CHAPTER 115: BREACH OF THE BARRIER

I’d braced myself for flames licking the barricades, for rival factions pouring through the gates with blades drawn, or for some nightmare beast clawing its way out of the mountainside to devour us whole.

That seemed par for the course.

What I was not prepared for, however, was the sight of the naked knight striding into the main hall with a half-dressed woman draped around his arm, both of them flushed and gasping like they’d just wrestled a bear in the broom closet.

And when I say half-dressed, I mean truly half-dressed: stockings and disheveled skirts, hair in wild tangles, lips bruised like cherries.

The knight, on the other hand, seemed more radiant than I’d ever seen him, chest puffed, chin held high, as though the entire siege had been staged merely as backdrop for his latest conquest.

Now, I know I should have said something noble, something along the lines of "this is hardly the time" or "the enemy is at our gates," but instead what came out of my mouth was: "Really? Now?"

My voice cracked on the last word, because the absurdity of the situation had sucker-punched me right in the throat. Nara, still flushed from his transformation and clutching his dagger like it was both weapon and security blanket, let out a soft giggle, which only worsened my humiliation.

The knight, unbothered, strode toward me with casual dignity. "Worry not my lady," he boomed, as though the presence of panicked attendants and arming soldiers weren’t happening all around us. "I stand ready for battle."

I glanced at him, then at the woman adjusting her bodice with all the subtlety of a street vendor rearranging cabbages, and raised a single skeptical brow. "You sure?"

To his credit, he didn’t even flinch. "Of course. The battlefield, much like the bedroom, waits for no man."

I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose, because I had neither the patience nor the fortitude to engage with that line of thinking. Instead, I grabbed a longsword from a nearby rack and shoved it toward him. "Here. Try to at least look prepared while you’re delivering innuendos."

He froze, staring at the weapon as though I’d offered him a dead rat. "No," he said simply.

I stared. "No?"

He puffed his chest even higher, shaking his head with the self-seriousness of a bard mid-ballad. "The only sword fit for me is my own."

It was at that moment that my soul threatened to depart my body out of sheer exasperation. "You know what, fine. Whatever. Go out there and fight the hordes with your—what—your sheer charm? I’m sure the enemy will swoon on sight."

He laughed, pat the woman on the back, and strode off toward the courtyard as though victory itself were guaranteed by his bare chest alone. I rolled my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they didn’t roll right out of my skull and onto the floor.

"We’re all going to die," I muttered, mostly to myself.

Still, I motioned for Nara to follow, and together we pushed through the doors and into the open air.

What greeted me was not what I’d expected. Not fire, not monsters, not even the Lady’s mindless thralls. No, what I saw froze me where I stood.

Fitch.

The boy strolled through the wreckage like he was out for a late evening walk. Not a fleck of soot marred his shoes, not a hair out of place, and that same cursed whistle curled from his lips in lazy, mocking notes that seemed to dance above the smoke.

The survivors and defenders who had rallied in the courtyard swarmed at him, blades flashing, relics glowing, voices raised in desperate shouts. And Fitch — Fitch with his hands still stuffed in his pockets — moved among them like they were children’s toys scattered on the floor.

The first man lunged with a spear. Fitch shifted his weight by the barest tilt of his shoulder, and the weapon whooshed past harmlessly. He whistled a jaunty little trill, and before the soldier could recover, Fitch flicked his leg, tripping the man flat on his face.

Two more came at him from either side, blades raised high. He ducked lazily, bent at the waist in a motion that looked more like a yawn than a dodge, and their swords clashed together where his head had been.

"Clumsy," he muttered under the whistle, his voice carrying just enough to make my skin crawl.

And then the mages came, excarnic casters of a wide variety.

One woman flung a ripple of sound that shivered the air like cracked glass. A man traced glowing runes in the air that sought to bind his muscles. Another raised his hand and sent a spray of needle-thin shards of bone screaming across the courtyard.

