A murmur rippled through the crowd.

---

The leader turned to Lyonel, his eyes piercing.

---

"The prophecy speaks thus:"

"The one who is rescued by the shadow, yet he is the honor of the mountains,

The one who is born in the defeat of his father, yet is his true legacy,

The one whose blood is scorned upon, yet his bloodline is sacred,

The one whose birth was war, yet he shall be the champion of peace,

The test of Gunhold is his reckoning—

He shall be the one true Ohald Oheld."

---

The clansmen leaned in, their breath held.

"This man," the leader continued, pointing at Lyonel, "was spared by the soul of the mountain—the black shadowcat. He may be the one foretold."

Lyonel’s mind raced.

A prophecy?

About him?

The greybeard drew a knife, stepping forward. With a single, fluid motion, he sliced through Lyonel’s bonds.

The ropes fell away, and Lyonel flexed his wrists, his fingers curling around the hilt of Black Oath as it was pressed into his hand.

"The Gunhold begins," the leader announced, his voice ringing through the night.

"You will face the five clan leaders and the representative warriors of the other five clans. You will fight one, then two, then three, and finally four—each battle harder than the last. Sparring, but to the edge of ****."

Lyonel exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

A trial by combat.

He had faced worse.

He rose to his feet, Black Oath gleaming in the firelight.

The clansmen formed a circle around the sparring area, their eyes hungry, their voices a low rumble of anticipation.

Lyonel took his stance, his blade held ready.

He would not back down.

The first warrior stepped forward.

The Gunhold had begun.

---

The firelight flickered across the circle of warriors, their breath misting in the cold mountain air.

The first challenger stepped forward—a towering figure, his fiery reddish hair and beard braided with iron rings, his bare arms corded with muscle.

He stood nearly seven feet tall, his chest barrel-like, his legs as thick as tree trunks.

A greataxe rested easily in his grip, its edge gleaming with the promise of ****.

"I am Hogna of the Redsmith Clan!" he boomed, his voice like the roar of a forge.

"And I will break you like iron on the anvil!"

Lyonel didn’t flinch.

He rolled his shoulders, Black Oath held loosely at his side, his stance relaxed but ready.

The clansmen formed a tight ring around them, their murmurs hushing as the two warriors circled each other.

Hogna was rash.

That much was clear from the way he shifted his weight, his fingers twitching on the haft of his axe.

He didn’t wait for strategy—he charged.

The greataxe came down in a brutal arc, aimed to cleave Lyonel in two.

Lyonel sidestepped, the wind of the swing rustling his cloak as he pivoted away.

Hogna didn’t pause—he spun, the axe swinging horizontally this time.

Lyonel ducked, feeling the bite of the wind as the blade passed inches above his head.

The crowd roared.

Hogna pressed the attack, his strikes wild but powerful, each swing meant to crush bone.

Lyonel danced back, his movements fluid, his eyes locked on Hogna’s left flank.

Every time the giant swung, his left side opened—just for a heartbeat, but it was enough.

Lyonel feinted right, then lunged left, Black Oath flashing like silver lightning.

The dagger found flesh, slicing a shallow cut across Hogna’s ribs.

The big man hissed, more in surprise than pain, and redoubled his efforts.

His next swing was faster, but Lyonel was ready.

He parried with his forearm, the impact numbing his arm, then drove forward, his shoulder slamming into Hogna’s midsection.

The giant staggered, and Lyonel seized the moment.

He hooked Hogna’s leg with his own, then shoved.

The warrior crashed onto his back, the greataxe flying from his grip.

Before Hogna could recover, Lyonel was on him, Black Oath pressed to his throat.

"Yield," Lyonel commanded, his voice steady.

Hogna’s chest heaved, his eyes burning with fury—but he nodded.

Lyonel stepped back, offering the man a hand.

"You fight with the strength of a bear, Hogna."

Hogna took his hand, hauling himself up, a grudging respect flickering in his gaze.

"Aye. Next time, I’ll defeat you."

The clansmen cheered, some in approval, others in disappointment.

---

The next challengers were not brute forces—they were leaders.

Dagnar, the grey-bearded chieftain of the Sons of the Tree, stepped forward first, his longsword held in a two-handed grip, his stance balanced and measured.

Beside him, Gydel of the Sons of the Mist moved like a ghost, twin curved daggers glinting in his hands, his footwork silent as falling snow.

Lyonel exhaled, rolling his neck.

