The desert night was still, the wind's soft whistle the only sound. Silas, Rowan, Layla, and their allies had walked for hours, the barren landscape offering neither comfort nor cover. The moon cast a soft glow over the golden sand and the distant stone structure ahead—a simple, unassuming hideout that blended seamlessly into the rocky desert. Its dull facade gave nothing away, no hint of the horrors that lay within.

Dean motioned for the group to stop as they neared the entrance, a large stone door illuminated by the light. It was inconspicuous, precisely the kind of place one would pass without a second thought.

The captured slaver broke the tense silence, “This is it.”

Silas looked around, his brow furrowing. The area was eerily silent, too silent. No guards patrolled it, and there were no signs of movement anywhere. The hideout itself was inconspicuous, but it was well-illuminated from the inside. He looked at Rowan and Layla, who exchanged concerned glances but said nothing.

Silas nodded at the group, stepping back and allowing Breeze to swirl up around him. The spirit’s wind wrapped around his frame, lifting him raggedly into the air. Silas floated upwards, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings as he peered through his monocular. He swept it across the area—nothing. Not a single guard or watchman in sight.

Landing softly, Silas shook his head. “It’s dead quiet. No patrols, no lookouts. Weird.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Rowan muttered, glancing at the hideout. “They can’t be this careless…Are they that confident no one will find this place?”

“Or maybe they’ve just gotten cocky.” Layla added, her eyes narrowing.

Dean pondered for a bit but then shrugged. “Either way, we’ll need to go with the plan. No need to be a hero just hold them enough for me to provide an opening. When Silas strikes, we’ll reverse the tides of battle then.”

The group nodded in agreement, falling back into their discussed roles. With Breeze at his side, Silas floated back up into the air, silently hovering above. The rest of the group spread out, positioning themselves strategically around the entrance to keep the slavers from overwhelming them all at once.

The bound slaver was the first to hide in a sand dune nearby so as not to be caught by his comrades who had now betrayed him. His fate would be miserable if he was to be found. The group gave no damn about his reaction.

Dean stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his expression grim as he neared the entrance. His voice rang out, cutting through the night like a blade.

“ARIYEH DAM!” Dean’s shout echoed across the rocky landscape, loud enough to rattle the walls of the hideout. “I challenge you to musāmaḥa—a duel to the death! He let the weight of his words hang in the air. “Face me, if you dare!”

Meanwhile, inside the hideout, the mood was a world apart from the tense stillness outside. The slavers, oblivious to the looming threat, drowned themselves in revelry… Some sat in a circle, gnawing on roasted meat, while others slammed their mugs together in a drunken haze. A handful of men huddled around a small table, tossing coins as they played cards, laughter spilling from their lips.

In a darker corner of the hideout, far from the noise, a muscular man sat with a young woman. She was stripped bare, her body trembling as she tried to push him away. The man, unfazed, grinned as his hands roamed her skin, pulling her back each time she resisted. Tears streamed down her face as she cried, trying to turn away, but his grip was like iron. When she struggled harder, he slapped her hard across the face, the sound echoing off the stone walls and drawing blood from her lips. “You’ll do as I say, girl,” he hissed.

But then Dean’s voice cut through the air.

“ARIYEH DAM! Show yourself!”

The man froze mid-motion, rage contorting his features. With a violent shove, he sent the woman to the floor and stormed out of the room, his voice a growl of fury as he barked orders to the other slavers.

Outside, Silas and the others could hear the sudden commotion inside the hideout. Moments later, the door burst open, and slavers began pouring out. Dean stood tall, waiting for the one who would answer his challenge.

The large, muscular man stepped forward, flanked by a dozen others. He looked at Dean, his mouth curling into a cruel smile. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But walking in here, demanding a duel? You must have a death wish.” The man’s voice was thick with mockery. “I’m Ariyeh Dam. You’ve ruined my night, so I’ll make sure your death is slow. I haven’t been challenged to musāmaḥa in a long time… I look forward to chopping you into pieces.”

