The square went silent.
Still.
Snow drifted down through smoke, slowly… in spirals. Ash hung in the air, fine enough to cling to eyelashes and gather in the seams of armour. The puppets, moments ago pressing forward in their endless, grinding tide.
Baron Edric felt the change. The pressure that had lived in his bones since the battle began… the constant demand to brace, to take ground inch by inch… loosened, enough to be noticed.
He lifted his shield higher, closer to his face, covering it all except the eyes, sabre steady at his side, and watched the figure standing at the heart of the square.
The man had no weapon.
He stood bare-handed amid ruin, broad shoulders relaxed, posture easy in a way that spoke of complete dominance of the space around him. Snow dusted his hair and dark fabric of his coat. His boots were planted among shattered stone and bodies broken from the impact.
The puppets did not look at him, avoiding him.
The figure tilted his head, as if listening to something far away.
His voice was calm. But loud.
"Shepherd."
Edric felt men behind him shift, the voice pressing them down, making them uneasy.
It was a warning.
"I am standing here," the man continued, eyes forward, unfocused, as though the puppeteer himself was someone small and insignificant. "Which means you have already failed."
No movements from the puppets.
Standing still.
The man exhaled through his nose, faintly amused.
"Call them off," he said. "Every one of them in this square. NOW!"
The wind tugged his coat. Snow brushed his shoulders.
"If you don't," he went on, "I will find where you are hiding and I will break both of your arms. Then I will feed them to you piece by piece until you choke on your own interference. And I will do it with a smile, Shepherd."
There was no heat in the threat.
No emphasis.
Just a statement of sequence.
The puppets stopped mid-stride.
They didn't fall; they simply ceased to exist. Dozens of them remained standing…frozen in unnatural, leaning poses…like a forest of statues caught in a moment of madness. The grinding noise of the battle vanished, replaced only by the whistle of the wind
Edric did not turn his head.
He felt the shift in the air, the sharp intake of breath from his men, the realization settling in like a weight.
This was not something they could handle.
This was not an enemy that broke under formation and numbers.
This was a blade pointed inward.
The man finally looked at him.
Not with anger.
With interest.
"So," he said, eyes traveling over Edric's stance, the angle of his shield, the set of his feet. "You're the Baron."
Edric met his gaze.
"I am," he replied. His voice was steady. Professional. "And this is my city."
The man smiled faintly ...not with warmth, but recognition.
"You hold yourself like someone who believes that," he said. "I respect that."
Behind Edric, a lieutenant shifted forward instinctively.
Edric raised a hand.
The man stopped.
"Fall back," Edric said, without looking away from his opponent. "All of you. To the secondary line. Now."
There was hesitation... fear, confusion... but discipline won.
One by one, shields lowered. Men stepped back, slow and controlled, eyes never leaving the figure in the square. No one turned their back. No one ran.
Edric waited until the space around him was clear.
Then he stepped forward alone.
He spoke. "Don't you need those allies to fight this battle?"
The man nodded once, as if the point had merit.
"I don't need allies," he replied. "And I don't care about your battle."
He rolled his shoulders once, loosening muscle.
Edric tightened his grip on the sabre.
The man's eyes flicked briefly toward a puppet at his feet... its skull crushed inward, face unrecognizable.
He took a step forward.
Edric raised his shield.
The distance between them closed.
The man moved first.
Edric had fought swordsmen, spearmen, and monsters. But a man who brought only his hands to a field of steel was a different kind of terror. It meant the man didn't see Edric as a threat.
There was no warning, no shift of weight that telegraphed the strike. One moment he was standing… the next, he was inside Edric's guard, fist driving forward like a hammer.
Edric caught the blow on his shield.
The impact rang through his arm, up into his shoulder, teeth rattling behind clenched jaws. The force was precise, concentrated... not wild strength, but controlled power, delivered exactly where it would hurt most.
Edric countered immediately, sabre flashing in a clean horizontal arc.
The man leaned back just enough for the blade to whisper past his throat. He pivoted, hand snapping out to catch Edric's wrist mid-swing.
Bone met iron.
Edric twisted, breaking the grip before it could lock, and slammed the shield forward.
The man took the hit full-on… and slid back half a step, boots grinding stone.
A slow smile touched his mouth.
"Good," he said. "You're not slow."
He came again.
This time Edric did not meet him head-on. He shifted sideways, using the broken terrain, forcing the man to adjust footing over rubble and ice. The sabre snapped out in short, efficient cuts... probing, measuring.
The man avoided most of them.
Those he didn't, he took across the forearm, the shoulder... shallow lines, blood dark against snow.
He didn't react.
Instead, he stepped into Edric's space again, knee rising sharply toward Edric's ribs.
Edric turned into it, shield angling down to deflect, sabre thrusting upward in the same motion.
Steel bit fabric.
The man hissed softly... not in pain, but irritation... and wrenched himself free, spinning away with a backhand that clipped Edric's helm.
The world lurched.
Edric staggered one step, recovered, planted his feet.
The man watched him carefully now.
"You adapt quickly," he said. "Most men rely on habits. You rely on judgment."
Edric breathed out through his nose.
"Most men don't survive long without it."
They circled.
The square felt smaller now, the silence pressing in. Puppets stood like statues around them, a frozen audience to something that did not belong to them.
The man feinted left... Edric didn't bite.
The follow-up came from the right; a low sweep aimed at Edric's knee.
Edric dropped his shield, caught the strike on the rim, and slammed the boss forward into the man's face.
Bone cracked.
The man reeled back, blood streaking from his nose.
For the first time, his smile vanished.
"Oh," he said quietly. "That was rude."
He moved faster.
Bare hands blurred, strikes chaining together with brutal efficiency. Edric blocked what he could, redirected what he couldn't, but the blows landed heavier now, forcing him back step by step.
A fist crashed into his shield, wrenching it aside.
Another slammed into his shoulder.
Pain flared.
Edric gritted his teeth and drove the sabre forward with everything he had.
The blade sank into flesh at the man's side.
Deep.
The man froze.
Slowly, the man looked down at the steel buried in his side. He didn't gasp. He reached out and touched the blood, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger as if checking the quality of a fabric.
'Warm,' he whispered. 'It's been a long time since I felt that.'
He looked back up at Edric, his eyes burning with a terrifying delight.
'You'll have to do better than that, Baron.'"
He grabbed the blade with one hand and pulled, ripping it free from his own body, then shoved Edric back hard enough to send him skidding across stone.
Edric hit the ground on one knee, shield scraping, breath knocked from his lungs.
He forced himself upright.
The man stood bleeding, breathing steadily, eyes bright with something close to delight.
"This," he said, spreading his hands, "is much better."
Edric raised his sabre again.
His arm trembled ...only slightly.
Then…
A streak of silver tore through the smoke.
It struck the cobblestones between them with the force of a falling star. The sound wasn't a thud; it was a bone-deep crack that sent shards of stone flying like shrapnel.
The spear stood buried inches deep in the frozen earth, its shaft vibrating with a violent, high-pitched hum.
The man leapt back instantly, his hands raised, eyes snapping toward the edge of the square where the shadows were darkest. Even the puppets seemed to lean away from the weapon, as if sensing the intent behind the throw.
Edric didn't turn. He couldn't. He only stared at the enemy looming in front of him and felt the air in the square grow impossibly cold.
The stranger's blood-streaked face split into a wide, jagged grin.
"Well," he whispered into the sudden silence. "That changes things..."