Chapter 10: The Iron Judge.

My heart hammers against my ribs as we huddle in the shadows of the crumbling ruin. Through gaps in the broken stone walls, I glimpse General Lorentine stalking towards our pathetic hideout, a predator closing in for the kill. His expression cold, calculating and devoid of compassion as he surveys our refuge with contempt. I know that look—it’s the certain gaze of a Dacii master planning the inevitable capture of our fortress. Lorentine’s thin smile offers no comfort, only the promise of a challenge he believes long since conquered.

His reputation slithers before him like a shadow. In the back-alleys and taverns of the city, they call him the Iron Judge, the Sovereign’s blade of justice. Countless rebellions have been shattered under his decisive strikes, their proud leaders brought low, begging for mercy at his boots. It’s said he was the architect of the Siege of Sandfall, where he obliterated an entire resistance without shedding a drop of his own men's blood. Military academies study his strategies, taverns murmur his name in dread, and battlefields quake at his coming.

Now he stands in the stark white uniform of the Sovereign’s elite, his tunic embroidered with medals that glitter like gilded warnings in the morning light. His hand rests light on the pommel of his sheathed sword, a silent promise of the violence to come. This man—no, this myth given mortal form—radiates power.

“I knew the Null were selfish.” Lorentine's voice resonates, laced with mockery. “But I never imagined their envy would lead them to try and destroy Amenion.”

I draw in a deep breath, the hot, moist air of the island filling my lungs. As I exhale, a slow and deliberate stream of air escapes my lips, an attempt to settle the heart beating a tattoo against my chest.

Lorentine stalks towards where he hide. “Before we created Amenion from the ashes, the Vardos had turned the world into a hellscape. Scores of people died from war, or famine or disease. Now? Now in the city there are theaters and music. Art and banquets. Yes there are the poor, those who make bad choice after bad choice and squander their opportunities. But there is also the successful, those who have risen from the downtrodden to climb the tower. Who hold positions of power, and do not lack for delicacies, beautiful women or good company.”

Balen cracks his knuckles, and a vein pulses in his neck, his chest heaving in barely-contained rage. His glare towards the General burns with promise. I lay a steady hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with him in a silent plea for restraint. “Wait, Balen. Don’t let him goad us.”

He gives me a jerky nod. Jarek is dead quiet. His stares at the ruins deeper in, as if calculating the odds of running for it. The twins, Tomas and Meli, stand behind us, poised with hands on their daggers, as if ready to go down fighting. Lika has set aside her book, and chin in her hand, is staring at the ground.

Lorentine stops, and stands in a clearing, facing us. “And yet you scavengers as you call yourselves, would bring this city of wonder to its knees. You would take us back to the dark ages. Ask yourselves, oh brave scavengers. Are you trying to pull yourselves up, or pull everyone down to you?”

Lika strides up to me. “We need a strategy, Vardos,” she says. Even she calls me by my blood rather than my name.

But before I can reply, Jarek moves.With a ragged gasp, he lurches to his feet and lunges into the open, hands lifted in desperation. “I surrender! I have information!”

Shock slams through me at his sudden break. We exchange stunned looks, the bitter tang of betrayal hanging unspoken between us—how could he do this?

Balen spits in disgust, knuckles white on his sword hilt. “Coward!” he hisses, lips peeled back from his teeth. Lika shakes her head beneath the shadow of her hood, face unreadable as ever. Olly’s eyes widen, looking to me in dismay.

Anger blooms in my chest, a fiery wave lapping at my heart as Jarek begs to give us all up. Yet, beneath the sting of his betrayal, is a reluctant understanding. He’s a pragmatist, a survivor playing the only card he has left.

My thoughts race, grasping for options, as Jarek shuffles into the open with his shoulders hunched and head bowed. Lorentine's scarred face twists as the scavenger approaches.

Loretine shakes his head, and sighs. "As you well know, in Dacii half your pieces must fall before you can surrender. " His lips curl to bare gleaming white teeth. “Therefore I must reject your offer and insist you play on.”

Jarek licks his lips, a tremor in his voice. "The laws don’t let you execute us if we submit willingly. You can’t do it." But even as he speaks, his defiance withers under Lorentine's glare.

Lorentine tilts his head, dismissive. “The law? In this realm, I do not enforce, because I am the designer. Laws follow my actions, not the other way around.” He flicks his hand, and a guard thrusts a sword into Jarek's trembling grip, then pushes him towards the General.

I wipe the sweat from my eyes. Balen is muttering to himself, stomping around with his dagger clenched in his grip. I have to do something, something to get us out of here.

I force myself to look—truly look—at Lorentine. Not the myth or the legend, but this Sovereign who weighs our lives. He stands straight and tall, his white uniform pinned with medals that gleam in the light. His cloak ripples in the breeze, falling around the pommel of his sword. Lorentine's reputation may have taken on a life of its own, but it began with the man. He’s real and real things bleed, can be killed, even if they say he is immortal. Essence, power, surrounds him like an avalanche.

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What chance does Jarek have, truly? A skilled fighter, yes, and brave in his own way, but still just a Null. Lorentine is a Sovereign. The chasm between the two is like the gap between a candle stub and the sun.

Yet Jarek advances, jaw clenched, and doubt must be wrestling with his desire to survive. He stares at the blade in his hand, the once-smooth metal marred by scratches and notches from past battles. To him it will seem like a toy against Lorentine.