Dean held his ground, his expression unchanged. “Enough talk. Let’s end this.”

“You lot! Get the other rats! Leave that bitch alive, I’ll taste her later, kill the rest!” Ariyeh Dam shouted coldly.

As Ariyeh barked orders, his men fanned out, their eyes fixed on Rowan, Layla, and the others who were scattered across the surrounding rocks. Trickster slithered into the shadows; despite his size, Goldie took his place behind a boulder while Rowan, Layla, Luther and the three Tier One Soulweavers spread themselves out to prevent the slavers from surrounding them.

There were about twenty or so slavers in total. A small group remained near Ariyeh to observe the musāmaḥa, while the others moved toward Silas’s group, brandishing their weapons with cruel grins. The odds weren’t impossible, but they were far from favourable. Rowan’s grip tightened on his sword as he exchanged glances with Layla, who flashed him a determined smile.

Ariyeh Dam grinned as he rolled his neck, cracking the bones audibly in the silence that followed Dean’s challenge. His dark eyes gleamed with anticipation as he sized Dean up. The slavers surrounding them, though ready for the coming battle, gave the two men a wide berth, understanding the sacred weight of musāmaḥa. It was an ancient Solaran tradition, and no one among them dared to interfere or Ariyeh would kill them himself.

Before they began, Ariyeh tilted his head, his voice a low growl, “You have a name, don’t you? It’s part of the rites.” His tone was mockingly ceremonial.

Dean stared back at him, unshaken, and answered calmly, “Dean Alden.”

Ariyeh’s eyes lit up with recognition, and he let out a short bark of laughter. “Dean Alden? You’re one of Countess Elara’s hounds, aren’t you?” He sneered, clearly relishing the insult. “Well, that’s just fine. I’ll kill you tonight, and tomorrow, I’ll march into Ironvale and crack that old bat’s skull myself.”

Dean’s calm demeanour faltered momentarily, and a shadow of a frown crossed his features. Ariyeh noticed, grinning wider at his reaction.

“You should drop the title of ‘Blood Lion’,” Dean said coldly. “And adopt one more fitting—‘Rabid Dog.’ That’s just what you are, a mad dog, biting anything in front of you, without a shred of reason.”

Ariyeh’s response was to throw his head back and cackle, the sound echoing through the desert air. “A rabid dog, am I? Then it’s settled! I’ll chop you into pieces and drink your blood right here! Then, I’ll stuff those pieces down that old bat’s throat!” He spat the words with venom, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

With that, the fight began.

Dean drew his sword, a gleaming steel blade that caught the moonlight. His stance was measured and steady. Ariyeh unsheathed a curved scimitar, its wicked edge flashing in the pale light as he swung it in a wide arc, testing the air. They circled each other slowly before Ariyeh lunged with surprising speed.

Dean drew his sword, a gleaming steel blade that caught the moonlight. His stance was measured and steady. Ariyeh unsheathed a curved scimitar, its wicked edge flashing in the pale light as he swung it in a wide arc, testing the air. They circled each other slowly, each using Spirit Infusion on themselves. Then Ariyeh suddenly lunged with surprising speed.

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Ariyeh’s strikes came fast and brutal—wild but with a deadly precision that kept Dean on the defensive. Dean, in contrast, moved like water, each deflection a seamless extension of his body, countering with sharp, precise cuts. Their combat also reflected their mastery—Dean, a Tier Two Soulweaver, fought with a Greater Spirit’s strength. In contrast, Ariyeh, a Tier Three, wielded the overwhelming might of a King Spirit, its spirit energy flowing through his body.

Slowly, Dean felt the weight of Ariyeh’s superiority. Each strike that met his sword rattled his bones, the overwhelming force of Ariyeh’s King Spirit threatening to crush him. His breath grew ragged, and his limbs felt heavier with each clash.

