Lodawg's golden slit eyes narrowed, reassessing his opponent with newfound interest.
"Oh," he said, his metallic voice carrying a note of genuine surprise. "You have a strodem? I thought only the deivruta possessed such gifts."
Jolthar remained silent, his face impassive. The ring on his right-hand middle finger—gold metal that had always seemed unremarkable—now gleamed with subtle power.
Then he said, "Don't have one yourself." Jolthar raised his middle finger, showing the ring.
"Quite perceptive, eh."
Lodawg raised his transformed hand, displaying a similar ring embedded in the bronze flesh of his elongated finger. "This one, I took from a deivruta after I killed him," he said casually, as though discussing the acquisition of a trinket at market.
Jolthar frowned deeply, an expression mirrored on Johamma's face.
The strodem—storage rings created for the deivruta, only for the children of deities—were bound to their bearers. Once bonded, they could not be used by another. Their magic should have died with their rightful owner.
How is he using it? Jolthar wondered.
The Naemarys clan must have discovered some way to bypass the blood bond.
The implications were disturbing. If Lodawg could use a fallen deivruta's strodem, what other sacred bonds had the Naemarys clan learned to break?
But there was no time to ponder this violation of natural law. Jolthar concentrated on the ring, calling forth another weapon from its dimensional pocket.
The air shimmered around his hand, reality bending as something answered his call.
The hilt materialized first—ancient leather wrapped around metal that predated the Old Empire itself. Then came the guard, twisted and asymmetrical, seemingly warping the light around it. Finally, the blade emerged—not the midnight blue of Knashii, but something that defied description, its surface shifting between metallic black and a colour that had no name in any living tongue. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novel·fire·net
Horgath. Sword of Chaosbane. Legacy of an ancestor whose name had been struck from history for delving too deeply into powers beyond mortal comprehension.
The moment the blade fully materialized, chaos energy surged through Jolthar. Where before exhaustion had weighed on his limbs, now power flooded his veins. The air around him distorted slightly, reality itself responding to the blade's presence. His eyes gleamed with renewed strength, the irises shifting colour subtly as chaos flowed through him.
Johamma took an involuntary step backward, her lips parting in shock. She didn't know Jolthar had a strodem with him or where he got the strodem. It was impossible for him to possess one.
She was also surprised to see Lodawg also had one.
And the blade Jolthar now wielded. The Mad Sovereign's blade—a thing of legend, a nightmare made metal, a weapon that demanded as much from its wielder as its victims.
No matter how many times she saw it, she felt awe watching the blade and the power it radiated.
She still can't believe how a weak boy like Jolthar had managed to get to that sword, much less claim it as his own.
Then a strange sound erupted in the area. It was low but eerie.
It was Lodawg's laughter—a strange, metallic sound that echoed unnaturally across the clearing. The bronze golem threw back his head, golden eyes gleaming with manic delight. Lodawg saw the sword appear in Jolthar's hand, and as soon as it appeared, he felt something which made his instincts scream.
It was a threatening power one can wield.
"Have you gone nuts?" Jolthar asked him, levelling the chaos blade.
Lodawg's laughter subsided, though the unsettling smile remained fixed on his bronze features. "You surprise me minute after minute, young Jolthar," he said, genuine respect colouring his voice. "You are indeed a worthy person to kill."
In the tense silence that followed, both combatants measured each other anew. Jolthar with his impossible sword and trinity of powers and the new one in bound. Lodawg with his dragon-heart-empowered golem body.
Then, with no further warning, Lodawg launched himself forward.
His bronze form moved with impossible speed, covering the distance between them in the span of a heartbeat. One massive fist, surrounded by crimson dragon-fire, swung toward Jolthar's head with enough force to shatter stone.
But Horgath responded before Jolthar's conscious mind could.
The chaos blade pulled his arm upward, meeting Lodawg's fist with its flat. Bronze met chaos-metal with a sound like reality tearing.
The impact should have sent Jolthar flying, but the chaos energy flowing through him anchored him to the spot. Crimson dragon-fire and shifting chaos light intermingled where the two forces met, creating a third energy that hurt the eyes to behold.
The shockwave rippled across the area, pushing the water, and the trees fluttered violently like leaves.
"That sword," Lodawg hissed, golden eyes wide with recognition. "That's not just any weapon, is it? That's the Mad Sovereign's blade."
He soon recognised. It took him a blow to remember the previous owner of the blade. After the transformation, there were some parts of his consciousness still blurred. There were the effects of transformation, but Lodawg wasn't paying attention.
Jolthar disengaged, spinning away from the contact point. Horgath moved like an extension of his will—no, more intimate than that. The blade moved as though it were part of his very being, responding to intentions he hadn't fully formed yet.
"You know of it," Jolthar observed, circling warily.
"Everyone in the midlands has more or less heard of that madman," Lodawg replied, flexing his bronze fingers where they had contacted the chaos blade. Tiny fractures had appeared on them, leaking crimson energy.
"The Mad Sovereign who found a way to forge chaos itself into a weapon. They say it drove him insane in the end."
"They say many things about my ancestors," Jolthar countered, the blade humming with anticipation in his hand.
"Not all of them are true."
Lodawg's eyes narrowed at this revelation. "Your ancestor?"
"Oh, right. You are still a blood of Kaezhlar. I forgot. Even if you are some bastard, you are still the blood of the clan." His laughter erupted again, an amusement in the metallic sound.
Jolthar's face turned grim as he heard him say bastard. And one thing he hated was being called a bastard.