Two against one.

And these were no reckless warriors—they were seasoned killers.

The fight began slowly, almost dancelike.

Dagnar pressed forward, his sword testing Lyonel’s defenses, while Gydel cirled, looking for an opening.

Lyonel parried Dagnar’s first strike, then twisted to avoid Gydel’s darting blade.

The clansmen watched in silence, their breath held.

Dagnar was strong, his strikes precise and controlled, but Lyonel noticed something—his legs.

The old warrior favored his right, his left knee stiffening slightly after each lunge.

Gydel, meanwhile, was fast, his daggers a blur, but he telegraphed his feints with a slight shift of his shoulders.

Lyonel let them come.

He blocked Dagnar’s overhead slash, then ducked as Gydel’s daggers whipped toward his ribs.

He countered with a quick slash of Black Oath, forcing Gydel back.

Dagnar pressed the advantage, but Lyonel sidestepped, his boot kicking a loose stone into the chieftain’s path.

Dagnar’s left foot caught it, his knee buckling—just for a second.

It was enough.

Lyonel lunged, Black Oath flashing.

He disarmed Dagnar with a sharp twist, sending the longsword clattering to the ground.

Gydel hissed and dove, but Lyonel was ready—he caught the dagger-wielder’s wrist, twisted, and slammed him onto his back.

Before Gydel could recover, Lyonel pressed his dagger to the man’s throat.

"Yield," Lyonel said, his voice firm but not cruel.

Dagnar, breathing hard, nodded.

"Aye. You fight like a man who’s seen too many battles."

Gydel, his chest rising and falling rapidly, gritted his teeth but relented.

"You’re good. Too good."

Lyonel stepped back, offering them both a hand up.

"I don’t want to kill you."

The two leaders exchanged glances, then accepted his hands, pulling themselves up.

The crowd murmured, some in awe, others in frustration.

---

Lyonel wiped sweat from his brow, his muscles burning, his breath coming faster.

The first two trials had been grueling, but he knew what came next—three opponents, then four.

He could feel the fatigue creeping in, his limbs heavy, his reactions slower.

But he gritted his teeth.

He had come too far to falter now.

The clansmen parted as the next warriors stepped forward.

The Gunhold continued.

---

The firelight cast long, wavering shadows as the next three warriors stepped forward.

Each was a clan leader in their own right—serpent-tattooed warriors of the Milk Snakes, a paint-smeared brute from the Painted Dogs, and a tall, gaunt fighter from the Moon Brothers, his silver arm rings glinting like stars in the dark.

Lyonel’s breath was ragged, his muscles screaming from the previous battles, but he dug deep.

He had to endure.

The Milk Snake struck first, his curved blade hissing through the air.

Lyonel parried, the impact shuddering up his arm, but he twisted, letting the momentum carry him away from the Painted Dog’s wild swing.

The Moon Brother was patient, circling, waiting for an opening.

Lyonel feinted left, then ducked as the Painted Dog’s mace whistled overhead.

He rolled, coming up inside the Milk Snake’s guard, and Black Oath flashed—a shallow cut across the warrior’s ribs. The man hissed, but didn’t falter.

The Moon Brother lunged, his spear aimed for Lyonel’s gut.

Lyonel caught the shaft, twisted, and yanked, sending the warrior stumbling.

The Painted Dog roared and charged, but Lyonel sidestepped, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs.

A crack, a gasping breath, and the brute doubled over.

The Milk Snake came at him again, but Lyonel was ready.

He parried, countered, and slammed the warrior to the ground, Black Oath at his throat.

"Yield," he growled.

The man nodded, breathless.

The Painted Dog was still gasping, clutching his side, and the Moon Brother—disarmed—stepped back, his hands raised.

Lyonel panted, sweat stinging his eyes.

He had won, but the cost was mounting.

His arms trembled, his legs unsteady.

He had one more trial to face.

And it would be the hardest.

---

The last four warriors stepped into the circle, their reputations preceding them.

The Burned Man, his face scarred from ritual flames, a burnt eye milky and blind, his axe gleaming.

The Stone Crow, his arms wrapped in leather straps, his silence unnerving, his mace heavy.

The Howler, his mouth stretched in a permanent snarl, his war cries said to shatter nerves before battle.

The Black Ear, his ears ritually severed, his dual short swords flashing like fangs.

Lyonel gripped Black Oath, his knuckles white.

He was exhausted, his body screaming, but he refused to fall.