The General draws a golden vial from his cloak, and drinks from it. At my side, my comrades shift uneasily.

Jarek paces forward until only a few strides separate them, steeling himself. He hefts the borrowed blade with practiced familiarity, falling into a fighter's stance—feet set apart, weight balanced, sword angled across his body. A skilled warrior prepared to sell his life dearly.

An ordinary man might think twice about facing him. As Jarek lunges forward, his blade carving a precise arc through the air, Lorentine lifts an open hand.

Time itself seems to warp and bend around the sword, aging the metal. In moments the blade corrodes into rust, crumbling away to nothing but flakes that fall through Jarek’s fingers.

I suck in a gasp. Lorentine wields powers beyond even the stories about him. Then, almost as an afterthought, the General curls his fingers. Time rewinds its course around the blade. The metal reforms from rust to pitted iron to shining steel, the sword made whole once again. It clatters to the stones at Jarek's feet.

"Retrieve your blade. Your turn is far from over." This a predator toying with its prey, and Jarek is an afterthought. He’s demonstrating his power for us.

Jarek’s throat bobs as he swallows, but he stoops to reclaim the blade with a glower. I’ll say Jarek is many things, but not a coward.

Jarek lunges, and this time Lorentine parries. Where Jarek is competent, Lorentine flows with preternatural grace. Their blades clash in ringing violence, but Jarek's strikes, no matter how quick or well-aimed, are flicked aside. Lorentine wields his weapon with clockwork precision and blinding speed, each step and swing calculated.

Around me the other’s faces twist. Eyes widen, mouths part slightly, as if they’re finding it hard to breathe. The awe of Lorentine's raw power drains to despair, because now we’ve seen it, and it’s undeniable. The General is an immortal and we are dust.

When we first met Balen, we had hope, hope of treasure that would free each of us from our own hard lives. That hope has led us to something even worse.

The ringing clash of blades speeds to a frantic crescendo. Lorentine draws out the game, blade flickering to counter each strike before it even forms. He dances at the edge of Jarek's reach, expression bemused as he spectates his own victory.

Then, in a move both dreadful and inevitable, the General strikes. A viper lunging, he steps inside Jarek's swing and touches his chest with an open palm. Jarek's body withers and ages, flesh hanging slack, hair bleaching white. Time bends to Lorentine's power, decades leeching away Jarek’s life.

Bile surges in me. We can’t do anything to this man. W

Jarek's once strong limbs and warrior's frame slacken with febility. The blade dangles from his shriveled hands. I stare, appalled, hopeless. An old man, aged far beyond his years, Jarek wobbles. But he summons the last of his strength to lift his sword in a final act of defiance. Even at the end, Jarek refuses to yield.

Lorentine considers him with detached interest, a scholar studying a new insect. He raises his sword with measured calm. The blade slices the air, its arc graceful and precise.

Jarek’s death arrives in a single elegant stroke, and his lined face registers no surprise, only sad acceptance. He crumples limply, head lolling.

I stare at Jarek’s body, bile scorching my throat. Lorentine stoops to wipe his pristine blade clean on the tattered hem of Jarek’s shirt, and his casual dismissal of the man stokes my anger. I wanted to kill Jarek myself, but he deserved far better than to be cast aside like filth.

Balen stands stuck to the spot, staring at Jarek’s body, fists clenched so tigh that his knuckles turn white. His breaths come in ragged gasps.

Lika is motionless, her eyelids closed, her lips quivering as she mouths silent words. I’m not sure what she’s saying, but I hope it’s a curse she’s read in her books. A curse to strike the General down where he stands, rot his body from the inside out. When she opens her eyes again, they’re hard as flint striking steel.

Olly's glasses have slipped down his nose, but he makes no move to adjust them. "Even if he was a six-damned thug, he didn't deserve that," he says.

The twins, Tomas and Meli, stand close to each other, their faces impassive, their hands twitching to their weapons.

Jarek's final act of defiance - that last, desperate swing of his sword -. It was the act of a man who knew the odds and yet chose to face them head-on.

Lorentine turns away from Jarek’s fallen form without a backward glance, surveying our ragtag band with an air of boredom. “Another match concludes, as they inevitably do,” he says, almost philosophically. “Still, we play in the hope of being surprised.”

The General’s words are lazy, detached, giving no hint of his mastery over time and death. Jarek is already dismissed from thought.

He looks to where we hide. 'Now, which pieces will you field first?' His voice drips with anticipation as he turns in a slow, deliberate circle.

At my side, Balen quivers like a bowstring drawn taut. “He's a monster,” he says. “He’s a void beast if I’ve ever seen one. I’ll put him down.” His hand drifts toward his weapon, eyes fixed on Lorentine.

I catch Olly’s gaze, a silent message passing between us. If Balen tries to sprint for the General, it’ll be the end for us all. We need to keep him in check.

As I reach for Balen, the ground beneath us trembles. An inhuman roar, deep and guttural, erupts from the earth below. From the direction where Olly and I had found the cavern with the massive obsidian pyramid.

Balen pales, his bravado faltering. 'By the six, I didn’t bloody mean it!' he says, stepping back..

The roar grows louder, the vibrations in the ground intensifying. Heading towards them, even Lorentine pauses, his head tilting.

It’s the roar of a real bloody void beast. Adrenaline courses through me, a wild idea forming. Balen looks at me, and I give him a daring grin, my voice low. 'It’ll make a better tale if you did. How about we set these two void beasts against each other?'