"Let them sound it," Drovian said, his voice flat, devoid of the adrenaline that usually fueled a man about to face a garrison. He pushed the heavy oak door open with the palm of his hand, the rusted hinges groaning in protest. "Noise is just another variable in the equation, Vane. If you can’t account for the volume, you aren't fighting; you’re just making a mess."Vane scrambled to keep pace, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked stone floor. "A mess? Drovian, there are fifty armed men in that courtyard. They aren't just 'noise.' They are a death sentence. We should be climbing the perimeter wall, not walking into the mouth of the beast."Drovian stopped, turning slowly to face the boy. The flickering torchlight carved deep, jagged shadows into the butcher’s face, making him look less like a man and more like a statue of hard, unyielding stone. "You want to survive, or you want to win? Because if you want to survive, you hide in the bushes and wait for the victors to loot the scra

"Put the steel away, Commander," Drovian said, his voice cutting through the thick, suffocating heat of the council chamber. "You don't know how to hold it, and I don't have the patience to watch you bleed out on a good rug."Commander Vael didn't lower his broadsword. His knuckles were white, his graying beard slick with sweat. Beside him, Envoy Malor—dressed in silk robes that smelled of imported clove oil—clutched a leather ledger against his chest like a shield."You're a fool, Butcher," Vael spat, taking a half-step back as the outer oak door shuddered under another heavy blow from the garrison's battering ram. THUD. Dust rained down from the high arched ceiling. "That door has two minutes. Three at most. Join the Iron Banner today, or my men will paint these walls with your organs.""Two minutes is generous," Drovian replied quietly. He didn't even lift his cleaver. He just stood near the mahogany table, looking at the map of the borderlands spread between spilled wine goblets.

The iron top bracket didn't just snap; it exploded out of the oak frame with the crack of a bone breaking beneath a sledgehammer."Down!" Drovian barked, grabbing Vane by the shoulder and throwing him flat onto the wine-soaked rug.The heavy door gave way in a shower of splinters and rusted bolts. Three men in muddy chainmail surged through the gap, swords raised, throats roaring with a collective battle cry.Commander Vael lunged forward at the same moment. "Cut him down! Drag his head to the square!"Drovian didn't reach for a Saint's stance. He didn't channel an inch of inner breath. He stepped inside the lead soldier's reach, caught the man's leather wrist mid-swing, and rammed him directly into Commander Vael's chest.Metal clashed on metal. Vael cursed, stumbling backward over the heavy mahogany table as his own guard crashed into him."You said two minutes, Commander," Drovian said, grabbing Envoy Malor by his silk collar and hurling him into the second wave of charging infantr

The sound was less of a strike and more of a heavy, definitive thud—the sort of noise that echoed in a quiet larder when a prime cut of chuck met the cutting block. Commander Vael’s broadsword slipped from his slackening grip, clattering uselessly against the stone floor. He stood frozen for a second, his eyes wide and unfocused, before he tipped forward like a felled tree, his faceplate slamming into the flagstones with a hollow ring.Drovian didn't look at the body. He was already moving, his boots crunching over the glass and splintered wood. He snatched the fallen sword from the floor, not to wield it, but to wedge it into the doorframe he had just shattered. With a sharp kick, he locked it into place, effectively barricading the room from the outside."Stay down, Vane," Drovian commanded, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic drumming of rain against the high, narrow windows.Vane, huddled beneath the mahogany table, trembled violently, his hands pressed over his ears. "They

"A broken leg is preferable to a throat slit by Raxel Durn’s lackeys," Drovian said, turning his back on the door to scan the room. His eyes swept over the carnage with the practiced detachment of an auditor reviewing a particularly messy set of accounts.Vane looked up, his face gaunt, his eyes darting toward the heavy oak door. The wood groaned under the weight of a sudden, violent impact from the other side. "They’re not just lackeys, Drovian! These are the King’s own enforcers. If you kill them, there’s no coming back. You’re turning into the legend they want you to be.""I am turning into a man who wants to finish his work and go home," Drovian retorted. He picked up a second blade—a thin, utilitarian steel knife—and wiped the blood from his knuckles onto the hem of his apron. "Titles are for people with more ego than sense. Now, move to the window, or stay under the table. Choose."The door frame shrieked. A heavy mace slammed against the wood, sending splinters showering into t