Eamon and Haul stood side by side as the war raged on. The loss of Haul’s men continued to dwindle, falling from one hundred and fifty to only seventy. Each fallen soldier weighed heavily on Haul’s mind, and with every death his faith began to tip.

  Haul thought to himself, God, you said you would be fighting with us, but we are close to being defeated. Do not forsake us.

  Haul kept fighting, refusing to slow, but exhaustion was beginning to take its toll. Many days of war had forced his body into overdrive. His muscles screamed in protest, his breath came heavy, and his eyes grew thick with sleep. Still, the cries of his men kept him awake—though deep down he knew that soon even those cries would fall silent.

  Haul continued trying to hype his soldiers, shouting encouragement and commands, pushing them onward with sheer will. But even his voice began to falter. Even hope had its breaking point.

  Then, suddenly, a holy voice echoed within Haul’s mind.

  “Point your sword in the air and hold it there for five seconds.”

  Haul did not understand the command. It made no sense to him in the midst of slaughter and steel. But he chose to trust. He chose faith.

  He raised his sword into the air and held it there. One second passed. Then two. The weight of the blade crept into his arm, his muscles trembling violently as strain set in. His grip tightened as sweat rolled down his brow. Three seconds. Four.

  By the time the five seconds passed, his arm burned with pain.

  Then the sky opened.

  Fire poured from the heavens, raining down upon the battlefield in roaring columns of divine wrath. Thousands of enemy soldiers were consumed in an instant, their screams swallowed by flame and thunder.

  Haul and the remaining men stared in awe. The sight alone reignited their spirits. It was enough to drive them onward. They pushed past their limits, striking harder, killing faster, fighting with renewed ferocity and efficiency.

  Haul cried out to his men, his voice carrying across the carnage.

  “As you see, that is the power of fate on our side! Do not lose hope! Keep pushing until the bitter end!”

  Across the battlefield, Julius watched as thousands of his men burned alive. Rage twisted his expression into something monstrous. He pointed toward one of his captains and seized him by the neck, lifting him slightly off the ground.

  “How hard is it to kill seventy men?” Julius snarled. “This excuse of an army is an embarrassment to House Crucivar. The Cross of the Watchful Eye will have your head if you do not kill that fucking commoner.”

  Julius released the captain, shoving him away.

  “Get out of my sight.”

  He continued watching as Eamon and Haul cut through soldiers with what looked like heavenly grace. Their blades moved with purpose, every strike precise and merciless. Julius’s face twisted sour.

  “Eamon,” he muttered. “The man who has never lost a battle. Is this the day that changes?”

  As the war dragged on, Haul’s army was reduced further and further, until only ten men remained standing. Julius raised his hand high above the battlefield and bellowed with authority.

  “Stop fighting!”

  The clash of steel ceased. The battlefield fell silent.

  Julius dismounted from the hill and walked down toward them, his garments dragging across the ground with an unsettling, deliberate grace. When he reached the small, battered army, he stopped and smiled.

  “Fate has spoken, Haul Blackmoor. You have lost. Surrender now, and the rest of your men will live.”

  Haul stared back at him, unwavering.

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  “I will not forsake the people of my kingdom,” Haul said, “and I will not allow you to trick my men. If I die, I die fighting for what I believe in.”

  Julius yawned.

  “Such boring morals,” he replied. “To gain power, you must sacrifice everything and everyone. That is the nature of power. I have killed countless innocents and offered them to the Watchful Eye. That is power.”

  Haul narrowed his eyes.

  “That sigil… the Watchful Eye.”

  Julius smiled wider.

  “Indeed. A powerful god that demands sacrifice.”

  Haul raised his sword and pointed it at Julius.

  “I’m done talking. Fight me here and now. If I win, you leave and end this war.”

  Julius chuckled.

  “A gamble. I do love those. But I will not fight you—I will fight him.”

  He pointed directly at Eamon.

  Haul immediately stepped forward. “You fight me.”

  Eamon placed his arm across Haul’s chest and looked him directly in the eyes.

  “It would be an honor to fight for your freedom, my lord.”

  Haul hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  “Very well. I will not steal that from you.”

  Eamon bowed respectfully, then leveled his sword at Julius.

  “This ends now.”

  Julius smiled. “I agree.”

  Julius unsheathed his blade and bowed in return. Then they clashed.

