Chapter 10: The Dragon's Shadow, The Demon's Grasp

The very air in Volgunder Keep seemed to pulse with anticipation—a tangible tension that mirrored the storm raging inside Liam. Today was the day of the final match, the culmination of the Volgunder Tournament. Every stone in the ancient keep, every fluttering banner outside, bore the weight of expectations. Liam Volgunder, the unlikely finalist—the boy who had stumbled, struggled, and fought his way to this point—was to face Kael Dergovia, the arrogant prodigy and newly minted 3-star swordsman.

Yet for Liam, the atmosphere brought no thrill—only a deep, gnawing dread. Sequestered in a neglected chamber near the armory, he sat on a rough-hewn bench. His new short sword and shield lay beside him. Sleep had eluded him; his mind replayed not only the recent brutalities of the tournament but also Brad's cryptic lessons and the surge of raw, unpredictable power he'd experienced in his fight with Carla.

His fingers traced the healed bruise where Carla's rapier had met the hastily formed chunk of ice—a reminder of both his desperate gamble and the danger inherent in wielding a power he barely understood. The tunic was torn, yet it was the cool sting of his skin that reminded him: he had risked everything on an unstable power. I was reckless, he chided himself, but there was no turning back now.

Liam closed his eyes, attempting to calm his heart. He focused on Brad's teachings—silent movement, agile rotations, the art of anticipating one's opponent. But his mind was a battlefield, haunted by vivid images: Carla's shock, Kael's sneer, his father's troubled, unyielding gaze. And then there was the dragon.

The memory of his dream surged back—fragmented visions of Kael Volgunder, the legendary founder, cloaked in darkness. Whispers of "dragon's blood" and "the price of power" intertwined with flashes of ice and fire. The symbolism felt portentous, as if ancient forces were stirring. He knew that now was not the time for myth or legend—he had a fight to win, and perhaps a kingdom to protect from the upcoming storm.

A sharp rap at the chamber door startled him.

"Liam?" came Gareth's quiet, measured voice.

Reluctantly, he rose and opened the door. There stood Gareth, flanked by Anya and Freya—their faces uncharacteristically somber, their usual banter replaced by the gravity of the moment.

"It's time," Gareth said, his gaze lingering on the short sword and shield. He didn't voice his questions about Liam's unconventional choices, but they hung in the air nonetheless.

Anya's tone, stripped of its usual playful mockery, was earnest as she asked, "Are you… ready?"

Taking a deep breath, Liam mustered what confidence he could. "As I'll ever be," he replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

Before he could step away, Freya approached and, in an unexpectedly tender gesture, rested a hand on his arm. "Just… be careful, Liam," she murmured, her eyes searching his. "We might not say it often, but you're still our brother."

In that brief moment, the fierce rivalry between siblings softened. Liam nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I will," he vowed softly.

Together, they walked toward the arena, an unspoken truce binding them. Every step felt like a step toward an uncertain destiny.

Stepping out into the sunlight, the roar of the crowd enveloped him. The arena was a living tapestry of color and sound—banners for every family danced in the breeze, and the mixed voices of cheers and anxious whispers filled the air. On the raised platform, Arthur Volgunder stood as a silent sentinel, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the center of the arena—a silent reminder of duty.

A herald, his voice booming across the courtyard (amplified by a cleverly designed acoustic structure, not magic), rose to address the gathering. "People of Drakonia!" he bellowed, his tone commanding silence. "Today, we witness the culmination of the Volgunder Tournament! The final match, the moment that will determine our champion!"

The crowd's roar swelled in response. The herald continued, gesturing toward the entrance on the opposite side. "In this corner, representing House Dergovia… Kael Dergovia!"

Kael strode in with practiced arrogance—a confident, almost disdainful smile playing on his lips. Clad in the standard tournament tunic, the three stars on his chest shone brilliantly, echoing the polished elegance of his long, gleaming blade. With a graceful, raise of his sword, he acknowledged the cheers.

"And in this corner," the herald announced, turning towards Liam, "representing House Volgunder… Liam Volgunder!"

The response from the crowd was mixed—hopeful shouts from some, tempered by skepticism and disbelief from others. The whispers echoed his internal doubts: the weakling, the disappointment who had barely scraped by. Could he really stand a chance against Kael Dergovia?

