Chapter 11: Descent

The alley was silent—no cheers, no music—just the ragged breaths of Fen and the sound of his blood dripping onto cold stone.

Drip.

The Valkyrie moved.

Like a blade loosed from its scabbard, the hooded figure closed the gap in a blink, sword arcing through the air in a dance of death. Fen raised his axe—small, chipped, and dulled from past fights—and barely deflected the strike. Sparks flew, and he staggered back.

She didn't stop.

Another slash, this one faster. Fen spun, his arm aching as he parried the edge away from his ribs. The axe handle cracked slightly under the force.

Another.

She moved with grace, each step sure, each attack a precise, brutal ballet. Fen was forced back step by step, surviving on instinct, training, and sheer stubborn will. His back hit the stone wall again—no more room to retreat.

He countered, swinging the axe low. She jumped. He followed up high. She spun under it and kicked him in the gut. He dropped to one knee, coughing.

His runic stone—his last spark of real power—hung from his neck, dim and lifeless.

"Come on," he gasped, trying to shake power from the stone, but it was drained. Just like him.

He raised the axe again, barely catching another blow. The blade scraped the edge of his hooded helm, slicing a lock of hair free. Blood trickled from his shoulder now, his legs trembling.

She advanced again.

To anyone watching, it would've looked like the Valkyrie was fighting a child in a costume. And the one in the mask—the one dressed like a god—was the one about to fall.

Still, Fen held his ground. Even as his vision blurred. Even as his grip weakened.

The Valkyrie advanced with terrifying skill and unrelenting force. Each swing of her blade came down like a thunderclap, steel clashing against Fen's small axe, sparks flying.

The first strike nearly knocked him off his feet. The second rattled through his bones. The third was a savage diagonal cut that chipped and cracked the runes on his weapon.

Then came the fourth.

A brutal, overhead swing—raw and final. Fen raised his axe in desperation, but the blow shattered what remained of it. His weapon flew from his hands, split in two, clattering into the shadows.

Fen collapsed hard onto the cold cobblestones, gasping, blood streaking his side and neck. He groaned, limbs shaking, pain screaming from every joint.

With a desperate breath, he pushed his back against the floor, dragging himself away from her—away from death.

The Valkyrie stepped forward—deliberate, steady—her blade humming with power. She wasn't rushing. She was ending this.

Each step she took echoed like a drumbeat of fate. Her sword raised again, gleaming in the daylight. It wasn't just an execution.

It was domination.

Fen looked down at his trembling hands, broken axe gone, costume torn, and blood soaking into his borrowed cape. He was dressed as the mighty Thor—but the one who looked like a god of war was the figure walking toward him.

Fen, still wearing the crooked helm of Thor, looked up at her with fading defiance.

He had no weapon. No strength. Just blood and breath.