Chapter 68: A Tale Of Fists & Arrows

Marcus stepped closer to Derek, dragging the back of his hand across his bleeding forehead before spitting a tooth onto the fractured floor. He leaned back, his spine cracking audibly as he twisted, the sound echoing in the battered tower. Derek adjusted his broken glasses, his sharp glare cutting through the haze of battle as both boys locked eyes on Rowena and Helga. The two girls, undeterred, lowered their postures, readying their stances.

"Don't think for a second that you've changed anything," Derek raised his wand. "A flashy bow and some oversized gauntlets don't alter the outcome. This ends the same way."

"Famous last words," Helga quipped, a defiant smirk curling on her lips. "When Ro and I are done with you and lunkhead over there, the entire school's going to know you got your butts handed to you by a couple of girls!"

"Enough talk!" Marcus bellowed, hefting his war hammer onto his shoulders. "Time to crush some skulls!"

As if on cue, Marcus charged at Helga, his massive frame barreling forward, while Derek trained his wand on Rowena. Helga raised her gauntlets, her stance unshakable, as Rowena lifted her bow, eyes locked on Derek. The tip of his wand ignited in flame, a sneer spreading across his face.

"Stupid wench!" Derek spat, his confidence oozing with malice. "What good's a bow if you've got no—"

His words froze in his throat as a streak of blue light whizzed past his face, leaving a thin, stinging cut across his cheek. His sneer twisted into shock as his eyes followed the glowing arrow now embedded in the far wall. It pulsed for a moment before dissipating into shimmering fragments.

Derek's head snapped back to Rowena, his widened eyes meeting her steely gaze. Another arrow, pure light and energy, was already notched on her bowstring, drawn and aimed at him with unwavering precision.

"You were saying?" Rowena hissed through clenched teeth, her sapphire eyes alight with fierce determination.

Derek scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. "It doesn't matter. That ridiculous little bow won't save you. You're nothing more than a foolish little girl trying to play hero." He shifted into his stance. "You'll be swept away like all the others. No one weathers my storm."

Rowena's smirk deepened. "I am the storm."

****

Marcus roared, gripping his war hammer so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his teeth bared in an animalistic snarl as he charged forward. Helga smirked, her movements quick and deliberate as she bounced lightly on her toes, her amber eyes locked on his every move. The hammer came crashing down in wild arcs, each swing powerful enough to shatter the tiles beneath their feet, leaving jagged craters in the once-pristine floor.

Helga moved with the grace and precision of a seasoned fighter, ducking under one swing and weaving away from another. Her movements were fluid, her timing impeccable. As Marcus's hammer smashed into the ground with one final miss, Helga seized her opening. She darted forward, her right fist coiling and then snapping upward like a piston. Her punch connected with Marcus's jaw, his face twisting grotesquely from the force as he stumbled back, a growl of pain escaping him.

"You're fast," he growled, swinging his hammer again in a blind fury. "But I'll break you!"

Helga didn't reply, her grin widening as she countered with every step. For every missed swing of his hammer, she delivered a calculated strike—her fists slamming into his jaw, his ribs, his sides. Each punch landed with brutal efficiency, her gauntlets gleaming as they amplified the sheer power of her blows. Blood sprayed with every impact, Marcus's face swelling as bruises bloomed like dark flowers across his skin.

The force of Helga's punches rippled through Marcus's massive frame, sending shockwaves that kicked up particles of dust with each strike. The sound of steel meeting flesh echoed in the air like thunderclaps. And yet, to Helga's frustration, Marcus remained standing. His body swayed, battered and bloodied, but his violet eyes burned with unrelenting rage.

"Still standing, eh?" Helga muttered under her breath, her fists tightening. "Alright, big guy, let's see how much more you can take."

Without hesitation, she surged forward, her feet pounding against the fractured floor. Her fist tightened, glowing faintly as the gauntlet responded to her resolve. She closed the distance with explosive speed, her amber eyes locked on Marcus, determined to land the next crushing blow.

Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Marmoralis!" he shouted. The floor trembled as a wall of earth shot up between him and Helga, her punch slamming into it with a deafening impact. Her amber eyes widened in shock as the wall absorbed the blow, only to shatter into jagged fragments.