Fitch yawned. Actually yawned. Then stepped lazily aside, letting the shards scatter into the dirt. The ripple of sound broke itself against him as though hitting a stone wall, the runes fizzled and died before they even touched his skin.

With each dodge, each nonchalant sway, he whistled harder, his tune weaving mockery into every heartbeat of the defenders around him.

One of the braver men shouted, charging headlong with a dagger glowing green. Fitch sidestepped before delivering a roundhouse kick straight to his jaw.

"Saints preserve us," I muttered, my grip tightening on the spear. "He’s making fools of all of them."

And he was. With every passing second, bodies littered the ground — not dead, not yet, but groaning, incapacitated, humiliated.

And then I heard it.

"HEY!"

The shout rang clear above the chaos, strong and furious, and my heart leapt because I knew that voice. Salem.

Through the morning fog he came, Rodrick staggering at his side but standing nonetheless. Salem’s face was carved from fury itself, his eyes locked on the boy as though nothing else in the world mattered.

Fitch stopped and for the first time, his whistle faltered. His head tilted back, gaze sliding lazily toward Salem, and then that crooked, wicked grin stretched across his face once more. "Oh," he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. "This should be fun."

"Salem!" I shouted, voice raw. I still had the sword I’d snatched earlier clutched in my hand. Without thinking, without hesitating, I drew back my arm and hurled it across the courtyard.

Fitch shifted, just a fraction, letting the blade whistle past him. His grin widened as though amused at the attempt. But Salem — saints bless him — caught it clean out of the air, spun on his heel, and lunged straight for Fitch with a roar.

The clash was instantaneous. Fitch twisted, deflecting the blow with his bare palm, shoving Salem back with terrifying ease.

But Salem was relentless. He pressed forward again, blade darting like a viper, strikes flowing one after another, his movements sharp with fury. Fitch dodged most of them with that same infuriating laziness, but here, finally, he was forced to move. Forced to parry. Forced to take his hands out of his damn pockets.

The courtyard roared with renewed hope, competitors shouting encouragement, their fear momentarily forgotten. Salem fought like a man possessed, each strike meant to kill, each movement honed by desperation.

"Enough!" Salem roared, his voice a guttural snarl that echoed off the shattered walls. I saw his body relax, seeping into near unconsciousness.

Then, without warning, he triggered his sonic burst, a pulse of raw energy exploding through his limbs in a concussive wave that warped the air itself.

The ground trembled beneath him, cobblestones rattling as the skill ignited, his body blurring with unnatural speed, the world slowing to a crawl as he poured everything into one final, devastating slash.

His blade descended like a guillotine, aimed to cleave Fitch from shoulder to hip, the steel singing with the promise of blood.

And then—Fitch caught the blade.

With two fingers.

The ground beneath them groaned, then split open with a thunderous crack—fissures spiderwebbing outward, cobblestones buckling and erupting in a spray of dust and jagged shards.

The sheer force of their clash sent a shockwave rippling through the courtyard, knocking soldiers off their feet, their weapons clattering to the ground as they stared, wide-eyed, at the impossible scene.

Fitch held the edge of Salem’s sword as if plucking a stray thread from his cloak. His grin slipped into something colder, something that made the air itself tighten.

"Pointless," he said flatly, his voice no longer mocking but sharp with finality. "Utterly pointless."

Salem gritted his teeth, his entire body straining against the impossible grip. "Damn you," he spat.

Fitch sighed. A long, weary sound, as though the very act of acknowledging the fight had drained him of interest. "You can’t beat me. None of you can, at least not in your current states. Stop pretending otherwise."

For a moment, I thought Salem would break, would hurl himself into death rather than accept those words.

But then, slowly, he stepped back. His sword clattered to the stone. He straightened, shoulders heaving, sweat and soot streaking his face, and he whispered hoarsely, "Why are you here?"

Fitch’s grin returned, slow and sharp. He lifted one hand — one single finger — and then pointed.

Straight at me.