Meanwhile, Rowan and Layla were fighting just to survive.

The Tier Two Soulweaver advancing on them swung his Spirit Infused weapon with a brutal mix of speed and power, his aura crackling with spiritual energy. Rowan’s arms screamed with each parry. The weight of the Tier Two Soulweaver’s strength was crushing, and he knew his grip was slipping. Layla barely ducked under another swing, her breath ragged as she fought two guards and a Tier One Soulweaver in a deadly dance.

“This isn’t looking good!”, Layla grunted, barely managing to duck under a wide arc of the soulweaver’s blade.

“We’ve survived worse,” Rowan shouted, though the strain in his voice betrayed him. He used a Soul Bind on his opponent, but it was difficult to hold the binding. The Tier Two Soulweaver shook off Rowan’s binding techniques, pushing through with relentless attacks.

One of the guards, wielding a dagger, slipped in behind Layla, aiming for her back. Layla whirled just in time to block. The dagger grazed her arm, drawing a streak of red. Layla hissed in pain, her grip faltering for just a second—but it was enough. The Soulweaver's blade came crashing down, and she barely raised her morningstar in time to deflect the blow, the wound burning with every movement.

“Layla!” Rowan shouted, swung his blade to intercept, and forced the guard into a defensive position.

Seeing the opening, the Tier Two Soulweaver cast Soul Shackles on him, drawing in for a kill. Layla managed to kick him away just in time, but this earned her another slash on her arm by the Tier One Soulweaver.

Rowan finally broke the Soul Shackles with the help of his minor spirit. Sweat poured down his face from the effort.

Their enemies weren’t just stronger—they were better organised, working in tandem to overwhelm them. Rowan and Layla were barely holding their ground, waiting for any chance to break the stalemate, but none was coming.

Luther and Krave were in no better shape.

Luther’s sword shimmered as his two minor spirits reinforced his defences with a Soul Infusion, the blade thrumming with energy as he clashed with the Tier One Soulweaver. The Soulweaver’s weapon gleamed faintly, empowered by a single minor spirit, but Luther held the upper hand.

Every swing of his sword was met with precise resistance, his spirits granting him the strength to keep the opponent at bay. However, the two guards flanking the Soulweaver made the battle far more complex. Their weapons aimed at his weak spots, forcing Luther into a defensive dance.

Despite holding his own, cracks were forming in his concentration. A sudden strike from one of the guards nicked his shoulder; the blade grazed his inner armour.

Across the field, Krave faced a daunting challenge. His two minor spirits infused his axe, granting him savage strength, but the Tier Two Soulweaver before him wielded a Greater Spirit, a power far beyond his own. Every swing of Krave’s axe was met with a formidable slash of the opponent’s blade. Soul Shackles occasionally flickered around him, slowing his movements and underscoring the vast difference in their abilities.

“I can handle this!” Krave growled, his pride refusing to yield, but his heavy axe strikes grew sluggish, less precise, as the Tier Two Soulweaver pressed him further.

The Greater Spirit manipulated Krave’s emotions, inducing a subtle wave of despair and frustration. Krave’s swings became wilder, and the Soulweaver danced out of range, striking back with sharp, soul-infused blows. One strike landed on Krave’s forearm, the blade cutting deep, and the brief stun from the Soul Disruption staggered him.

“Krave, fall back!” Luther called, catching sight of his companion faltering even as he blocked a guard’s overhead swing. He parried a thrust from the Tier One Soulweaver, retaliating with a sharp counter that forced his enemy back.

Krave shook his head, snarling as he tried to shake off the emotional manipulation, but his legs felt heavier. Another set of Soul Shackles briefly tightened around him, causing his next swing to miss by a wide margin.