The Howler struck first, letting out a piercing shriek as he lunged.

Lyonel flinched—just for a second—but it was enough.

The Burned Man charged, his axe swinging wild. Lyonel blocked, the impact numbing his arm, but he used the Burned Man’s blindness—feinting high, then striking low, Black Oath slashing across the warrior’s thigh.

The man roared, staggering, but didn’t fall.

The Stone Crow moved in silence, his mace crashing toward Lyonel’s skull.

Lyonel ducked, but the Howler was there, his dagger grabbing for Lyonel’s side.

Lyonel twisted, caught the Howler’s wrist, and slammed him into the Black Ear, sending both stumbling.

The Burned Man recovered, snarling, his axe arcing down.

Lyonel parried, but his arms were lead, his reactions slowing.

He countered, driving the warrior back, but the Stone Crow was there again, mace swinging.

Lyonel blocked, but the impact sent him to one knee.

The Howler howled and dived, but Lyonel rolled, Black Oath slashing across the warrior’s calf.

The Howler screamed, collapsing.

Three left.

The Burned Man limped, but his axe was still deadly.

The Stone Crow circled, mace ready.

The Black Ear grinned, swords twirling.

Lyonel pushed himself up, blood dripping from a dozen cuts, his vision swimming.

He had to end this.

He feinted at the Burned Man, then spun, Black Oath flicking toward the Black Ear’s throat.

The warrior parried, but Lyonel kicked, sending him stumbling toward the cliff’s edge.

The Stone Crow struck.

Lyonel turned—too late.

The mace crashed into his back, sending him sprawling.

He hit the ground hard, his breath knocked from his lungs.

The Black Ear seized the moment, swords flashing—

A dark shape pounced.

The shadowcat—the same beast that had spared his life—leaped onto the Stone Crow, its jaws clamping around his throat.

The man gurgled, collapsing, his blood spraying as the beast tore into him.

The Black Ear hesitated—just for a second—but Lyonel rolled, kicking the warrior’s legs out from under him.

The Black Ear screamed as he toppled over the cliff, his cry fading into the abyss.

Silence.

Lyonel panted, his body broken, his vision blurring.

He had won.

The Burned Man stared at him, then nodded once before limping away.

Lyonel tried to stand—

His legs gave out.

He collapsed, his consciousness fading as the firelight dimmed around him.

---

The first thing he saw was the sky.

It was a vast, endless expanse of twilight, painted in hues of deep violet and burning gold, the horizon blurred where the heavens met the sea.

The water below was a mirror of liquid silver, its surface rippling gently with the breath of the wind.

And then—a star fell.

Not a shooting star, fleeting and gone in an instant, but a slow, deliberate descent, a trail of golden fire cutting through the sky like a blade.

It grew brighter as it fell, its light reflecting off the waves, turning the sea into a canvas of molten gold.

Lyonel watched, transfixed, as the star struck the water, sending up a plume of steam and light, the impact resonating through him like the toll of a distant bell.

The waves surged, and for a moment, the sea seemed to breathe, as if the star had awakened something deep beneath the surface.

Then, the vision shifted.

---

He stood in a vast, open desert, the sand golden beneath a blood-red sky.

The air smelled of dust and iron, the scent of battle lingering like a ghost.

Before him, a lion—massive, its mane a blazing halo of gold—stood tall and proud, its muscles rippling beneath its tawny fur.

But it was wounded.

Spears jutted from its flank, dark blood staining its pelt, its breath coming in ragged, pained gasps.

The lion roared, a sound of defiance and agony, its golden eyes burning with fury as it turned to face its unseen attackers.

Lyonel could feel its pain, its pride, the way it refused to fall even as the spears bit deeper.

It lashed out with its claws, tearing at the air, as if it could rip the very sky apart.

But the wounds were too great. With a final, shuddering breath, the lion collapsed, its body crumpling into the dust, its mane spreading around it like a fallen crown.

Lyonel’s chest ached, as if the lion’s pain were his own.

---

The desert dissolved, and suddenly, he was standing in a cavernous hall, the walls lined with torches that cast flickering, monstrous shadows.

The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and something darker—blood and magic.

At the center of the hall, a fire roared in a massive stone hearth, its flames twisting and writhing like living things.

And before the fire stood a woman.

She was stunning, her beauty both alluring and terrifying.

Her dress was a cascade of blazing red and black, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin, shimmering as if woven from the flames themselves.