Before Helga could react, Marcus swung his hammer with ferocious strength. Helga instinctively raised her arms, the glowing gauntlets taking the brunt of the strike. The sheer force of the impact sent her skidding backward across the floor, her boots grinding against the shattered tiles, but she managed to stay on her feet. Her chest heaved and sweat trickled down her temple as Marcus pointed his hammer at her once more.

"Lapis Volare!" he roared, the fragments of the broken stone wall levitating before launching toward her like deadly missiles.

Helga's stance shifted, her gauntleted fists blurring as she struck each flying stone with rapid precision. The sound of shattering rock echoed through the tower as she obliterated the incoming projectiles, her breaths ragged but her determination unwavering. She straightened, her amber eyes blazing as they locked onto Marcus.

"As a víkingr of Skellige," Marcus began, "I have always prided myself on my hammer. Despite my wizarding blood, I swore an oath never to use magic in combat. A true warrior relies on his strength and his weapon alone." His violet eyes narrowed. His smirk sharp. "But you, Helga Hufflepuff… you are the only person who has ever forced me to break that oath."

He planted the hammer firmly on the ground, leaning slightly on its handle. "You have my respect."

Helga let out a scoff, though a playful grin danced on her face. "Likewise. Can't say I've met anyone who can take my punches like you do—well, other than my brothers, of course."

Marcus sighed deeply, his violet eyes momentarily flicking to Raine. "I never touched her, you know," he said quietly. His gaze returned to Helga, steady and unwavering. "Despite the sigil on my chest, I don't partake in the darker dealings of the Clan. I live for the fight, and nothing more. Volg offered me a place when no one else would spare a second glance at a wizard who refused to rely on magic."

Helga's amber eyes softened, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"It doesn't excuse me," Marcus continued, his tone resolute. "I'm guilty by association. I know that, and if this ends with my Excommunicado, then so be it." He squared his shoulders, his grip tightening on his hammer. "There will always be battles to fight—ones beyond this place, ones worthier than this."

Marcus rested his hammer on his shoulder, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps in another life…" He paused, his tone softening for a moment. "I'd have enjoyed sharing some cake with you."

Helga raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "It's never too late, you know. There's this little bakery in Caerleon—best cake in town. Though fair warning, the lines are brutal."

Marcus chuckled, a rare warmth flashing in his violet eyes. "Maybe…" His smile faded as his expression turned resolute. "But for now, allow me to introduce myself properly."

He took a step forward, lowering into a ready stance. "My name is Marcus Sigrid Skjǫldr, son of Játr the Strong, Hammer of the Isles." His voice rumbled with pride and resolve. "Now, Helga Hufflepuff, daughter of Ymir… face me with everything you've got."

Helga's amber eyes widened briefly at the mention of her lineage, but her surprise quickly gave way to a confident smirk. "Don't worry, big guy," she dropped into her own stance. "I wouldn't dream of holding back."

****

Derek and Rowena clashed fiercely, their duel lighting up the air with streaks of magic and glimmers of enchanted arrows. Derek, normally composed and methodical, found himself on the defensive. His Protego shield flared repeatedly, barely holding up against the relentless barrage of Rowena's blue-lit arrows. Each impact drew beads of sweat down his forehead, and his teeth clenched with mounting frustration.

"Flammae Sphaera!" Derek roared, his wand cutting through the air as fiery orbs materialized and streaked toward Rowena.

Rowena moved with precision, her movements fluid as she dodged each fiery projectile, her feet barely touching the ground. She let her arrows fly, each one intercepting a flame, dispersing it in a burst of sparks. "Pallas!" she shouted, pulling the bowstring taut as a single arrow split into four mid-flight.

The arrows homed in on Derek with deadly accuracy, forcing him to dive and roll, each impact shattering the stone floor where he had just stood. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his wand forward. "Depulso!"

The blast surged toward Rowena, but she spun her bow effortlessly, dispersing the spell as if brushing aside a minor nuisance. She shifted into a stance, her sapphire eyes narrowing with focused determination. "Plutonia!" she cried, the bowstring vibrating with power as an elongated, gleaming arrow formed.

