Bedwyr paced in front of Erec, a wooden sword gripped in his hand; they were in the depths of his estate, a small training hall. Which was in all actuality… Just a long disused parlor with a fine wooden floor that Erec had thrown a rack with sparring weapons into and called a day.

After revealing that he’d met their mother, his brother hadn’t had the best reaction. Bedwyr demanded that they come here to test their metal against one another in the fallout of that all-too-brief conversation and its revelations. Or, in this case, wood. All of this, instead of breaking down their real issue, which was that their mother ran away in fear.

Erec had tried, but Bedwyr didn’t want to hear it. No. Not in a mood like this.

“Tell me her exact words,” Bedwyr demanded.

“I don’t have her exact words,” Erec replied, “And they don’t matter. We both know that actions speak louder than what she might say—she ran away instead of fighting for the kingdom, for us. For her family. All on the words of people that aren’t even human.”

“Yet you refuse to tell me what she is so afraid of.” Bedwyr’s eyes grew dark, and he gave the wooden sword in his hand a practice swing.

“That I cannot tell you. Not now.”

“I am the older brother; even if we put that aside, I have as much right to know as you. Don’t I? Why did she leave Erec? What was she afraid of?” That hate swirled in Bedwyr’s face. The same bottled feeling echoed in Erec as he thought of his meeting with their mother.

“She’s a coward.” Erec spat back.

If only he could tell Bedwyr, could say to him the details of what their mother had run from. But he knew. More than anyone, he knew that the why didn’t change the results of what she’d done. To tell his brother wouldn’t make these feelings better; it would just put Bedwyr at risk at a time when Erec couldn’t defend him. But his brother refused to see that, couldn’t see that. Not yet.

To think how the times had turned.

“You persist, then I suppose I shall find my answer in this fight,” Bedwyr said.

“I promise you, even if you knew, it wouldn’t make you happy. Nothing can replace the hole she left in our family. No matter what excuse she might yield, and believe me, she did. She hefted it like a shield. The only people we have are one another. She isn’t coming back—it would have been better if she died out there instead of what she did.”

“Take. It. Back.” Bedwyr growled, then cut through their conversation. Literately. He slammed forward through the space between them, wooden sword slashing at Erec.

It was a sloppy, overhead swing, which Erec caught with his practice axe. Still, the weight of the blow made his arm numb—not an easy feat. He pushed his brother off and gave him a weary look. With a skill like his brothers—balanced growth—for such a sloppy attack to be so strong was concerning. Not many people came close to Erec’s Strength, and though he was confident that attack wasn’t his equal… Who knew what the rest of Bedwyr’s skillset had evolved to?

His brother had been training hard, even before going on the expedition; that had been where his brother’s dedication lay. But this was clear proof.

But it wasn’t a singular attack—the second he pushed off the first hit, Bedwyr followed with another. This time, he aimed at his midsection, which drove Erec back.

Then another.

They were following in a rapid pattern of less than a second, each slice decisive and growing more controlled by the moment. A hit would sting, but the implication of being hit by his brother’s sword carried far more weight than that.

If any of these were connected, it would mean his brother bested him or was close to it.

A prideful buried part of Erec flared in response to that revelation. He spun out of the reach of his brother’s flurry of blows, committing to maneuvering his body and deflecting swings instead of pressing his attack. This was his first fight with his brother for quite some time.

He’d grown, oh so much since then. But deep within him, the same question he’d wanted answered concretely bubbled to his mind.

Who was Stronger?

That question compelled the fire within him to catch and burn, his eyes turning bright red and flooding the world with the same blood-drenched hue. Like it or not, Fury was coming into this fight. No. With a challenge like this, he couldn’t help himself.

“Tell me what she said!” Bedwyr screamed; though his attacks were growing more composed, the rage in his face was only blooming.

The blows grew in intensity, but their weight felt lesser with each growing second. His brother moved with the grace and expertise of a Knight beyond both of their years—like his hands were meant to wield a sword, even if this one was but a poor imitation of the greatsword he preferred. An average first-year Initiate would have had no chance against this string of blows. Hell, a second-year initiative shouldn’t have been capable of them.

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But if his brother were born to wield a sword, then Erec was born to wield an axe.

His instincts kicked in, flaring to life. Born of multiple desperate life or death struggles in the wasteland and fueled on a fire burning so bright it could consume the entire room.

“Speak!” Bedwyr demanded.

“Drop it,” Erec growled.

“It’s my job to manage this family!”

“We all make our choices. She made hers. And you are not in charge of managing me. I am my own man.” Erec yelled; he was fraying away, and all this talk. It was pointless. The words didn’t have a purpose. They didn’t do good for either of them.

If Bedwyr wanted to talk, he could do so with his sword.

Erec let loose a scream of pure rage—kicking off the ground with a sudden speed fueled purely by the Strength in his legs, popping through Bedwyr’s defense in a sudden jerk that caught his brother by surprise and closing the superior reach of the sword. So close, in fact, that Erec’s axe was too long to use effectively. But that was fine. Erec didn’t intend to hit him with the practice weapon—instead, he shoved his shoulder right into his brother’s center mass, flinging him across the training hall.

