"Would you care to take me to a duel?" Those were the words Solas spoke to Vargra—and she had accepted them with the faintest smirk on her lips.
Now, the wind moved softly, brushing against their hair, eyes locked in silent challenge. Solas stared into the abyss of her pale gray eyes. She, into the endless sky of his icy blue.
They stood out in the field not far from the camp, near the edge of the treeline. Swords drawn, pointed at one another.
Soft breathing. Complete focus.
Vargra held her blade with both hands—a flamberge, wicked and mesmerizing. Its serpentine edge shimmered like frozen fire, each ripple along the blade catching light in jagged gleams. It wasn't merely a weapon—it was domination forged in steel, meant to ruin and command with every strike. The hilt and crossguard were shrouded in dark iron, like something pulled from shadow.
Solas stood with one foot forward, the other back—saber held in a fencer's grip.
One hand forward, the other behind. His curved blade glinted gold under the sun, light running down its length like a river of fire.
Both seasoned by years of battle, Solas had mastered the refined art of fencing, dominating every opponent with poised precision. Vargra, by contrast, was a creature of brutal elegance—honed by bloodied duels and hard-won victories, her blade claiming the lives of all who stood in her path.
The wind blew softly—
Then it stopped.
Nothing.
Vargra moved. No roar, no signal—only silent intent. Her flamberge sliced the air with a low hum, sweeping downward with crushing force.
Solas pivoted.
His saber skimmed the jagged edge of her blade like water off stone, redirecting her strike with a dancer's grace. Their weapons didn't clash—they whispered past each other, testing precision over power.
Vargra struck again without pause, sweeping her blade toward where Solas stood.
He leapt—light as a rabbit clearing a fallen log.
And landed.
On her sword.
His weight pressed it down like a felled tree, forcing her balance low as he stood above her, his saber aimed at her face. A sharp smirk curled on his lips, his head tilted back like an eagle descending before a wolf.
"Careful. If I press too hard, the weight of your pride might snap the blade."
But Vargra didn't respond. She thrust her hilt upward, jarring his footing and forcing him to leap back to avoid falling.
Before his boots touched ground, her blade was already there—at the nape of his neck.
Its cold edge kissed his skin, nudging his white curls aside like snow brushed from stone.
She grinned, mirroring the smirk he'd given her.
"My, my. You should've acted when you had the chance," she said, voice brimming with amusement.
He smiled back, unfazed.
"Where's the fun in that? Isn't it more thrilling to play with one's opponent?"
"Only when victory is certain."
She lowered her sword, then slowly turned it and slid it into its sheath with a soft click that echoed faintly in the air.
"Come. Let me show you where you'll rest for the night," she said, her voice still carrying the fading traces of excitement.
She had enjoyed their spar—that much, Solas could tell.
With a quiet breath, he swept his own sword outward in an elegant arc before sheathing it. Another soft click. His sheath hung from a narrow brown belt strapped just beneath his navel, cleanly fitted to his frame.
He stepped forward to follow her, but—
He paused.
A presence.
Something… watching.
Solas turned his head sharply toward the treeline, eyes narrowing at the spot where the feeling had rooted itself in his spine.
The forest seemed still at first.
Then—a rustle.
A bush stirred near a tree trunk, followed by the scurry of something—or someone—retreating, lost to the shadows before he could catch a glimpse.
And then—
A glow.
The symbol on his hand had begun to shine, faint at first, then bright—brighter than before.
He raised it slowly, examining the light.
Strange…
But he didn't linger. Not now.
He turned and began to walk, quickening his pace to catch up with Vargra as she moved back toward the camp—unaware of what had stirred just beyond the trees…
***
Chatter drifted through the camp—knights exchanging words, laughter ringing out in scattered bursts. The camp was now fully assembled. Some were putting on finishing touches; others simply enjoyed the moment of calm.
Solas walked beside Vargra, who took purposeful shortcuts through the camp until they reached what appeared to be the common sleeping grounds. Rows of singular tents, large enough to house five women each, stretched in tight formation. Crowded. Practical.
But soon, they left that area behind.
They arrived at a more secluded part of the camp. Here, the tents were fewer, spaced far enough apart that one could sleep without hearing another's breath or snore. Clearly reserved for officers—or those of higher standing.
Vargra led him to a tent facing outward, toward the open grassland beyond. She stepped past its side and stood before the entrance, then turned to him with a quiet gesture toward the tent flap.
"You'll be resting here for the night."
Solas took in the view, then looked at her with a mild, knowing smirk.
"Quite the stay for someone of my kind. Are you sure of this gesture?" His voice was soft—measured and elegant, as always.
Vargra didn't miss a beat.
"We both know that's a lie."
That brought a subtle smile to his lips.
"Someone of your standard—and the way you've carried yourself before everyone, especially me—you've earned this stay."
"Then I graciously accept your offer."
"Good," she said, turning to leave—but after a few steps, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "When the moon rises, you're to meet at the command tent. Don't be late."
"Very well," he said with a soft nod, moving the tent flap aside as he stepped inside.
The interior was small but cozy.
To the right, a twin-sized bed rested near the tent wall, a wooden crate beside it with a small lamp casting a soft, warm glow. On the left stood an armor rack and a sword stand, bare and waiting. Simple. Purposeful.
He unhooked his saber, placing it on the stand with deliberate care. Then came the belt—folded neatly, set beside the lamp.
A quiet sigh left him as he sat on the edge of the bed, eyes drifting upward to the peak of the tent. A faint curl tugged at his lips.
He'd come far.
From waking alone in a foreign forest with nothing but his name, to now—respected, feared, recognized. He'd scaled this world's ladder far faster than anyone should've.
And he enjoyed that fact.
His gaze lowered to the saber, still and gleaming in the dim light. It pulled his thoughts backward—to a different time, a different life.
Fencing had always been more than a sport to him. Not the blade, but the rhythm. The reading of intent. The art of control.
He remembered being a boy, swinging kitchen knives like swords. Going outside and slashing the bark trees, if he were in a fight.
He remembered, too, the match.
The boy whose left arm he'd disabled. The lie he told to escape punishment. An accident, he'd claimed. But it wasn't.
Hours passed. Thoughts circled. Plans took shape.
***
The sky dimmed as the day took its final breath—a soft orange hue stretching across the western horizon, fading like an ember.
From the east, night emerged in full, the moon rising like a sentinel, casting silver and white light where the sun's warmth had died.
Solas stepped out of the tent, the night air brushing his face. His saber stayed at his side as he made his way to the command tent.