The knight trainee stumbled back, boots skidding on blood-slick stones.
Alden didn't give him a second to breathe.
He was on him—slashing, hammering, forcing the knight to defend with desperate, clumsy movements that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with survival.
Steel rang against steel, a brutal, relentless rhythm.
Alden drove him toward the wall, each blow fueled by something older than rage—something raw and wild and human.
"You think you're untouchable," Alden snarled between gritted teeth, swinging hard enough to make the knight's arm sag. "You think bloodlines make you better?"
The knight parried—but slower now, ragged.
"I survived hell," Alden growled, slashing low. The knight barely sidestepped. "I made it through."
The knight tried to counter—Alden trapped his blade, twisted, drove his knee up into the knight's stomach with a sickening crunch.
The knight gasped, folding over.
Alden ripped his sword free and drove the pommel into the side of the knight's head.
The knight crashed into the wall, stunned, blood trailing from his temple.
The blade clattered from his hand.
And suddenly it was over.
The knight sagged to the ground, breathing hard, dazed.
Alden loomed over him, sword raised.
His chest heaved. His arms shook from exhaustion.
One thrust.One flick of the wrist.He could end it.
He wanted to.
He deserved it.
For the blood. For the fear. For Sylvie.
The knight looked up at him, smirking even now, blood dripping from his mouth.
"Do it," the knight croaked. "Kill me. Prove you're the monster they already think you are."
Alden's grip tightened.
Every inch of him screamed for justice.
For revenge.
Sylvie's voice cut through the roaring in his head.
"Alden," she said, soft—but steady.Her hand touched his wrist, light as a feather.
He froze.
Breathing hard.
The world tilted.
He looked down—not at the knight—but at her.
Her eyes were full of pain. Fear. Not of him—but for him.
"If you kill him now," Sylvie said, voice trembling, "you'll lose more than your honor. You'll lose yourself."
He stared at her.
At the blood staining her sleeves.At the tears she hadn't let fall.At the quiet, desperate strength she carried like a shield.
And in that moment, Alden realized:
The real battle wasn't the one fought with steel.It was the one fought inside him.
Slowly, he lowered the blade.
The knight laughed weakly. "Pathetic."
Alden didn't respond. He kicked the knight's fallen sword away, sending it clattering into the gutter.
"Run back to your masters," Alden said, voice rough as gravel. "Tell them I'm not broken. Not yet."
The knight staggered to his feet, swaying.
He glared at Alden—and for the first time, his smile faltered.
Because he knew:Alden hadn't won by killing him.He had won by choosing not to.
The knight spat blood onto the stones and stumbled away, vanishing into the morning mist.
Alden stood there for a long moment, trembling.
The fight was over.
But the war inside him... was not.
He felt Sylvie's arms wrap around him again.
This time, he didn't resist.
He dropped Bedringer onto the bloodstained ground and sank into her, every part of him burning and broken and exhausted.
Sylvie pressed her forehead against his chest.
"You stayed," she whispered.
Tears finally slipped free down her cheeks.
And Alden—Alden let his sword fall from his hand.
For the first time, he allowed himself to cry too.
Not out of weakness.
But because he was still here.Still fighting.Still choosing.
Above them, the rising sun bathed the broken alley in light.
Not clean.
Not pure.
But real.