Date: August 2, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Iskon didn't run—he cut through the gorge's fog, moving towards his target with frightening directness. His gaze was fixed on Tork's figure, and everything that came between him and his goal was perceived only as an annoying hindrance.
Three bandit-Warriors tried to block his path, forming a tight formation. The first, a broad-shouldered mercenary with a short sword, lunged, hoping to catch Iskon on the counter. The young man didn't even slow his pace. At the moment their blades should have clashed, Iskon's sword blade suddenly extended by a good two meters. The steel passed through the enemy's leather armor before he could even register that the fighting distance had changed.
The second opponent, in horror, swung his axe, but Iskon powerfully struck him in the face with the edge of his teardrop shield. At the moment of impact, the lower edge of the shield, sharp as a razor, suddenly expanded, turning into a wide steel crescent. With one smooth motion, Iskon slashed the enemy's throat, not even looking at him as he collapsed onto the bloodied snow.
The third bandit, seeing his comrades' instantaneous deaths, tried to retreat, but Iskon simply passed through his defense, ending the fight with a short, economical sword stroke. The entire path through the barrier took mere seconds. Iskon felt no excitement—only the cold necessity to complete the task.
"Back!" Tork "Bloodbrand's" thunderous voice made the last camp defenders freeze. "Leave him alone. The boy so desperately wants to show off his training that it would be impolite to deny him the opportunity."
Tork slowly rose from his makeshift throne, and his Pillar-level presence crashed down on the gorge, making the air vibrate with the density of his will.
Tork took a few steps towards the young man, dragging behind him a massive two-handed sword, its blade covered with notches from hundreds of clashes. His inner power was heavy, stagnant, and frighteningly dense—it was the power of a man who had crossed the Pillar threshold and learned to suppress those around him with his mere presence. The scar on his cheek—the "Bloodbrand"—pulsed, filling with a dark crimson.
"Now I'll smash your proud head against this stone," Tork grinned, and the oily haze of his power began to envelop his blade. "And when you fall silent, I'll get to the others. Your energy will make excellent fuel for my fires."
"Too many words for someone who will die in the mud," Iskon replied laconically.
The next second, the gorge's silence was torn by a thunderous clap—Tork had lunged, covering the distance between them in an instant. The fight began at speeds an ordinary Warrior's eye could barely follow.
For Kaedan, Elwin, and the other knights, frozen at a distance, the duel turned into a kaleidoscope of flashes and blurred shadows. The air in the camp center trembled and groaned from the excess of power. Each clash of swords struck showers of sparks, and the shockwaves scattered snow and stones for tens of meters around. Tork moved with the grace of an enraged bear, his two-handed sword describing monstrously powerful arcs, leaving heavy crimson trails in the air.
Iskon, meanwhile, had turned into a quicksilver shadow. He didn't just dodge—he constantly changed the rules of the fight. One moment his sword seemed short, allowing him to duck under the enemy's guard, and the next, the blade would lengthen, forcing Tork to recoil sharply to avoid losing his head. Iskon's teardrop shield was in constant motion: its edge would widen to block Tork's broad swings, then contract, allowing him to deliver stinging sword thrusts.
"Faster!" Tork roared, raining down a series of vertical strikes. "You're just a pathetic Warrior! Your Vessel won't last at this pace!"
Iskon remained silent, his face impassive, though his skin had become frighteningly pale. He was working at the limit of his physical capabilities. Each time their swords clashed, the young man felt the Pillar's density trying to crush his channels, but his Scaling Spirit helped dampen the inertia, momentarily increasing the shield's thickness at the point of impact.
The detachment's knights saw only the trails of attacks: the silvery gleam of Iskon's sword and the heavy black haze of Tork's blade. Only Grak the Axe, standing on the high ground, saw everything in detail. His Herald-level gaze registered every movement: how Iskon dodged death by millimeters, how Tork gradually increased the pressure, seeking to overwhelm the young man with the mass of his energy.
Tork delivered a devastating backhand blow. Instead of retreating, Iskon abruptly shortened his blade and, using his shield as a ram, crashed into the giant's chest. Tork staggered but immediately responded with a powerful elbow strike. The young man managed to raise his shield, but the Pillar's force was such that Iskon was sent flying back.
He didn't fall. Performing a mid-air tumble, Iskon landed on his feet ten meters from the enemy, plowing the frozen earth with his boots. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and his breathing was labored, but his gaze remained just as cold.
Tork was also breathing heavily. A deep scratch adorned his cuirass, and blood seeped from his shoulder, grazed by Iskon's lengthened sword. A fragile parity had settled in the gorge. Neither had a decisive advantage. The two fighters stood facing each other, enveloped in steam from their own breath, and reality itself around them seemed a taut string, ready to snap at the slightest movement.
"Not bad, pup," Tork spat on the snow, and his scar flared with renewed vigor. "You're the first Warrior to make me sweat. But parity is only a delay. Let's see whose will burns out first."
Iskon slowly raised his shield, in the center of which glowed a long steel spike. He wasn't going to give up. The battle, which Kaedan and the others saw only as a blurred stain of light and darkness, was entering its final, most dangerous phase.