His brother recovered with a grunt and a deep breath as the blow no doubt hurt, which was good. Erec wanted it to hurt. In his brother’s eyes, he saw that what he’d wanted to communicate was over.

If he thought himself the head of the family, Erec would show him. He had enough Strength to stand on his own.

They would discuss the finer points of this over bruises and pain.

Bedwyr came in like a flurry of wood—the series of blows between them strong enough to chip the weapons—but the strength behind them was consistent. The speed with which Bedwyr delivered them was the same, and as Fury ran loose in Erec, that Strength and speed was rapidly growing to be too little. The fight turned, and Bedywr dodged and weaved to dodge his blows—a single hit of his wooden axe against his brother would break the weapon and fling him away.

If it did, then Erec would turn to his fists. It wasn’t as good. But if they got to that point and Bedwyr still needed more of a demonstration, then he was happy to provide.

Beads of sweat ran down his brother’s face as he pressed his advantage, his wicked axe swings tearing into the older man, not leaving him space to return to his assault. Each attack drove his brother back further in the room towards a wall where Erec would hem him in and end this. The conclusion was inevitable. As Erec relished in his Fury, in his delight, it was obvious that the truth of the situation was that his raw power had surpassed that bullshit Divine Talent of his brother’s. By the second, his movements only grew in strength and speed.

So much for Atlas.

A mad grin came onto Erec as the revelation sparked him further. His weapon told the story he’d wanted to tell for so long.

No longer. No more was he a child in the shadow of his older brother, constantly chasing after a star he could never catch. There no longer was an excuse for that bastard to try to throw it all on his shoulders. Axe swing by axe swing, he cut into that facade the way he might fell a tree. If his brother saw that, then he might realize Erec was right and trust what he said about the woman who’d run away from their family.

Bedwyr blasted away from Erec on a switch in a single bound, his back hitting the wall behind him. Driving him right into the position Erec had been working him into for the last minute of their fight.

Erec stepped to spring his trap; all it would be was a single push forward. An easy distance to cross with his Strength, then Bedwyr would be cut off. Cornered and defeated.

But he never managed that step—before he could take it, he was forced to throw himself to the side, dodging a ball of fire spawned from a quick glyph; worse, even as he hit the floor and managed to propel himself forward, Bedwyr was already reciting a prayer.

A barrier of white light flashed between them, once more cutting off Erec’s attack before he could close the gap and defeat his brother. A single smash of his axe broke through the damn thing. But the moment he did, a pillar of ice slammed into his midsection, driving him back and smashing him into the opposite wall.

Erec winced, but the blow was nothing—then another pillar of ice smashed into him—a barrier of light blocking him on either side from dodging. Erec threw himself above the magic, his feet pressing against the pillar to toss himself forward at his brother—but he once more didn’t have a chance. Bedwyr was there, taking a slice at him with his wooden sword even though the pillar of ice they were on crashed into the wall and shattered.

The blow hit, throwing Erec through the room, twisting on the ground as he was forced to dodge again, even more flame tunneling towards him.

Every attack—every movement now—his brother was swapping tactics, throwing spells, prayer, and physical blows in between.

Even for Erec, it was too much. The way all the forms of abilities weaved together was bullshit. Flawless, not leaving a gap for him to find. Even as Fury burned deeper, the sheer variety and confines of the space they fought in cut off his options.

Would that he had his Armor, had the Q.A.P… He might have found the path forward through all of this. All he needed, he was certain, was one good hit with his axe to claim victory, but as his brother unloaded every tool, trick, and prayer within his vast disposal, that window had vanished. It was too much. It was too much that only a single person should have been able to throw out, short of a Master Knight.

Bedwyr had certainly been busy. This was what he’d spent his time on—this goddamn flawless blend of attacks on a high level—variety on top of power. Being so capable of everything was useless if you didn’t take advantage of the opportunity. In a way, it was like rich soil. One could plant crops in it, but it would grow useless if they didn’t weed and water. But if they took care, they could bring about a harvest that defied imagination.

His brother has spent his time well. Leveraging his talent by shoving every tool he could in his considerable toolbox.

Flames, electricity, ice, and prayers that were made to bind and restrict. All of it lobbed at his brother in a spray of bullets that Erec barely adapt to, not like this. Even with his formidable power, there was only so much Erec could do to keep pace with everything coming at him—he was one person—but he wasn’t about to give.

If Bedwyr was willing to push this far in this spar. Then Erec would, too. He would burn himself away for victory. He felt at the silver fire beneath the surface, feeling it stir as he called to it.

He would show his brother.

Before he got the chance, right as he started reaching into the depths of that inferno, Bedwyr struck in a gale of lightning, lightning, holy energy, and lightning.

His sword smashed into the side of Erec’s neck, snapping the weapon as silver fire gathered on Erec’s fingertips.

“That is my win.” Bedwyr declared, even as within his brother, all hell broke loose.