagavia’s lights vanished behind him, until the trees closed tight and familiar voices rose from the dark.

  A duel had been proposed.

  And by dawn, blood, or legend, would answer it.