Baronsworth, Astarte, Giovanni, and the men escorting them fought their way upward through the Sunkeep’s shadowed halls.

  The Sons of Belial contested every stair, every corridor, but they could not withstand the fury of two Asturian Highborn unleashed at last.

  Astarte’s bow sang death from the shadows; Baronsworth’s blade blazed through the press, a streak of living light in the gloom.

  Mother and son moved as one—liberation and vengeance given form—and their enemies fell before them like shadows before the dawn.

  Giovanni and his men fought hard to match their pace.

  Though no equals to the Highborn, they did not falter, cutting down those who barred the way with grim resolve.

  When any of them staggered wounded, Baronsworth was there—clearing the path with a sweep of Lightbringer, stooping amid the clash to pour healing into torn flesh, then rising again to drive onward.

  So the unlikely company climbed, leaving behind a trail of bodies in their wake.

  At last, they reached a chamber Baronsworth knew well—what had once been his father’s study.

  Memories tugged at him—the shelves lined with maps and wisdom, the hearth where they had spoken of war and dreams—but there was no time to linger.

  They passed through, mounted the narrow stair in the back, and emerged into the antechamber of the terrace.

  Their goal was near.

  And there, as Astarte had foreseen, waited their fiercest opposition yet.

  The Black Guard.

  Forty of Garathor’s chosen—his Praetorians, the finest warriors of Asturian blood, clad in blackened plate—stood in a single, unbroken line.

  At the sight of Baronsworth’s band ascending, they shifted with disciplined precision, great blades poised.

  “Hold,” their commander roared, voice like iron on stone.

  “You come no further. Drop your weapons, and mercy will be shown.”

  Baronsworth stepped forward, Lightbringer raised, its radiance answering the torches in the gloom.

  “I have no quarrel with you, Praetorian,” he said.

  “I come for the one you call master—the coward who crept in the night to steal my home and murder my father.”

  The commander tilted his head slightly, sharp eyes narrowing as understanding struck.

  “Striking in the dead of night,” he said with a level tone.

  “Much like yourself this evening, is it not, young Lord?”

  Baronsworth’s gaze did not waver.

  “Call it justice—poetic, or divine.”

  “Perhaps.” The commander’s voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

  “Yet we are sworn to our Lord. Oath-bound to guard this place, and guard it we shall. Only his word can move us. Now lay down your arms, and I will ask him to grant you mercy.”

  Then Astarte stepped forward.

  “Commander Mograine,” she said, voice carrying like a clarion call.

  “I always took you for a man of honor. Yet here you stand, barring the gods’ own justice, though it is plain as daylight that their hand has shaped all that has come to pass. Do you not see? It is they who have brought us here, to mete out judgement upon my brother.”

  Her presence filled the hall.

  Authority flowed from her like light from a flame.

  Mograine’s eyes widened.

  “Lady Astarte,” he said, bowing stiffly.

  “Forgive me. Had I known you walked among this band, I would have offered due respect.”

  Around him, the Black Guard inclined their heads in deference.

  “You offer me respect,” she answered, “but what of this man beside me?

  You dismiss him as though he were some vagrant begging at your Lord’s table.

  He is no vagabond.

  He is my son, Baronsworth—rightful Lord of Cael Athala, Caras Athalor, and all of Arthoria.

  No slaughter, no usurper’s claim can strip that from him.

  He is my blood—Highborn as I am, a child of Belial and Sophia both, by birth and right.

  If you truly hold honor and tradition sacred, Commander, then you will show him the same respect you grant me.”

  Mograine’s gaze caught the faint glow of the signet upon Baronsworth’s gauntlet.

  For a heartbeat he froze, his face hardened into marble stillness, then softened—as though some buried truth had surfaced.

  At last, the oak began to sway.

  He inclined his head.

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  “Yes, my lady,” he said, quieter now.

  “Forgive me, my lord. If I seemed dismissive, it was not my intent.

  But my duty remains.

