The formation reassembled like a machine rediscovering its rhythm.
Reserves flowed into the serrated wedge, filling the gap left by the dead. Behind the wall of shields, they melted into place with grim discipline, the arrow now turned slightly—its tip angled, its intent clear. The air was tense, every warrior locked in silence. Another reserve moved to take the exact place of the fallen. The rhythm restored. The illusion of unity preserved.
Caelvir circled like a hound in the dust. Their eyes saw nothing. His position—unknown. His direction—obvious.
From the stone gallery above, four noblemen leaned forward beneath the colored silks and banners.
"He's changed flanks," muttered Talen, his hand pressed to his brow. "And they can't see it."
"Of course he has," drawled Masquien, licking grease from his fingers. "He's not fool enough to charge the commander. That would be suicide."
Venara tilted her head. "No. It's not the commander or the flanks that interest him. The wings—somewhere deeper. Somewhere just removed from the edges."
"Middle of the line?" Faron raised a brow. "Too risky. Too uncertain."
"But safer than fighting the best," came the voice of the old noble, quiet and sharp as a whetstone. "He's looking for imperfection. Hesitation."
Caelvir noticed it too.
They were blind—but not deaf. And their unity came at a price.
Each warrior had to stay near the next—close enough to feel, to signal, to respond. But that closeness made striking back dangerous. When one was attacked, the others dared not swing blindly, fearing they'd cut into their own.
Then he saw something else.
Not all were equal. Some warriors stood unnaturally still, heads tilted, attuned to every noise, every breath. These few possessed keen hearing—placed at the flanks and the rear, where an enemy would most likely strike. The front, the edges, and the back—all guarded by precision.
But the true weakness... was within.
Midsections of the wings. Close enough to be protected, far enough not to be the first struck. Two to four men in, on either side. That was where the danger dulled.
Caelvir grabbed a fallen circular shield, lighter than he expected. He advanced—silent, steady—toward the left wing. Six feet. The glint of steel. The smell of sweat and blood.
The flank wore heavier armor—thicker plating and reinforced mail. But third from the flank? He looked soft. His stance slack. His shield grip uneven.
Caelvir crouched, stretched forward, and gently tapped the edge of his shield against the man's own. A soft, deliberate knock.
The result was immediate.
The man to the left flinched. The man to the right stirred. The one before Caelvir reacted instinctively—signaling to his comrade on the right with a tap from his left arm. It was enough. His guard shifted.
The flank warrior's head jerked. "Wait, something is—"
Steel slit flesh before the words were complete.
Caelvir's blade slid clean across his neck. The man gasped, gurgled, and collapsed into the dirt.
The arena erupted. A crescendo of roars and disbelief thundered down from the crowd.
"He used their communication against them," Venara said, eyes glittering. "A false signal. Brilliant."
"He's unraveling them one signal at a time," said the old noble. "They trust too deeply in each other."
"Or rather," Faron added, "they have no other choice."
Caelvir pressed forward.
The fourth warrior from the end, to Caelvir's left, raised his shield in time—metal on metal, jarring and loud.
Caelvir spun left, slicing the air. His opponent moved to block—
—but it was a feint.
In a blink, Caelvir reversed direction, driving his blade low and sharp into the man's left thigh. The warrior buckled with a cry, falling to his knees. Caelvir stepped close, grabbed his shoulder, and drove his blade across the neck.
Another strike came—fast—from the left. Caelvir barely raised his shield in time. Sparks flew.
Then, movement to the edge. He bolted toward the flank.
Two men. One elite. One already disoriented. He needed just a moment.
He snatched a bloodied helmet from the earth and hurled it to the right. The clang echoed through the air like a bell.
The elite warrior twitched toward the sound. The one beside him, reacting, glanced in the same direction—exactly what Caelvir wanted.
He surged forward, slashing into his right leg. A howl. A stumble.
Before the pain could fade, Caelvir twisted around and plunged his sword between the man's ribs—right through the side gap in the armor.
"He knows the armor too well," Masquien murmured.
"He's a wolf among blindfolded dogs," said Faron, eyes wide. "He's going to ruin them."
"Not yet," said Talen grimly. "He hasn't faced the left flank elite. The one with ears sharper than steel."
"Don't panic!" the commander's voice rang out from the wedge's core. "Right wing, pull back! Rear units—hold position! Left flank: hold if you can!"
But it was a concession. A strategic retreat.
The commander was abandoning the left flank.
And now, Caelvir faced the real threat.
The elite warrior.
Broad. Muscled beyond reason. His chest rising with calm breath. Sword and shield poised. Blind—but not vulnerable.
Caelvir could feel it—fatigue bleeding into every limb. His heart pounded like war drums. Each breath louder, each step harder.
The warrior could hear him.
Caelvir struck high—clang—blocked.
The elite countered low—swift, brutal. Caelvir barely deflected.
He circled, trying to flank. But the sound of his own breathing and footsteps on sand betrayed him. The man followed every step like Caelvir's body was a drumbeat.