Liam ignored the whispers, drawing his short sword. The plain steel contrasted sharply with the ornate blade of his opponent, yet in that moment, it felt like an extension of his will. He hefted his shield, its weight a tangible promise of protection. He knew that today, every ounce of his training, every lesson from Brad, would be put to the test.

As their eyes met, Kael's lips curled into a mocking sneer.

"Don't keep us waiting, Volgunder," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "The audience craves blood and spectacle. I trust you've prepared—though from the looks of those toys, I doubt it."

Liam's heart pounded, but his voice was steady. He looked Kael directly in the eye.

"I'm prepared, Kael. And this is my resolve." He told his rival.

The roar of the crowd receded to a low, expectant rumble as the herald stepped back, leaving Liam and Kael alone in the center of the arena. A taut silence descended, heavy with unspoken challenges and the imminent clash.

Kael Dergovia stood poised, the very picture of arrogant confidence. His weight was balanced, his longsword held lightly in his right hand, the polished steel gleaming. He didn't rush in, didn't attack immediately. He simply observed Liam, a predatory smirk playing on his lips, letting the anticipation build, confident in his superior skill.

Liam, in contrast, felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He gripped his short sword and shield, his knuckles white, his body taut. He knew he was outmatched. But he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't break.

He took a slow, deep breath, trying to center himself. He focused on Brad's teachings: silent movement, fast rotations, anticipation. He had to be like water, flowing around Kael's attacks. He had to be perfect.

The signal was given – a sharp, clear clang of metal on metal. And Kael moved.

He attacked with a speed and ferocity that stole Liam's breath. It wasn't just skill; it was an overwhelming presence, a force of will that seemed to press down on Liam, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Kael's longsword was a silver whirlwind, a hissing, deadly dance of thrusts and cuts, each one aimed with lethal precision.

Liam, fueled by adrenaline and desperation, met the attack with a wall of defense. He raised his shield, deflecting blows that would have otherwise split him open. He parried with his short sword, the jarring impacts vibrating up his arm, threatening to numb his hand. He used the "frost-step" footwork, shifting, dodging, weaving, trying to stay just out of reach of Kael's relentless blade.

Too slow, a voice screamed in his head – his own voice, laced with fear. I'm too slow!

"Pathetic," Kael sneered, his voice cutting through the clang of steel. "Is this the best the Volgunders can offer? A frightened rabbit, hiding behind a shield?"

Liam ignored the taunt, focusing every ounce of his being on survival. He blocked, parried, dodged. He was being pushed back, forced to the edge of the arena. He could feel the eyes of the crowd, the weight of his family's name, the looming shadow of his own inadequacy.

"He's tiring," Gareth observed from the stands, his voice tight with a mixture of concern and frustration. "He can't keep this up."

Anya and Freya watched in silence, their usual mocking expressions replaced by something akin to worried anticipation.

Kael pressed his advantage, his attacks growing even faster, even more powerful. Liam felt a searing pain in his side – a glancing blow that had slipped past his guard. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out.

I have to do something, he thought, panic rising. I have to…

And then, he felt it. A change in Kael. A subtle shift in his energy.

It wasn't just the physical exertion of the fight. It was something… else. Something cold, something dark, something that made the hairs on the back of Liam's neck stand on end.

Kael's movements became unnaturally fast, his strength seemingly amplified beyond human limits. His eyes, normally a cold grey, now gleamed with a disturbing, almost black, light. A faint, shadowy distortion seemed to cling to him, blurring his outline, making him appear even more menacing.

"What… what is that?" Liam thought, fear and a strange, instinctive revulsion warring within him. It felt like the antithesis of his own ice magic, a perversion of power.

"He's toying with him," Kael's father, Boris Dergovia, said with a satisfied smirk, watching from the stands. But beside him. Arthur, his frown has been placed as the change on his son's rival has brought him. "that feeling…"

From the other side. Brad watches it and with fear on what would, that darkness show out. For that feeling "…is dangerous, Volgunder focus".

Kael unleashed a savage thrust, aimed directly at Liam's heart. A blow that, even with his shield, Liam knew he couldn't fully block. This was it. This was the end.