  I am sworn to my master, and by that oath I am bound.

  He ordered us to hold this chamber, and we will do so—unto death, if need be.”

  Baronsworth opened his mouth, but Astarte stepped forward before he could speak—her words falling like hammer blows.

  “Commander Mograine, the master you serve has no honor left.

  He butchered an entire clan in the dark of night, without declaration or challenge.

  He locked his own sister in a tower for twenty years—her only crime, to speak her mind.

  He surrounds himself with cowards and flatterers who dare not tell him truth.

  He sows terror, despair, and ruin wherever he rules.”

  She looked him in the eye, her gaze seeming to pierce his very soul.

  “And you, Mograine—how long since you have seen your family?

  How old is young Merek now?”

  At that, the commander stiffened, but not from pride.

  A faint tremor passed through him, a subtle crack in the iron facade.

  Only eyes as keen as Astarte’s—or Baronsworth’s—would have seen it.

  “He will be turning seven soon.

  But how did you…?

  No matter, I fail to see what—”

  Astarte cut across him like a drawn blade.

  “The justice of the gods must be served, Mograine!

  Your master’s schemes end here.

  Such is the will of fate itself.

  Do not set yourself against it—you are better than that.

  You are the most honorable of Garathor’s knights, yet the man you serve has lost his way.

  He speaks of restoring strength to our kind, but tell me, are not the bonds of kinship and friendship the truest source of strength?

  Does not unity forge power?

  And what does your master do?

  He sows strife.

  He breeds division.

  He wages war even upon his own blood, going to monstrous lengths whenever thwarted.

  He sought to butcher his own nephew—a child—and believed the deed done.

  He has silenced and caged his own sister for twenty years.

  He keeps his most loyal soldiers—men like you—from their families for long seasons on end.

  His cause has devoured him, Mograine, until nothing remains but obsession—and in that obsession, he has bartered away his soul.”

  “Some campaigns last longer than expected. Surely—” Mograine tried weakly, but she swept over his words.

  “Campaign? What campaign, Sir Mograine?

  The campaign of terrorizing widows and orphans?

  The campaign of stripping these lands bare to fund betrayal and slaughter in the south?

  No, good knight.

  My brother’s villainy has run its course.

  Now comes his reckoning.

  The gods themselves have decreed it: they have returned my son—long thought dead—bearing their favor, to deliver judgement.”

  She drew herself up, as though casting off the long years of captivity.

  The years fell away; in her stance was the high priestess of old.

  “And none have been wronged by Garathor more than he.

  Thus he claims what is his by blood and by right: he will challenge Garathor, Lord of the Sons of Belial, to a duel—to the death.”

  Gasps rippled through the Black Guard.

  Even Mograine’s eyes widened.

  Few had ever dared to speak such words.

  For the first time, they looked on Baronsworth with something more than curiosity—they looked on him with respect.

  “Is this true, milord?” Mograine asked.

  Baronsworth stepped forward.

  “It is.”

  His voice was steady, stripped of hesitation.

  “I challenge Garathor to a duel to the death.

  The justice of the gods is upon him.

  It is time he answered for his crimes.”

  Speaking it aloud struck something deep within him—like a blade driven into stone.

  For years the weight of this reckoning had pressed on his soul; now, at last, it was set in motion.

  “So be it.” Mograine gave a single, solemn nod.

  “As a Highborn Son of Belial, the right is yours.

  I will not stand in your way.

  But if you trust the gods, young lord, call on them now—for you face more than a man.

  Garathor’s blade is death itself.

  I have seen him cut through legions like wheat before the scythe; seen the fear of him break men before a single blow was struck.

  Champions beyond counting have faced him—all brought low.

  To defeat such a man…” Mograine’s eyes locked on Baronsworth’s, steadfast.

  “You’ll need a miracle.”

  The words landed like a blow to the chest.

  For an instant, doubt bled through—the weight of Garathor’s legend, the shadow of every warrior fallen to his blade pressing in.