  Steel rang out as both men met in combat. They were evenly matched, each strike blocked, each dodge precise. Their footwork was flawless, their movements honed by years of battle. Eamon’s wounds did not slow him, nor did his exhaustion distract him from the task at hand.

  When Julius attacked wide, Eamon saw the opening. He drove his elbow into Julius’s face, blood spraying as Julius’s nose broke. In the same motion, Eamon slashed Julius’s arm, carving a deep wound.

  Julius staggered back.

  “That was dirty,” he sneered. “I didn’t know we were fighting dirty. Well, in that case—”

  Eamon kept his guard up, refusing to answer.

  Julius cut his wrists without hesitation and began chanting an ancient ritual. Blood poured freely as he smeared it along his blade. The sword began to glow with a deep crimson hue.

  Eamon watched in horror.

  Who is this guy?

  Julius’s body began to glow red as power surged through him.

  “Feast upon the power of the Watchful Eye!” Julius roared.

  He charged.

  His speed was no longer human. Eamon couldn’t track him. Julius slammed into Eamon with overwhelming force, sending him flying across the battlefield. Julius laughed as he chased after Eamon’s flailing body.

  Eamon tried to stop himself by digging his blade into the ground, but it was futile. His body jolted forward as Julius caught him by the neck.

  Julius sneered down at him with disdain as Eamon coughed up blood.

  “I thought you don’t lose.”

  Julius swung him through the air and slammed him into the ground again and again.

  Half-conscious and broken, Eamon’s body screamed in agony—but his mind did not waver. He thought of the man he was fighting for.

  “I WILL SEE HIS DREAM FULFILLED!” Eamon roared.

  Against all odds, he pushed Julius back. With a surge of strength, he drove his fist into Julius’s face. Julius stumbled.

  Eamon stood there, blood pouring from his wounds, his body slumped but his fist raised.

  “I don’t need a sword to kill you.”

  Julius threw his head back and laughed, arms raised as blood streamed down his face. His grin was wide and feral.

  He charged again.

  This time, Eamon saw him.

  Eamon cocked his fist back and struck with everything he had. The blow sent Julius crashing upside down into the ground. Eamon mounted him and began pounding his face again and again—until Julius caught his fist.

  Julius crushed it.

  Bones shattered. Eamon screamed as his hand twisted unnaturally, the sound of destruction echoing through him.

  Julius kicked him away. Eamon crashed into the dirt as his armor fell apart around him.

  Julius paced arrogantly from side to side.

  “What’s wrong, Eamon?” he mocked. “Scared? Well, you should be.”

  Eamon stood again—bloodied, broken, riddled with open wounds and shattered bones. Still, he refused to fall. He charged once more, fighting for Enora, for his king.

  As the battle dragged on, Eamon realized the truth.

  Julius was growing stronger.

  Julius struck him with full force. Eamon couldn’t dodge. He was sent flying like an arrow across the battlefield.

  Haul watched in horror.

  I will not stand by and watch him die.

  Haul charged forward, cutting down anyone who stood in his way. Julius turned toward him and smiled.

  “Looky here.”

  Haul roared as he charged straight at Julius.

  Julius grabbed his own eyes and laughed madly. “I will evolve beyond humanity thanks to you, Haul Blackmoor!”

  He tore them out as blood poured down his face, then charged headlong into Haul. The force of their clash cracked the ground and split the sky.

  Haul kicked off Julius and charged back in, but Julius dodged every slash with inhuman precision.

  Behind them, Eamon forced himself back to his feet. Blood covered him. His body barely obeyed him as he watched Haul fight.

  A tear ran down his face.

  He would risk his life for me. No king would do such a thing… but Haul Blackmoor is no ordinary king.

  Eamon staggered forward, rejoining the fight. He watched as their battle shattered earth and sky alike. When he closed the distance, he reached for the dagger lodged in his side—a spare blade he kept in case he lost his sword.

  He drew it back and stabbed Julius in the back.

  Haul saw the opening.

  He drove his blade into Julius’s stomach and sliced upward. Julius tried to hold the blade down, snarling.

  “You will not beat me. I refuse to lose to a commoner like yourself!”

  Haul kept slicing upward as Eamon stabbed again and again.

  Silence fell upon the world.

  Haul and Eamon collapsed to the ground as the Battle of the Great Houses came to an end.

  Julius lay on the battlefield, cleaved in two.