Derek's eyes widened as the missile-like arrow shot toward him, faster and more forceful than anything before. "Protego!" he bellowed, summoning a shimmering dome of magic around himself.

The arrow struck the shield with a resounding crack, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the tower. The magic barrier broke apart, and the arrow drove into Derek's shoulder. He let out a choked cry, blood splattering from his lips as the force sent him flying backward. His body hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop in a heap as he clutched his wounded shoulder, groaning in pain.

Derek let out a guttural cry, a mix of rage and pain, slamming his fist against the fractured floor as he forced himself to stand. His body trembled, and his teeth bared in a snarl. "You're nothing but a worthless Scottish wench!" he spat venomously. "You think you can humiliate me? Me? I'm better than you, better than any of you pathetic wenches! I won't have it. Do you hear me? I won't have it!"

Rowena stood unflinching, her sapphire eyes locked on him as she drew her bowstring, an arrow of glowing light forming with an almost serene hum. "Are you quite done?" she asked, each word cutting deeper than the last. The arrow aimed unwaveringly at his chest. "Because if you're not, I'm happy to wait until you're finished crying like a spoiled child."

Derek's face twisted into something primal, his composure shattered. "Screw you!" he roared, raising his wand and firing off another spell in a desperate attempt to regain control.

Rowena released her arrow, the glowing missile streaking through the air to meet his attack with a brilliant flash. The resulting explosion rocked the floor beneath them, but when the dust settled,

"Or perhaps," Rowena said, "you might consider behaving like a good little boy and letting me knock your lights out." She remained steady, her bow already drawn with another arrow, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. "Your move," she said.

****

Helena watched the match unfold, her eyes widening with each passing moment, her heart pounding in her chest as revelation after revelation left her breathless. Her jaw slackened more than once, and she had to remind herself to exhale, her throat dry and tight with tension. Every flying arrow, every flash of sparks as gauntlet clashed with iron hammer, every spell flung and dispelled, and every impact of fists on flesh and bone—she was utterly captivated.

This was no longer just a duel; it had transformed into something far grander, a spectacle pulled straight from the pages of a legendary tale, or the kind of epic recounted by bards in a crowded tavern by a roaring fire. These weren't merely mages exchanging spells; they were warriors fighting with every fiber of their beings. In her short time as Overseer, Helena had never witnessed anything like this.

Her gaze flickered to Gabriel, the Harbinger, his stoic and unreadable demeanor betraying little of his thoughts. But then she noticed it—a subtle twitch in his fingers, a small tell that even he, despite his composure, was just as enthralled by the unfolding battle as she was.

The clash remained undecided, the outcome teetering on a knife's edge. Yet, slowly, the scales were beginning to tip. Deep down, Helena found herself rooting for Godric and his friends, her loyalty surfacing despite the impartiality her role demanded. A bead of sweat traced down her cheek as she clenched her fists at her sides, silently willing them to triumph.

****

Volg and Godric clashed in a storm of blade and sorcery, each strike and counterstrike reverberating through the tower. Blasts of spells screamed past, erupting in bursts of light and showers of sparks as Godric's blade met Volg's magic-infused gauntlet. The air crackled with raw power, every collision a testament to their ferocity.

The weight of Godric's blade sent tremors through Volg's very core, his insides trembling under the relentless onslaught. His baby-blue eyes, once steely with resolve, flickered uncertainly, shadows of doubt creeping in. Godric saw it—the cracks forming beneath Volg's iron will—and pressed the advantage.

Spinning his sword in precise arcs, Godric unleashed blow after devastating blow. Each swing carried the full weight of his strength, the clash of steel against enchanted gauntlet echoing like thunder. Yet Volg held his ground, his movements a seamless blend of magic and martial skill. His defense was not that of a mere mage; it was the mark of someone who had honed every fiber of his being for this moment, for this vengeance.

Godric was battered and bloodied, crimson trickling from his split lip. His robes were scorched and torn, evidence of the relentless barrage of Volg's spells. Volg fared no better—his once-pristine white robes were stained with blood from the deep slashes Godric's blade had carved into his flesh. Yet, neither showed any sign of surrender, their determination burning brighter than their injuries.

