HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The air was a forge, hot with ash and the stink of blood, yet colder than steel in its silence. For a moment that could have been a heartbeat or an eternity, the two hosts stared across the Hollow Pass, the carcass of the Wrath-knight lying as grim proof between them. No one moved. No one dared.

The southern host clutched its weapons with the look of drowning men grasping for driftwood. They had seen death today, more than enough to hollow their courage. Yet still they held, trembling but upright, their ranks bowed but not broken. The ground beneath their boots seemed alive with the weight of choice—the kind of weight that crushed or forged. The banners above them, once proud in the sun, now hung heavy with soot and blood, their colors dulled to shadows.

Ryon stood at their fore, the bloodied sword trembling in his hand. His lungs burned, his ribs ached, but his eyes never left the scar-faced commander across the way. He could not give them a smile or a speech, not as Alric could. He had only the truth of his defiance—the fact that he was still standing. His very presence was a banner more fragile and more terrible than any cloth carried on a pole.

Behind him, the South's shield wall quivered. Men whispered prayers, others muttered curses, and still others stared blankly as if their minds had fled. A boy no older than seventeen wiped blood from his eyes and whispered, "If we break now, the Pass will never see dawn." His words were little more than breath, but those beside him heard, and their hands tightened on their spears as though gripping that truth itself.

The north was no less shaken. Murmurs moved like serpents through their line, spears wavering in hands that once held them as extensions of will. The Wrath-knight had been their bulwark, their champion of dread, and now his broken armor lay in the dust. Their commander's scarred face was stone, but even stone cracks when mountains shift. He had yet to move, yet to speak—and that silence frayed his soldiers more than any shout.

Between the armies, the battlefield lay strewn with bodies, weapons glinting in the last smears of daylight. Smoke rose in ribbons, curling into the sky as if the world itself tried to carry away the stench of slaughter. Horses, riderless, pawed at the ground or lay groaning, their flanks heaving. Ravens had already begun to circle, black smudges wheeling above, waiting to feast when men's flesh turned cold.

Alric moved like a flame along the southern ranks. His armor was split, his cheek bloodied, but his voice carried with stubborn fire. "They bleed as we bleed! Do you see them waver? Do you see them falter? Hold, men of the South—hold a little longer!" His cry struck sparks, faint but stubborn, and the southern shields lifted another inch, as though to prove him right.

Some men answered him, raising their voices in a ragged echo. Others simply breathed deeper, steadying themselves against the tide of fear. And though their line swayed like a ship caught in storm, it did not break.

The scar-faced commander's jaw tightened. He raised his banner half an inch higher, but gave no word. His silence was a weight pressing on his own men, daring them to stand beneath it. They did, but with the unease of men forced to kneel beneath a mountain. Even among his officers, glances darted sideways, as if each man asked his neighbor whether to advance or retreat. None dared move without his order, yet the hesitation spread like a plague.

The balance stretched thinner, taut as a bowstring drawn to its limit. Every heartbeat was a drum in the chest, too loud, too slow. The smallest falter might break the line—one horse bolting, one soldier dropping his spear, one cry of fear. The Hollow Pass was waiting for that crack, for that whisper of weakness to open into a roar.

Ryon exhaled slowly, though every breath was fire. He could feel the weight of eyes on him, thousands of them, north and south alike. They measured him, doubted him, hated him, but most of all they waited for him. He had not asked for that burden, but it was his now. He knew if he so much as lowered his blade, the South would crumble.

He tightened his grip, forcing the tremor from his arm. Across the way, the scar-faced commander shifted his spear, the faintest twitch, and the northern line rippled in answer. A murmur broke through the southern host—panic or fury, no one could tell. Shields quivered, spears wavered.

The knife-edge gleamed sharper, closer to breaking.

A crow cawed overhead, its harsh voice splitting the silence, and dozens of men flinched. A riderless horse broke into a nervous trot between the lines, its reins trailing in the dirt, eyes wide and rolling with terror. All eyes followed it as though that lonely beast carried the fate of the world. When it stumbled and fell, dust rising from its flank, a hush swallowed the field once more.

Time seemed to stretch, elongated until each breath felt like a full march, each heartbeat like a hammer blow. Even the wind had stilled, as though the sky itself was listening, waiting for the spark that would send men crashing together again.

A southern spearman whispered a lullaby under his breath, a tune his mother had once sung. The soldier beside him shushed him harshly, but the words carried nonetheless, fragile and human, and for an instant the line steadied around that small, trembling sound. On the northern side, a man's knees buckled, and his comrade seized him by the arm, dragging him upright before the weakness could ripple further.

Alric clenched his jaw, lifted his sword, and roared, "Stand! Do not yield this breath, not this moment! The Pass holds while we hold it!" His voice thundered across the silence like a spark in dry grass.

The southern host drew breath as one, ragged but fierce.

The northern host answered with silence, still frozen, still waiting.

And so the armies stood—teetering, trembling, balanced on that blade's edge that could at any instant tilt into slaughter.

The Hollow Pass held its breath.

And with it, so did the world.