Titan

Under the pale glow of the full moon, the castle stood in silent majesty, its towering walls bathed in silvery light. It was an imposing structure, its high towers reaching toward the heavens like the grasping fingers of some ancient titan. Shadows clung to the base of the structure, shifting as a faint breeze moved through the trees lining the castle’s perimeter. Among those shadows, nearly imperceptible in the gloom, figures waited. Six or seven of them—silent, unmoving. Above, patrolling the ramparts, were the castle’s sentries—Egorks. Hulking creatures with the brutish features of Orcs and the sheer bulk of Trolls. Their eyes glowed dimly under the moonlight, reflecting an unnatural yellow. Their armour, pieced together from crude metal plates, rattled as they moved along the stone parapets, oblivious to the doom that lurked below. Then, all at once, their world ended. Arrows cut through the night like whispers of death, striking their marks with terrifying precision. One by one, the Egorks crumpled, their bodies toppling soundlessly from the walls before they could so much as cry out. A heartbeat later, four grappling hooks soared skyward, their steel claws catching the stone at the summit of the castle walls. Ropes stretched taut, thick enough to bear the weight of two men each. From the shadows, four figures sprang into action. They moved with the practised efficiency of seasoned infiltrators, slipping through the darkness like ghosts. Three men and a woman, all in their early twenties, each distinct in their battle-worn attire. The first was an archer, his quiver packed with lethal projectiles. The second; a swordsman, twin blades hanging from either side of his belt. The third was a towering brute, a massive battle-axe strapped to his back. The woman? She carried no visible weapon, but there was something lethal in the way she moved, a coiled serpent waiting to strike. They scaled the walls swiftly, their movements fluid. The archer reached the top first, followed closely by the swordsman, then the woman, and finally the man with the axe. Without a word, the archer and the swordsman separated, each slipping into the shadows, while the others descended quietly into the courtyard below. Atlan Deharas, the swordsman, moved like a phantom through the castle corridors, his hood casting half of his face in darkness. He navigated past guards, his steps making no more sound than a breath of wind. His target lay ahead—a locked chamber, the keyhole glinting faintly in the moonlight. He retrieved a pin and worked it into the lock. A quiet click and the door creaked open. Empty. A sigh escaped his lips. “Not here, then.” He muttered. “I guess Rickon was right this time.” He turned to leave, but fate had other plans. The moment he stepped into the hallway, a pair of yellow eyes caught sight of him. A growl rumbled from the throat of an Egork guard, followed by a barked command. Atlan moved instantly, darting down the hall before the alarm could be raised. But luck was fickle, and tonight, it had abandoned him. A dozen Egorks blocked his escape, forming a solid wall of flesh and steel. At their centre stood a figure Atlan recognized all too well. Momor. The Egork commander grinned, his jagged teeth gleaming. In one massive hand, he clutched the collar of a young boy—no older than twelve. The boy struggled but was powerless against Momor’s iron grip. “Well, well, well,” Momor drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “Fate has finally delivered you to me, Atlan Deharas.” Atlan exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. “Momor,” he mused, feigning nonchalance. “I’d love to stay and reminisce about old times, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Like that time with your jaw.” He nodded toward the crude stitches that ran along Momor’s face. “Ha! You finally got it patched up.” Momor’s grin didn’t waver. If anything, it widened. “Tell you what,” Atlan continued. “You let me and the kid walk out of here, and I won’t have to kill every single one of you.” Laughter erupted among the Egorks, the sound guttural and cruel. “You flatter yourself, Atlan,” Momor chuckled. “There are over a hundred of us. How do you intend to escape?” Atlan sighed dramatically. “So that’s a no?” Momor’s grin turned wicked. “I have a better idea. A duel.” Atlan arched an eyebrow. “I’m listening.” “One-on-one combat.” He smirked. “Go on.” “Unarmed.” Atlan’s smirk faltered slightly. He had bested plenty of Egorks unarmed before. This was nothing new. “To the death.” Atlan hesitated for a fraction of a second before scoffing. “What am I supposed to do? Beat him to death? That’s a little excessive, even for you.” Momor’s eyes gleamed. “With your hands tied behind your back.” The Egorks roared with laughter. Atlan’s smirk vanished completely. “What?!” “For the prince,” Momor added, shaking the boy slightly for emphasis. Atlan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You know, you could’ve just told your boss you didn’t want to work with him anymore. Why all the theatrics?” A massive Egork stepped forward, brandishing a two-handed battle axe. Atlan exhaled through his nose. “Great.” *** Elsewhere in the castle, Rickon—the brute with the axe—secured a small object in his bag. As he turned, he spotted Diane moving swiftly toward him. “Did you get it?” she asked. Rickon nodded. “Yeah, but we have a problem. Atlan’s in trouble.” Diane frowned. “Harold should be covering him, right?” “That’s the thing. I haven’t seen him.” Diane sighed. “Of course not.” Rickon clenched his jaw. “We need to move. Now.” She nodded, her eyes alight with determination. “Lead the way.” *** Back in the courtyard, a circle of Egorks had formed around Atlan and his opponent. He studied the scene, mind working fast. He didn’t trust Momor to keep his word, but he couldn’t make a move until Harold, their archer, gave him an opening. Momor still had his hand on the prince’s shoulder. That was a problem. The Egork could sprout spikes from his body. If Atlan attacked too soon, the prince could die. Two Egorks stepped forward and wrenched Atlan’s arms behind his back, binding them tightly. He didn’t resist. He didn’t need his hands to win this fight. His opponent—a mountain of muscle and malice—raised his axe high, roaring as the crowd erupted into cheers. Atlan sighed. “Here we go.” The axe came down.