The tension in the air was suffocating, to say the least. The army behind Dagur stood like a statue, not batting an eye even when they kind of were killed before them.
On the other side, the soldiers behind Cleora were shocked. They saw how the ogre men fought and were more astonished about how Jolthar had killed them. They were already feeling too terrified of how they had to face hundreds of their army with only a little of them.
It made them wonder about Jolthar, and the situation now seemed optimistic with Jolthar on their side, even though they weren't sure about him.
The battlefield, once a lively town square, was now soaked in the blood of the fallen, and at its centre stood Jolthar—his blade gleaming, dripping crimson onto the cracked stone beneath him. The silver-white arcs of energy flickered around him like restless phantoms, coiling and shifting with an almost sentient awareness.
Dagur, still mounted on his dark warhorse, observed him with an expression of intrigue. His lips curled into an amused smirk as he leaned slightly forward in his saddle, the wind teasing the strands of his silver-streaked hair. His sharp, piercing eyes never wavered from Jolthar.
"Hey, kid," Dagur called out, his voice carrying effortlessly through the silent square.
"How about you join my side? You seem like an interesting human among your bunch."
Jolthar remained still, his breath steady despite the lingering fatigue from his earlier battle. His gaze, sharp as a honed dagger, bore into Dagur without a hint of hesitation. His body, though still, emanated an oppressive presence, an aura that refused to be ignored.
"Nah," Jolthar said flatly, his voice devoid of even a hint of doubt.
Dagur let out a low chuckle, tilting his head.
"You should consider it." His tone was light, but the words carried an undeniable weight.
"After all, you don't know how cruel we can be. Didn't you see the gift we sent earlier?"
At the mention of the mutilated corpse from earlier, a slow, chilling smile crept across Dagur's face. His men, those who still remained standing, chuckled darkly, feeding off their lord's amusement.
Jolthar didn't flinch.
But Roblan and the soldiers did.
Instead, he turned on his heel and strode toward one of the fallen ogre men. His boots squelched against the pooling blood as he approached the massive corpse, his every step deliberate, unhurried.
The air grew even heavier.
Without a word, he raised his sword.
The blade sliced clean through the ogre's thick neck, severing the monstrous head in a single fluid motion. The heavy, lifeless skull tumbled onto the stone ground, rolling slightly before coming to an abrupt stop.
The silence that followed was deafening.
But Jolthar wasn't done.
With a swift, precise movement, he drove Knashii into the severed head, stabbing it straight through the forehead. The steel pierced the bone effortlessly, embedding deep before he lifted it high for all to see.
The bloodied head dangled from his sword like a grim trophy.
Jolthar turned his gaze back to Dagur, his expression dark and unreadable. His voice rang out, firm and unwavering.
"Do you think you can scare me with your taunts?"
The silver-white arcs of energy crackled more violently around him, swirling in chaotic patterns. The very air seemed to warp as if space itself recoiled from his sheer presence.
"I will slaughter every single one of your men—including you."
The moment the words left his lips, an invisible force erupted outward from where he stood.
A shockwave of raw energy blasted through the square, surging outward like a ripple through a stormy sea. The force was neither seen nor heard—it was felt, an overwhelming pressure that slammed into the bodies of those present, forcing them to brace themselves.
The ground beneath Jolthar's feet cracked beneath the pressure.
His fingers, which had been casually drumming against the pommel of his sword, stilled as he narrowed his eyes.
He felt it—Jolthar's power.
The men behind him shifted uneasily, some gripping their weapons tighter, others glancing nervously between each other.
Even the warhorses, trained to withstand the horrors of battle, stamped their hooves anxiously, sensing the unnatural force permeating the air.
Dagur, ever the keen observer, studied Jolthar carefully.
It wasn't just swordsmanship. It wasn't just brute strength or refined technique. It was something more—something beyond the realm of normal warriors.
It was transcendent. He knew Jolthar wasn't one, but the power he was showing was similar to that, like one percent of that power.
Meanwhile—At the Edge of the Square
A thunderous gallop echoed through the town's deserted streets.