On the other hand, Danny and Cudgel were holding their ground despite being outnumbered. Danny’s sword, infused with spirit energy, flashed with power as he easily deflected the guards’ attacks. His strikes were precise, each parry followed by a counter that forced his opponents back. The guards, lightly armoured and lacking the finesse of Soulweavers, struggled to keep up with his speed. With a sudden thrust, Danny sent one stumbling to the ground, his sword slicing through the guard’s side.

His twin daggers glowing faintly from Spirit Infusion, Cudgel darted in and out of the guards’ reach. His movements were sharp and fluid, and even the Soulweaver’s attempt to bind his soul couldn’t fully restrain him. As the Tier One Soulweaver tried to cast a Soul Bind, Cudgel twisted free, his daggers finding the weak points in the guards’ armour. One guard fell to his knees, blood pouring from a deep cut across his thigh.

“We’ve got this,” Danny muttered, his confidence growing as the guards faltered.

The Soulweaver, seeing his forces dwindle, infused his own weapon with spirit energy, aiming for Danny’s exposed flank. But Cudgel was faster, sliding behind the Soulweaver and slashing across his back. The strike forced the Soulweaver to stagger forward, his focus broken. Danny seized the moment, swinging his sword in a wide arc, and the Soulweaver barely managed to parry in time, his minor spirits weakening under the relentless assault.

In the distance, Trickster and Goldie faced their own battle, but unlike the others, they were completely dominating their opponents.

The five guards surrounding them focused on Trickster, who appeared intimidating. Goldie, small and seemingly harmless beside the massive serpent, was barely registered as a threat.

In its cloudform serpent form, Trickster slithered across the golden sand, its purplish-black scales shimmering. Venomous mist trailed behind it and cloaked the guards in a dense fog and suffocated them. Their fear grew as one guard made the mistake of charging. Without warning, Trickster struck—its fangs sinking deep into the man’s side. He staggered back, clutching the wound as his veins blackened, the venom swiftly claiming his life.

Another guard swung his weapon wildly, trying to cut through the mist. Trickster coiled around him, its massive body crushing the man’s chest while the venom cloud seeped into his lungs. The guard let out a strangled gasp before collapsing, his body limp.

Sensing their doom, the remaining three backed away in fear.

But Goldie, seizing the moment, let out a mighty roar. The sound echoed through the mist, shattering their already frayed nerves. Disoriented and panicked, the guards ran straight into the cloud. Trickster lashed out again, fangs sinking into another enemy who fell, convulsing as the venom took its toll.

With only two guards left, trembling in fear, it was clear their battle wouldn’t last much longer.

At the heart of the conflict, Dean and Ariyeh were locked in a fierce and unyielding duel, each move a testament to their skill and determination.

Dean’s vision blurred as Ariyeh’s scimitar pulsed with dark energy, each strike draining more of his strength. Ariyeh’s Soul Drain was relentless, and Dean could feel his soul’s strength being syphoned away with every clash. But he couldn’t fall now—he had to hold out and create an opening for Silas.

His muscles screamed in protest with every parry. He couldn't afford to falter. One mistake here, and Ariyeh would rip through him—and the others would fall next. Gritting his teeth, he shifted his stance, forcing the duel further from the base, hoping to draw Ariyeh farther from the heart of his forces and the hostages.

With a desperate surge, Dean activated his Soul Shackles, chains of spirit energy wrapping around Ariyeh’s arms and legs, immobilising him for a brief moment. It was his chance.

“Got you,” Dean muttered, raising his sword for a decisive strike.

But Ariyeh’s mocking grin never faltered. He used Soul Vision to sense Dean’s attack’s trajectory coming and broke free of the shackles with a surge of power from his King Spirit. His scimitar slashed toward Dean’s neck, forcing Dean to abandon his strike and parry at the last second.

The outcome of the duel hung in the balance, and Dean could feel the weight of his task.

Step by step, however, Dean was succeeding in one thing—pulling Ariyeh farther from his base.

As Dean’s duel raged on, they all knew that if he could just land a decisive blow and create an opening, it would be the turning point they desperately needed.