Volg stumbled backward, his shield barely holding against the relentless force of Godric's strikes. Godric pressed forward, his crimson eyes blazing with resolve. As the blade swung again, Volg aimed his wand with precision.

"Impetus!" Volg roared, releasing a concentrated blast of force. The spell struck Godric square in the forehead, sending a spray of blood from a fresh gash. Godric staggered, gritting his teeth as pain flared, but he refused to falter.

With a primal roar, Godric brought his blade down in a powerful arc. Volg barely had time to raise his shield, the impact sending a resounding clash through the tower. The two became locked in a deadly grapple, Godric's blade pressing against Volg's shield as sparks flew between them. Their faces were inches apart, their labored breaths mingling in the charged air.

"There's no forgiveness for you, Gryffindor!" he spat, his words seething with rage. "Beg all you want, grovel on your knees—I'll show you no mercy. Not a shred of it! I'll grind you to dust, erase every trace of your existence!"

Volg's eyes flicked toward Raine, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "And her? That pathetic creature will know nothing but torment. She'll curse the day she ever crossed paths with you. I'll make sure of it."

Godric's gaze locked onto the golden bracelet wrapped around Volg's wrist, the ruby lion charm gleaming under the flickering light as his expression darkened. With a sharp motion, he slammed his forehead into Volg's face. The sickening crack of bone met Volg's cry of pain as his head snapped back, blood spurting from his nose. Seizing the moment, Godric wrenched the gauntlet aside with his blade, flipping his grip to drive the pommel into Volg's chest.

Volg staggered, a guttural choke escaping him as the air was forced from his lungs. Godric's blade flashed again, carving a shallow gash across Volg's chest. Before Volg could recover, Godric leveled his wand, fury etched into every line of his face.

"Forget your mercy!" he roared. "Depulso!"

The spell struck Volg squarely, launching him through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed to the ground with a bone-jarring thud, coughing and clutching his bleeding chest.

Godric wiped blood from his forehead, his body wracked with pain but unyielding. His crimson eyes bore into Volg as he advanced.

"Get up," Godric growled.

Volg's movements were sluggish, his body trembling as he forced himself to his feet. Blood dripped from his lips, staining the ground beneath him.

"You're not done until I say you're done." Godric advanced, his grip firm on his blade. He pointed it at Volg. "Get up, you wretched filth, and face me!"

The boy straightened, swaying but defiant, his face twisted in pain and rage. The battle wasn't over—not yet.

****

More than once, Raine had to avert her eyes from the carnage unfolding before her. Every strike, every spell, every anguished cry of pain and the splatter of blood that painted the floor churned her stomach. Her heart twisted at the sight of Godric and his companions, their bodies battered and bloodied as they fought relentlessly against Volg and his entourage. They risked everything—for her. It was a thought that weighed heavily on her, filling her with equal parts gratitude and despair. All she wanted was for this nightmare to end, for the torment to cease. Yet, even as her body ached from the cruelty of The Calishans, she could not bear the price they were paying for her sake.

She was nothing, she thought—a slave, worthless in every sense of the word. An object, used and discarded at the whims of her masters. That was the life she had come to know, the fate she had accepted. The cruelty was constant, a shadow that loomed over her every waking moment, and she had long resigned herself to welcoming death's embrace. Only in death, she believed, would she find the freedom she had been denied.

But here, within the cold and merciless walls of her imprisonment, something had changed. She had found love—unexpected and unfathomable. She had felt kindness, a warmth she hadn't known since childhood. In Godric, she had glimpsed joy, a fragile spark that she had thought extinguished forever. Hope, a cruel stranger, had taken root in her heart.

And now, her beloved faced the darkness, sword in hand, in a battle that would decide both their fates. She had asked herself again and again—what did Godric see in her? Why would he risk everything, even his life, for someone like her? Yet she knew the answer lay within him, in the fire that burned fiercely in his soul. He would stand against the world itself, defying despair with unshakable courage.

The chains around her wrists clinked softly as she moved, a bitter reminder of her captivity. But for the first time in years, she dared to believe. These chains no longer defined her—they could not hold her hope captive. She believed in him. She believed in all of them. In Godric, her brave and fearless lion, who fought not for glory but for her.

"Fight, my brave lion," she whispered. "Fight to the end."