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The battlefield was pure chaos. Blood had soaked the dry earth until it turned to slick mud. Lysandro had just hacked off the arm of a Volantene soldier trying to flank him; hot blood sprayed across his ornate breastplate. Panting hard, he shoved through the press to reach Tiberius.
"Tiberius! We've pushed too deep—the flanks are buckling!"
Tiberius's forehead was streaked with sweat and blood. He'd just hurled a killing spear that pinned a Volantene officer to the ground. Without turning, he roared back over the din, voice cutting clean through the noise.
"Forget the flanks! Stay on me! We hit their command tent, cut down the banner—we win!"
That was it. With the odds this bad, the only way out was straight ahead. Everyone was running on pure guts now. Numbers and endurance didn't matter—momentum did. One burst of fury, then it all collapsed. Hesitate, lose the charge's fire, and they were finished.
If they could punch clean through the enemy line, victory was theirs. These weren't the elite Tiger Cloaks—just a noble's private army. Break their formation and they'd scatter like rabbits, no thought of rallying.
He was raising another spear for the next suicidal push when a flash of familiar white-and-gray caught his eye through the dust. The banner. The thunder of hooves. His arm froze mid-throw. Pure disbelief exploded into wild joy, voice cracking.
"Wait—that's… Jules's cavalry! Holy shit, reinforcements!"
The White Company horsemen, fresh and hungry, hit the crumbling Volantene flank like a sledgehammer. The heavy shock troopers in full plate were absolute murder—iron towers on horseback that smashed straight through the reeling enemy line and shattered it.
Once the rout started, it was unstoppable.
The Volantenes' will broke the instant Jules's banners appeared. Trapped between the screaming suicide charge in front and elite cavalry carving into their side, with their commander panicking and the men already half-ready to run… it was over.
They dropped weapons, threw off helmets, and bolted toward the Disputed River, backs wide open to the slaughter.
At the far end of the field, Commander Mohahta's situation had gone from bad to doomed. His lavish command wagon had become his cage. His guards were either dead or fled. The few loyal retainers left had been shredded by the White Company charge. Even the driver trying to whip the horses clear took half a dozen arrows and slumped dead over the traces.
Hundreds of enemy soldiers swarmed the wagon, sealing it tight. Steel glinted in the sun, reflecting the despair on his face.
Mohahta stared at the tightening ring of foes and listened to his army's death screams. He knew it was finished. A Volantene noble could not allow himself to be taken alive. With a bitter smile he drew his jeweled sword, pressed the edge to his throat, and prepared to end it with dignity.
He would not be paraded as a prize by spice merchants and honorless sellswords.
Then—
Whoosh!
A spear streaked in like lightning from fifteen paces away and struck his sword with pinpoint accuracy.
Clang!
The impact split his palm open. The sword flew from his grip and clattered under the wagon. A jolt like electricity shot through his entire body.
Before he could recover, a lithe figure vaulted onto the wagon and kicked the sword even farther away.
Mohahta looked up in despair—straight into the smiling face of the "surrender envoy," the boy who had called himself Vito Coppola. That young, almost childish face now looked more demonic than any nightmare.
"General, we meet again," Tiberius said, voice light with mockery, spear leveled at Mohahta's throat. "Hope our little 'surrender' wasn't too much of a surprise."
Mohahta understood everything in a heartbeat. He laughed bitterly. "'Vito'… you really were faking it…"
He closed his eyes, drew a long breath, and clung to the last scraps of noble poise.
"The battle is lost. I have nothing more to say. Just grant me a clean death. Tell your 'Lord Mario'… he knows how to command. But please—honor a defeated general's final wish. Let me fall on my own blade."
Instead of agreement, the men surrounding the wagon—savage Habro, grinning Vito, blood-spattered Lysandro still catching his breath, Myr centurion Demetrius, even the once-cowardly Tyroshi Lysapo who had finally found his spine—stared for half a second, then burst into loud, ugly, unstoppable laughter.
The sound was so absurd, so mocking, that Mohahta's eyes snapped open in humiliated confusion.
"A defeated general still deserves to die with dignity!" he shouted, voice cracking. "You Lyseni have no honor at all!"
Tiberius stopped laughing. He stepped closer, looked down at the man, and spoke each word clearly.
"First of all, I'm not 'Vito,' dear general." He jerked a thumb at the real Vito beside him. "He is. My real name is Tiberius Mord."
Mohahta's eyes bulged. His mouth fell open in pure shock, as if the universe had just flipped upside down.
Tiberius grinned wider. "That's right—the 'Lightning Kid' you were asking about. The blood combat was me. The Bloodwave Cape case was me too. So, General Mohahta," his tone turned hard as steel, "you don't get to die that easily."
He threw his head back and laughed again, victory and pure mischief ringing in every note.
"You still owe me an estate and that gold-and-ivory carriage to escort me to Volantis in style! You said it yourself—can't back out now!"
"One day I'll come see those famous black walls and your grand old Valyrian fortress for myself!"
---
"What… what time is it?" Governor Lysandro stirred on the bed. Golden sunlight poured through the window, warm and comforting on his skin.
"Tiberius… and my son Lysandro—where are they?" He sat up fast, alarm cutting through the haze.
"Guards! Guards!"
The worst thought flashed through his mind, but he shoved it away.
Impossible. Even if Tiberius ran, Lysandro would never abandon me.
Then he heard the noise outside—hundreds, maybe thousands of voices shouting at the gate.
Governor Lysandro's heart sank into pure dread.
The Volantenes had broken in. Tiberius and his son had fled and left him behind!
He pulled the blanket over his head, ready to accept whatever the Lord of Light had decided.
The door creaked open.
He saw Jules, covered head to toe in blood, twin swords still in hand. Right beside him stood his son Lysandro and Tiberius, both even bloodier.
"Jules…" Governor Lysandro's eyes filled. His voice cracked.
Looking at the three blood-soaked warriors, he had never felt safer in his life.
"My lord," Jules stepped to the bedside and gave a crisp report. "The enemy has been driven off. You're safe now."
---
On the other side of the battlefield, Lysapo held a quill and watched Habro and Demetrius direct men loading captured gear onto wagons.
"Fucking hell, that kid Tiberius…" Habro lay on a cart, wincing as he cursed. "Crafty little bastard. We actually sent fifteen hundred Volantenes running. But I nearly died doing it!"
Habro had led the tip of the spear. You couldn't put Lysandro or Tiberius in front—too green, too young. Because he'd gone in without full armor, a Volantene curved blade had opened a nasty gash just above his knee. Not deep, but it hurt like fire.
"Quit your bitching," Demetrius said, running a hand over Mohahta's luxurious command wagon and already calculating his cut of the loot. "We just won a proper big victory today!"
"Yeah, big victory," Habro snorted. "And what the fuck does it matter?"
He slammed a fist on the cart. "That kid swore up and down that Watchfort would hold the middle Disputed River, Swordbreak Fort across the water, Three-Tax Gate blocking the road from the delta to the Flank Corridor. Said there was zero chance the Volantenes could reach us at Stone Crow Town. And look what happened."
He stared at the setting sun, a cold unease settling in his gut.
"Tell me… has the entire Rhaesh region already fallen to Volantis?"