  But Baronsworth ground it beneath his will.

  His jaw set, and when he met Mograine’s gaze, there was no fear—only fire, fierce and unyielding.

  Mograine raised a hand.

  The Black Guard shifted as one, parting their formation.

  Two files lined the corridor, weapons lifted in silent salute, clearing the path to the spiral stair—to the terrace, and Garathor.

  “Go, young lord,” Mograine said.

  “We will hold here.

  None will disturb your duel until one of you lies dead.”

  Baronsworth turned to Astarte and embraced her.

  She clung to him fiercely, then let go.

  “It worked,” he murmured, so only she could hear.

  “Yes,” she whispered back.

  “Now go.

  Your uncle waits.

  Give him what he deserves—avenge your father, and all the innocent dead who still cry out for justice.

  The gods’ blessing is with you… and so is your mother’s, for whatever that may be worth.”

  A single tear welled in her eye, but she held it back.

  She would not show weakness now—not as her son walked to his fate.

  “Thank you, mother,” Baronsworth said quietly.

  “Go.

  Take Giovanni and his men—reinforce our allies below.

  They’ll need you.

  I will face Garathor, and tomorrow a new dawn will rise over these lands—one where none live in fear, and the dead may finally rest.”

  “The Bringer of Dawn,” she whispered—not merely a name, but a blessing, as if she crowned him with the words.

  She smiled through the tears she could no longer contain.

  “May it be so.”

  Then her voice steadied, firm as steel wrapped in love.

  “Whatever comes tonight, remember this, my son: I love you.

  I thank the gods for granting me this last moment with you.

  I will see you again—here, or beyond.

  And if despair should find you… above all else, trust your heart.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  Giovanni stepped forward, bowing his head.

  “Good luck, milord.

  Avenge your father—and all of us wronged by Garathor.

  End this nightmare.

  Do not fear for your mother’s safety—we’ll guard her with our lives.

  It is the least I can do to repay Lord Godfrey.”

  Baronsworth gave him a curt nod.

  Astarte signaled, and she and the others withdrew, their footsteps fading down the stairwell until he was alone.

  He drew a long breath and turned towards the path cleared by the Black Guard.

  Sword in hand, he walked forward.

  For years, he had dreamed of this night—of returning home to set all wrongs right.

  But now, at the brink, dread coiled in his gut.

  Could he survive this?

  Garathor was no ordinary foe; all he had heard spoke of a warrior unmatched, a living legend.

  His hands trembled despite himself.

  A voice within whispered treasonous thoughts: Take Alma.

  Leave this war.

  Find peace among the mountains, or some distant shore.

  Forget vengeance.

  But he let them go.

  There would be no hiding.

  If Garathor lived, darkness would swallow all—every forest, every shore.

  He could not run.

  He forced his hands still, forced his mind to focus.

  Twenty years had led to this.

  He had prayed to gods he barely believed in—and they had answered.

  Fate had brought him here; now he would see it through.

  He would face his uncle, defeat him, and prove himself the better man.

  “Milord,” Mograine’s voice broke the silence behind him.

  Baronsworth turned.

  “If I may… one thing.”

  The commander’s face was carved from stone, yet a flicker of raw humanity shone in his voice.

  “Please—win.

  Lord Garathor will likely take my head for this—though I care little, for I made peace with death long ago.

  But I would see my son once more before I leave this world.

  So win, young lord.

  You must.

  For if you fall, many far less guilty than I will pay the price.

  My prayers go with you.”

  Baronsworth inclined his head.

  “Fear not, Commander Mograine.

  The Sun will rise again.”

  Mograine bowed in return, and though his face remained stern, emotion glimmered in his eyes.

  The support of such a man—a soldier forged in loyalty and renown—struck deep within Baronsworth.

  He drew another breath, steadier now, and whispered a final prayer: to Sophia, to the Creator, to all the unseen powers of Light.

  Then he climbed, alone, toward the terrace—and his fate.

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