The two riders raced forward, their cloaks billowing behind them as their horses kicked up dust and loose cobblestones. They moved with urgency, weaving through the abandoned town at breakneck speed.
The leading rider—Prince Milan—had his eyes fixed straight ahead, his gaze sharp and alert despite the wind stinging his face. His gloved hands gripped the reins tightly, but in his right hand, he also held a sheathed sword, its presence a constant weight in his grasp.
Beside him, his close aide, Arvant, rode just as swiftly. His brow was slick with sweat, partly from exertion, partly from the gnawing unease that had settled deep in his gut. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder.
They were still being followed.
Shadows flickered in the distance—black-cloaked figures darting between buildings, keeping pace with them. These were not ordinary pursuers. Their movements were too controlled, too precise. He could tell that they were skilled assassins, and whoever hired them must have paid quite a high ransom.
But now wasn't the time to deal with them.
Ahead, the square was within sight.
While Arvant wanted to go the square, he couldn't but notice the absence of people and from the time they entered the town, they didn't even see a single person.
Milan's sharp gaze darted forward, immediately absorbing the scene before him.
A standoff. He saw a group of people standing on two sides. And a small group to his opposite side.
On one side stood Dagur and his men—hundreds of them, their numbers vast and formidable. Their dark armour gleamed under the dim light, a sea of warriors waiting for their lord's command.
On the other side—Jolthar.
His figure was unmistakable.
Silver-white energy still crackled around him, the power pulsating in rhythmic waves. The pressure in the air was palpable, even from a distance.
Milan's heartbeat quickened.
"Wait…is that Jolthar..."
He recognized Jolthar instantly. After all, he had been present in the Kaezhlar grounds that day, and he had watched how Jolthar fought off a god. He was truly mesmerised by his skill.
Wait, Milan stopped his thoughts and quickly looked around, taking in the grim atmosphere.
Pulling the reins, he brought his horse to a skidding halt right in the middle of the square, dust and dirt kicking up around him.
Arvant followed suit, immediately gripping the hilt of his sword as his wary eyes flickered between the two opposing sides.
Then, from the surrounding streets, the black-cloaked figures arrived.
They did not enter the square but remained close, lurking just beyond the buildings. They were watching—waiting.
Milan inhaled deeply.
The tension in the air was unbearable.
And as his gaze locked onto Jolthar's, he knew—things were about to take an even darker turn.
Dagur's keen eyes scrutinized the two figures just entering the square. His lips curled slightly in recognition as he focused on the older of the two riders—Arvant.
His presence here was unexpected, though not entirely surprising. The man had always had a knack for survival, but judging by his state, his luck had finally begun to run dry.
Arvant was wounded, his once-pristine cloak torn and smeared with dirt and blood. Though still upright, his posture slumped faintly, the weight of exhaustion pressing against his old bones. Beside him, the younger man—Prince Milan—sat rigidly on his horse, his eyes sharp and observant.
Unlike Arvant, who looked like he had seen far too much in his long life, Milan carried the demeanour of someone unaccustomed to standing at the edge of a blade's point.
Dagur's gaze then flicked past them, following the path from which they had come. The moment his eyes landed on the dark figures lurking in the shadows of the nearby buildings, his amusement dimmed ever so slightly.
The black-cloaked men.
So they finally made their move.
Dagur's expression remained composed, but a flicker of intrigue passed through his features. He turned his attention back to Arvant, his smirk returning as he folded his arms over his broad chest.
"Old man," Dagur called out, his voice carrying effortlessly through the tense silence, "seems like your mutt kin has finally decided to stab you in the back."
Arvant's face paled as he saw Dagur, as he knew him too. And seeing the army behind him, his body trembled.
"What are you doing here, Dagur??!!" Arvant exclaimed, his voice filled with great shock and confusion.
Dagur spread his arms in an exaggerated motion, his grin widening. "What else?" He let the words linger in the air before delivering the final blow.
"To slaughter your empire of pigs, of course." Latest content publıshed on novel✶fire.net