Aurelius was still watching Attila with that same devilish smile. The air between them crackled with tension. Slowly, deliberately, he clasped his hands behind his back. The dim light of the hall only made the glint in his eyes more ominous. He stepped forward—like an executioner with infinite patience, like a fox closing in on its prey. He began to speak, his voice velvet-smooth, yet laced with the sharpness of hidden malice.
"Normally... battlefields are full of dust, blood, sweat, and fools. Not quite my kind of place. I prefer palaces—where decisions are made in shadows, and daggers strike unseen."
He took another step, never looking away from the dimming white light on Attila's forehead.
"But look at this... Because of you, I'm forced to take part in this brutish spectacle, where swords do the talking. And frankly..."
He gave a dismissive shrug, throwing a mocking smile into the air.
"...someone should pay for this. And I do love justice, Attila. Especially when it's me delivering it. There's a certain... exquisite satisfaction to it."
Attila said nothing. His gaze remained locked on Aurelius, unblinking. The tension between them felt sharp enough to crack the stone beneath their feet. Then, with a slight tilt of his head and a faint, mocking curve to his lips, Attila finally spoke—his voice calm, even friendly, but threaded with hidden thorns.
"As my father mentioned in his letter... We are men who strive for order and justice, Aurelius."
He took a short breath and lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly.
"But you don't seem particularly fond of me."
The words cut through the air like a well-placed knife. In the distance, Ebren let out a restrained chuckle, though the mood remained taut. Aurelius tilted his head just slightly, meeting Attila's eyes without blinking. A crooked smile curled on his lips, shaped by the air of a haughty philosopher who knew a dark secret. His voice was cold, yet carried a mocking warmth, like someone who was secretly amused.
"Our definitions of justice differ, Attila."
Aurelius slid a hand over the fabric of his cloak, brushing his shoulder as his gaze trailed up from Attila's feet to his eyes.
"Yours… tends to contradict mine."
He dipped his head ever so slightly as he said this, like a teacher peering down at a misbehaving student. Attila's eyes narrowed, but the corner of his lips twitched with a knowing smirk, as if he could feel the storm gathering before anyone else.
Meanwhile, Belisarius was slowly striding toward Ebren, locking eyes with him. Without a word, he hurled his sword like a spear once more, aiming straight for Ebren's chest.
Ebren burst into laughter the moment he heard the sword slicing through the air. There was a wild, mocking glee in his voice.
"Still the same trick? How many more times do I have to show you it doesn't work, Belisarius?"
With a swift flick of his wrist, Ebren spun his sword in a single hand. As the airborne blade met his own, a piercing metallic shriek rang out. Victory was his again, he swatted the flying sword aside. But this time... something was off. He felt it, even if he realized it too late.
He had been fooled. The danger wasn't in the sword.
A shadow lunged into his periphery — sharp, sudden — Belisarius.
Before Ebren could fully turn, the giant man's arm swung through the air like a thunderbolt. The back of his hand struck Ebren's jaw with brutal force. His head snapped back, his feet left the ground. For a moment, his body arced through the air like a broken arrow before crashing across the chamber.
"Ugh!" The sound tore from Ebren's chest as though a stone had struck him square in the ribs.
He landed by the wall, knees hitting the floor first. His sword skidded a few paces away. Dust swirled in the air as Belisarius was already moving again, his steps slow and deliberate, echoing across the marble.
Ebren, dazed from the impact, braced a hand against the floor and pushed himself up. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The grin he so often wore was gone.
No more jokes.
Only the cold, killing light burned in his eyes now. He stretched out a hand — the sword lying on the floor shivered, then soared into the air, answering its master's call. His fingers gripped the hilt like iron.
Directly in front of him, Belisarius approached with monstrous calm. A wicked grin spread across the general's face.
"What's the matter, clown?"
His voice was thick with contempt, every word dripping with scorn.
"That disgusting grin of yours… gone already?"
Ebren stood still, unmoving as stone, his eyes locked and unblinking. He said nothing. He simply tightened his grip on his sword — then suddenly, with all the strength in his body, he charged forward.
As he ran, he hurled his sword upward, as if casting it to the wind.
Belisarius saw him coming and sneered, his lips curling as if to say, "Come on then, you little insect." But just as Ebren reached him, instead of striking, he dropped low and threw himself forward, sliding between Belisarius's legs in one fluid, coiled motion.
Belisarius began to turn but at that moment, Ebren stretched his fingers upward.
The sword, still spinning in the air, suddenly responded like lightning let loose. It did not fall into Ebren's hand instead, it soared forward on a trajectory behind him, aimed directly at Belisarius's back.
A shriek of metal echoed through the chamber as the blade tore through the air.
The armor on Belisarius's back split cleanly in two, as though it were made of parchment. The sword embedded itself deeply and then, with a sudden twist of magic, it ripped free and flew back into Ebren's waiting hand.
Belisarius staggered forward a step. His shoulders tensed. His breath hitched.
The torn armor, the gash across his massive back — they screamed that the fight was far from over. Ebren said nothing.
Only his eyes spoke now ,sharp and silent, like a wolf in the dark: "I'm still here."