Two moons had passed since Solomon, Henry, and Damian took refuge within the shadowed halls of the Dark Lord's hold, accompanied by their beloved wives and the ever-watchful guards, Mahir and Idris. In that time, the brothers immersed themselves in relentless training under the Dark Lord's fearsome guidance, pushing the limits of both body and spirit.
While the brothers honed their skills, Mahir and Idris ventured beyond the mountains, tasked with uncovering the state of Emberhaven and the movements of the Persian Empire. Their mission was not only one of information, but of strategy—to seek the scattered embers of resistance, to whisper in the ears of willing warriors, and to find a way to forge a new army. For no matter how strong the brothers had become, the tides of war could not be turned by strength alone.
Within the hidden stronghold, the sun had long passed its peak, and the clang of steel echoed through the great courtyard. Solomon, Henry, and Damian had been sparring since the rise of dawn, their limbs moving with precision and power born of tireless training. Each clash brought sparks, each motion more refined than the last.
Damian gave his all to keep pace, but the truth gnawed at his resolve—he was not like them. His strength lay in the arcane, his soul woven with magic more than steel. No matter how fiercely he fought, he could feel it—Solomon and Henry had transcended the realm of mortals. Their movements, their power, even their presence had changed. They no longer moved like men, but like legends stepping out of prophecy.
And though Damian held great magic within him, he could only watch in silent awe, knowing that he was sparring not with brothers—but with forces the world was no longer prepared for.
"What in the blazes, man… nah, I'm out," Damian panted, stumbling back and lowering his blade in defeat. Sweat clung to his brow as he dropped out of the sparring ring, chest heaving. The duel had pushed him past his limits.
Though Damian had come far—his command over magic growing sharper with each day—his mortal frame and reliance on arcane arts made it hard to keep pace with the twins. Solomon and Henry had begun to move like wind and flame, their blades dancing faster than sight.
Still locked in their bout with Pyro, the twins pressed on. Their movements were fluid, precise—yet it was clear they hadn't reached the height of their strength. Their full potential, like a beast sleeping deep within, had yet to awaken.
Pyro stepped back, laughing lightly as he parried one of Solomon's strikes.
"You've both come far," he said, admiration flickering in his voice. "In all my years, I've never seen pupils match my speed in so short a time. Ezra would be proud—his faith in you was not misplaced."
But Solomon and Henry barely heard a word. Their minds had drifted elsewhere—beyond the clang of steel and the sting of sweat.
All they could think of was the feast being prepared for them. The scent of fire-roasted meats and warm bread filled their thoughts. Ariel, Nahar, and Reina were no doubt hard at work in the kitchens, and the promise of food sang louder than any compliment from their master.
They fought on, stomachs growling louder than their war cries.
"Strike me once, and the feast is yours," Pyro said with a grin, his tone playful yet laced with challenge.
The words struck a nerve in Solomon and Henry. Though their growth had been immense over the past moons, not once had they managed to lay even a scratch upon their master. The taunt stung—but it ignited something deeper within them.
Today, that would change.
Without a word, the twins surged forward, their boots cracking the earth beneath them as raw energy burst from their forms. Blades drawn, they moved as one—perfect harmony in motion. Their swords carved arcs through the air, glinting like lightning. With each heartbeat, their speed grew—faster, sharper—until even the wind struggled to follow them.
Pyro's confident stance faltered as his eyes widened.
"Impossible..." he murmured, stepping back, his instincts screaming. In the blink of an eye, his students had surpassed the speed of mortals—and even his own.
He raised a hand.
"Enough. Go, enjoy your meal."
His voice was steady, but laced with awe.
Solomon and Henry didn't hesitate. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread pulled them like sirens in the mist. Victory, they knew, didn't always come through blood.
As they vanished toward the kitchens, Pyro remained behind, eyes locked on the thin line of red across his arm. He hadn't even felt the blow—because none had landed. The wound had been carved by the sheer force of Solomon's blade's aura.
He exhaled slowly.
"Had I let it continue... that strike would have been fatal."
And for the first time in a long while, Pyro understood—true power had awakened.