Chapter 117: FEVER IN THE ASH.
The fire had died to embers, but the silence lived on.
It pressed heavier than steel, heavier than the scars carved into me. Men dozed in fragments, some staring at nothing, others shivering though the air held no cold. The gorge had swallowed laughter, had swallowed song. Even prayers had dried on lips.
I sat alone at the edge of the camp, sword across my knees, its weight the only steady thing left. Fever gnawed at me, gnawed so deep it blurred where wound ended and where sickness began. Every breath rattled as though my ribs were splintering from the inside. Sweat clung to me like a second skin, soaking the bandages, chilling me despite the heat crawling beneath.
The system whispered always. "Vessel weakens. Cracks widen. Soon the circle closes again."
I ignored it, but ignoring was not silence. Its words remained, dripping slow, a poison not yet killing but corroding, eating.
Behind me, the men shifted in restless half-sleep. I could feel their doubt as surely as I felt the fever. A weight in the air. A fracture underfoot. The duel had ended, but the circle had not broken—it had widened. They were all inside it now, staring at me, waiting to see whether I would stand or fall when the next strike came.
And it came.
A snap.
Not cough, not shuffle. A twig breaking in the brush just beyond the circle of faint firelight.
I froze, head lifting, breath caught. The sword slid free from my knees like a whisper.
Another snap. Then the rustle of leaves, too deliberate, too careful.
Scouts.
I surged to my feet, body swaying under the fever’s claw. My blade gleamed dull in the dark, my voice tearing across the hush like steel on stone.
"Scouts!"
The camp awoke in a jolt of panic. Men scrambled upright, hands fumbling for weapons, eyes wide with exhaustion and fear. Garron was already there, as though he had never slept, sword in hand, his scar catching what little light remained. His gaze cut to mine, hard, knowing.
Shadows shifted at the treeline. More than one. Dozens.
The first arrow hissed from the dark.
It struck the dirt not a handspan from my foot, quivering. A warning. No, a mark.
Then the woods erupted.
Figures surged from the black, armored in fragments of the North’s steel, faces shadowed, blades catching the moonlight. Their boots crushed brush and dirt, their breath carried in low roars. Scouts, yes—but more than scouts. Hunters.
The system purred, almost pleased. "The circle widens. Vessel against vessel, again and again."
I stepped forward to meet them. Fever burned my veins, but my sword was steady. My voice was raw but clear.
"Form! Shields! NOW!"
The men obeyed slower than they once would have. Doubt dulled them, hunger slowed them. But Garron’s roar lashed them into motion, driving them into ragged lines, shields scraping together. The sound was uneven, broken—but it was sound, and sound meant formation.
The first Northerner crashed against me before the wall fully formed. His blade swung for my head, heavy with the force of a man certain of victory. Fever dulled my limbs, but not my instincts. I ducked, steel flashing upward. My sword split his arm from wrist to elbow, hot blood spraying across my face. He screamed, fell back, his comrades surging over him.
The clash became thunder.
Shields splintered. Blades screamed. Men shouted, cried out, died. The fire guttered under the storm of boots and blood, its light scattering, leaving us fighting in a half-world of shadow.
I fought as though the fever itself were my weapon. Every strike ripped from me not strength but desperation, every block a gamble that bones would hold one strike longer. My vision swam, red and black, but the system steadied my hands even as it mocked me.
"You are weak. But weakness cuts differently. Weakness is desperation sharpened."
I drove that desperation into the Northerners. My sword carved throats, split shields, shattered jaws. But for each I felled, two pressed forward.
The men held, but barely. Their line bent like a branch under storm. I could hear their grunts, their gasps, the wet sound of steel entering flesh. For every Northern scream, a Southern voice fell silent.
"Hold!" I roared, though the word nearly tore my throat raw. "Hold the line!"
The fever clawed at my chest, my ribs grinding like broken stone. Sweat blurred my eyes. My grip on the hilt trembled.
Then—I faltered.
A Northern blade slipped past my guard. It bit across my side, deep, white fire of pain ripping me open. My legs buckled. The world tilted.
The Northerner’s grin split wide as he raised his blade for the killing stroke.
But Garron was there. His sword cleaved down, splitting the man’s chest to the bone. Blood sprayed hot across me. Garron kicked the corpse away, eyes burning as he caught my arm, dragging me upright.
"Stand, Ryon!" he snarled, his voice cutting through the storm. "Stand, or they’ll see you fall!"
I staggered, forced my legs to hold, forced my blade back into guard. The men were watching—through the clash, through the blood, they watched. If I fell now, the circle would close in not with steel but with their doubt, crushing everything.
I lifted my sword high, blood dripping down my side, my breath a ragged scream. "Push!"
And they pushed.
The line surged forward, battered shields slamming into Northerners, blades thrusting through gaps. The clash became a grind, two walls shoving, breaking, rebuilding. My vision swam, but I fought in rhythm—strike, block, step, breathe. Each heartbeat was a war in itself.
The Northerners pressed harder, their chants rising like wolves howling. Their eyes gleamed with hunger, not unlike ours, but sharpened by vengeance.
And then I saw him.
Among their ranks, taller, broader, his helm crowned with black iron spikes. His armor bore scars older than mine, his eyes burning beneath the visor. Not a scout. Not a hunter. A commander.
And his gaze fixed on me.
The system hissed. "Another vessel. Another circle."
The commander raised his blade, pointed it across the chaos, straight at me. His men howled, rallying.
I raised mine in answer, though my arm shook, though my body burned. My men saw it, and their howl rose too, ragged but fierce.
The circle shrank. The battle swirled around us, but I knew—it would come to him and me, as it always did. Vessels shattering until one remained.
The fever pulsed hotter, dragging sweat into my eyes, bending the world. But I stepped forward, blade steady, voice breaking from my throat.
"This circle ends with you."
And I surged into the storm.