The discussion about the battle was just about to begin when sudden shouts erupted from outside the room.
"Stop! Who are you?!"
"What do you think you're doing?!"
Jon Snow and Jory Cassel froze for an instant before instinctively tensing. From the corner of the corridor, more than a dozen armored soldiers burst into view, weapons drawn, boots pounding heavily against the stone floor. Behind them, several men hurried forward carrying wooden buckets.
The sight alone was enough to set alarm bells ringing.
Gleaming steel. Full armor. Buckets whose contents were unknown. And above all, intent that could not be mistaken.
Jon and Jory exchanged a glance. Whatever these men wanted, it was not conversation.
"Stand back!" Jon shouted.
The soldiers did not slow.
Instead, they broke into a full charge.
No threats were spoken. No demands were made. The narrow corridor filled only with the thunder of iron-shod boots and the clatter of armor. It was the silence of killers who had already made their decision.
Jon and Jory did not hesitate.
With two sharp clangs, both men drew their longswords.
Under normal circumstances, drawing steel beneath the Eyrie's roof would have been unthinkable. They were guests, protected by sacred guest right. But the moment blades were raised against their lives, that right had already been shattered.
The corridor was too narrow. Too confined.
In the space of a few breaths, the soldiers were upon them.
Steel flashed.
A sword came down toward Jon's neck.
Jon reacted on instinct alone.
He raised his arm, blocking the strike with his own blade. The impact jolted his shoulder, pain shooting down his arm. Using the momentum, Jon pressed down on the attacker's weapon, forcing it aside. His body twisted, and he drove his elbow forward with all his strength.
The blow landed squarely against an iron helmet.
Clang.
The enemy's head snapped to the side—but that was all.
Jon's eyes widened. His elbow throbbed with numb pain. The helmet had absorbed most of the force.
There was no time to hesitate.
Jon released his grip and slid his blade along the enemy's weapon, sparks flying as steel scraped against steel. In the instant the man faltered, Jon adjusted his angle and slashed.
The blade slipped beneath the rim of the helmet.
Flesh parted.
The sword cut cleanly through artery and windpipe. Blood erupted in a violent spray.
Jon felt it splash across his face, hot and slick.
He did not wipe it away.
Instead, he kicked.
With his back braced against the iron-reinforced wooden door, Jon drew strength from desperation itself. His boot slammed into the dying man's chest, sending him crashing backward. The falling body collided with another soldier charging from behind, knocking both of them down.
For a heartbeat, space opened.
Jon staggered back, switching his longsword into his left hand while shaking feeling back into his numb right arm.
Only then did he dare glance toward Jory.
Jory Cassel was in trouble.
Unlike Jon, he had been slower to react—and the man attacking him was enormous. Jory barely managed to deflect a downward strike before a massive fist smashed into his face.
Stars exploded in his vision.
As he reeled, the brute slammed a shoulder into his chest, driving him hard against the wooden door. The air rushed from Jory's lungs.
The soldier's hand went to his waist.
A dagger flashed.
Jon saw it.
He did not think.
He moved.
Jon lunged forward and plunged his sword into the man's neck just as the dagger was about to descend.
The sudden cold steel robbed the giant of all strength. His eyes rolled toward Jon in disbelief before his body collapsed.
Jory sucked in a ragged breath.
But there was no time for gratitude.
Another saber whistled toward Jon's side.
Jory shoved the corpse off himself and swung his blade, intercepting the strike with a desperate clang.
Jon tore his sword free and spun, narrowly avoiding a fatal cut.
Working together now, the two men moved as one.
Jon slashed low. Jory struck high.
Another armored body fell.
Three men lay dead in the passage.
Their corpses blocked the corridor, buying Jon and Jory a precious moment.
Both men pressed their backs against the door, breathing hard, blood dripping onto the stone floor.
The remaining soldiers snarled and shoved, trying to force their way past their fallen comrades.
Jon seized the moment.
He wiped blood from his eyes and slammed the pommel of his sword against the door behind him.
"Enemy attack!" he shouted. "Enemy attack! Unknown enemies in the corridor!"
He pounded again, his voice echoing.
Then he reset his grip, sword held in both hands, eyes locked on the advancing figures.
They braced themselves.
And then—
The door behind them flew open.
Jon and Jory lost their footing and fell backward as weapons sliced through the space they had just occupied.
At the same instant, a massive wooden beam swung outward.
Whoosh.
The beam smashed into iron weapons with brutal force.
Two longswords shattered.
A saber bent nearly in half.
Karl Stone stepped through the doorway.
He held the door bar—a solid beam of heavy wood—in both hands.
His eyes flicked down, confirming Jon and Jory were alive.
Then his gaze hardened.
Without a word, Karl charged.
Moments earlier, inside the room, he had heard the thunder of boots and the clatter of armor. Confusion had seized him for only a heartbeat—until Jon's shout cut through the noise.
That heartbeat had passed.
Now there was only fury.
Karl swung the beam again.
This time, it was not aimed at weapons.
The beam crashed into armored heads.
Crack.
Crack.
Helmets split like rotten shells. Bone gave way beneath overwhelming force.
One man's head and helmet were torn clean from his shoulders, hurled down the corridor, smashing against the stone wall before dropping lifelessly to the floor.
The headless body stood for a fraction of a second.
Then blood erupted upward in a crimson fountain, splattering the white ceiling.
Karl did not slow.
He kicked the corpse aside and swung again, the beam sweeping through the corridor like a scythe. Five, six men were sent crashing to the ground in a tangled heap.
Screams filled the passage.
Buckets overturned.
Oil spilled across stone.
The smell of grease hung thick in the air.
Karl hurled the beam aside and drew his gilded longsword.
He leapt forward.
The distance was impossible—yet he covered it in a single bound.
He landed atop a fallen soldier, crushing the man's chest, then pivoted and stomped down on another head.
Steel flashed.
A head rolled.
Karl punched another man into the wall with such force that blood burst from the man's mouth before his body went limp.
The corridor became a slaughterhouse.
Armor split.
Skulls pierced.
Bodies piled.
By the time the Vale lords burst from the room with weapons drawn, the fighting was already over.
Karl stood amid the carnage, gripping a soldier whose arm had been severed at the elbow.
He slammed the man's head against the wall.
Crunch.
The body dropped.
Only two men remained alive—both trembling, their buckets overturned, oil pooling at their feet.
Karl looked at the spilled grease.
His fury deepened.
He crushed one man's skull against the stone wall.
Then he turned to the last survivor.
"Tell me who sent you," Karl said coldly, "and what you were meant to do.
"And you can live."
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)