Her hair was a wild mane of fiery red, strands of it catching the firelight, making it seem as though her very being was aflame.

Her lips were painted the color of fresh blood, curled into a beautiful sneer, her green eyes gleaming with a cold, ancient intelligence.

She began to chant, her voice a low, melodic hum that resonated through the hall, through Lyonel’s bones.

The words were not in any tongue he knew, but he felt them, the syllables wrapping around him like chains, heavy with power and promise.

The fire responded to her voice, its flames surging higher, twisting into shapes—dragons, lions, faces he almost recognized.

The heat was suffocating, but Lyonel couldn’t look away.

He was drawn to her, to the way her fingers moved as she chanted, the way her sneer deepened as the fire roared in answer.

And then, she turned her gaze to him.

Her eyes locked onto his, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped.

There was recognition there, a knowing smirk, as if she had been waiting for him.

The fire flared one final time, its light blinding, and then—

---

The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of smoke, fur, and something wild—like the musk of a beast.

Lyonel groaned as consciousness seeped back into him, his body aching as if he’d been trampled by horses.

His fingers twitched against the rough fabric beneath him, and he blinked against the dim light filtering through the hide flaps.

Then, he felt it—a warm, heavy weight pressed against his side.

He turned his head.

A massive black shadowcat lay curled beside him, its red eyes slitted in sleep, its chest rising and falling with deep, rumbling snores.

The beast’s fur was soft beneath his fingers, its presence oddly comforting.

Lyonel exhaled, his mind racing.

Why was it here?

He pushed himself up slowly, his muscles protesting, and stepped out of the tent.

The cold mountain air hit him like a slap, but he welcomed it.

The camp was alive with activity—warriors sharpening blades, women tending fires, children darting between the tents.

His eyes landed on Dagnar, the grey-bearded leader of the Sons of the Tree, standing near a massive bed of rough bearskin stretched over a frame of sturdy branches.

The old warrior was supervising a group of clansmen as they secured the last of the hides, his expression focused.

Dagnar turned, his sharp eyes locking onto Lyonel.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

"You live," he said, his voice gruff with approval.

"Come. Walk with me."

Lyonel fell into step beside him, his limbs stiff but obedient.

"How long was I out?"

"Since the night of the Gunhold," Dagnar replied.

"The shadowcat would not leave your side. It snarled at any who came near."

He chuckled.

"Seems the beast has claimed you."

Lyonel glanced back at the tent, where the shadowcat still slept, its tail flicking lazily.

"Why?"

Dagnar’s gaze was unreadable.

"The old tales say the shadowcats choose those who are marked by the mountains. You survived the Gunhold. You fought like a man of the clans. Perhaps the beast sees something in you we do not."

He clapped Lyonel on the shoulder.

"But that is a question for another time. The second part of the Gunhold awaits."

Lyonel’s stomach twisted.

"Second part?"

Dagnar didn’t answer.

Instead, he led Lyonel back to the center of the camp, where the massive bed of bearskin now stood completed, the fires burning bright around it.

The clansfolk gathered, their voices hushing as Dagnar raised his hands.

"The Gunhold tests a man against men," Dagnar announced, his voice carrying over the crowd.

"But the true test of a man is not only in battle."

His eyes flicked to Lyonel, a knowing glint in them.

"The true test of a man and a woman... is in the fucking."

A riotous, raucous cheer erupted from the clansmen, their laughter raw and approving.

Lyonel’s blood ran cold.

Before he could protest, strong hands seized him, forcing him onto the bed of furs.

His wrists were bound to the tree trunks framing the bed, the ropes biting into his skin.

He tugged, but the knots held fast.

Dagnar’s voice cut through the noise.

"You proved yourself against the men of the ten clans, stranger. Now, you must prove yourself against the women."

Lyonel’s breath hitched as movement caught his eye.

---

From the shadows of the tents, ten women emerged—four blondes, their hair like pale fire in the light of the flames; four redheads, their fiery locks cascading over their shoulders; and two dark-haired women, their eyes gleaming like polished obsidian.

Each was beautiful in a rugged, untamed way, their bodies lean and strong, their skin marked with the scars and tattoos of their clans.

They crawled toward him, their movements fluid and predatory, their naked forms gleaming in the firelight.

The clansmen roared in approval, their voices a thunderous chorus of anticipation.

Lyonel swallowed hard, his mind racing.

This was not a battle he had trained for.

---