Caelvir tried low again—useless. The warrior predicted. Countered. Blocked.
"His hearing's too strong," muttered Masquien. "He doesn't need eyes."
"He's not just hearing," said Venara. "He's anticipating."
"He's mimicking Caelvir's posture without seeing it," the old noble whispered. "As if hearing his soul."
He couldn't win like this. Not with strength. Not head-on.
Caelvir retreated, drawing back to eight feet. Circling again, wider this time. Slower.
The warrior stilled, turning his head from side to side. His ears twitched like a predator's.
Caelvir controlled his breath.
Then stopped breathing altogether.
A stillness. A hush.
Then—he launched forward.
Six feet. The warrior twitched, raising his shield.
Caelvir cut sharply left. The man adjusted—
But Caelvir stopped, pivoted, and struck high.
The warrior blocked.
And countered but not precise enough.
Caelvir didn't block.
He threw his shield into the man's face and dropped to the ground.
A single second. One breath.
On the ground, Caelvir swept his sword in an upward arc, slicing into the warrior's crotch.
Blood sprayed.
A scream.
The man dropped to his knees, staggering. Caelvir rolled to the side and hacked into his legs—left, then right. Deep cuts. Gashes.
Still, the warrior tried to strike—desperate. But Caelvir stayed low, his blade dancing just out of reach.
When the man finally collapsed, unable to rise, Caelvir stepped forward, gripped the handle tighter, and struck his upper arm, disarming him.
He stared down for a moment.
Then, cleanly, he slit his throat.
Five bodies lay motionless behind him.
Five down. Fifteen to go.
The rest had fallen back, clinging to their discipline like survivors to driftwood.
A wedge reformed—ragged, bruised, but recognizable. Four in each wing. Six reserves stood behind, ready to rotate. At its point, unshaken and grim, stood the commander.
The last of their cohesion. The last gasp of order.
Caelvir crouched behind a splintered shield, the blood-slick hilt of his sword clenched in hand.
Sweat poured into his eyes, stinging. His chest heaved with every breath.
Muscles screamed. He blinked to clear his vision—but his limbs felt leaden. Even lifting the blade was a strain now.
Still… he couldn't stop.
Not now.
The crowd was a beast, howling in bloodlust. A wall of noise, rising and rising, drowning out the world.
And amid that cacophony, he ran.
Low, fast, weaving behind the flank. Toward the outermost warrior. The perfect angle. The man wouldn't hear him in time.
He raised his blade—
Then it happened.
A group in the crowd stood, hands cupped around their mouths.
"THE ONE IN THE BACK TO THE FLANK! HE'S BESIDE YOU! STRIKE HIM!"
The words pierced the air like a trumpet blast. Not a warning. A betrayal.
The warrior spun, sword swinging in panic.
Caelvir didn't have time.
He turned—but too late.
The blade slashed across his right arm, deep and ragged.
Pain shot through him like fire. His grip loosened. The sword fell, spinning, bouncing once, then landing in the dust.
Blood ran hot down his forearm.
The pain stole his breath.
Above, the nobles rose in shock. Their eyes turned not to the arena, but to the crowd.
"That's interference!" barked Talen, slamming a fist onto the rail. "They've altered the course of battle!"
Masquien chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "Oh, they all bet on someone. Always have. In this sort of match—any yell, any whisper, can sway the outcome. Doesn't make it honorable... just inevitable."
"But permitted?" Venara asked, voice cold. "Does our law allow this?"
"Our law looks the other way when coin's involved," Faron said. "Especially when the crowd has silver on their breath and blood on their minds."
Back in the sand, Caelvir stumbled backward, clutching his ruined arm. The blood pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
His vision blurred. He looked to his right hand—useless. Fingers twitching, strength fading.
He fell to one knee.
His sword, still in the dust, glinted just beyond reach.
His left hand trembled.
"He's right-handed," said Talen grimly. "That's the arm of a duelist. Lose that, and you're done."
"Can he fight left-handed?" asked Venara. "Has he trained for it?"
"Few do," said Faron. "And fewer survive the switch."
"So what now?" Masquien muttered. "A one-handed man… against the blind. Battle of the crippled."
"No," said the old noble. His voice cut through the noise like a blade. "A crippled man… against time. He bleeds. And blood is a coward—it runs fast when fear is near."
Talen leaned forward. "That wound will drain him. Not just strength—but clarity. Give it minutes, and it won't be a matter of skill. It will be a matter of whether he can even stand."
The commander, breathing heavily, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Around him, the surviving blind warriors stood frozen, their senses straining beyond the hum of their formation.
Then one of them spoke, voice laced with dawning clarity,
"The crowd… they told him."
Another hissed in response, "They saw him—warned us before we ever could've heard him."
Even the commander said nothing to rebuke the claim. It was undeniable.
The decisive blow hadn't come from instinct or formation.
It had come from the voices above.
And now, in the midst of darkness and deception, those voices had become a lifeline.
The crowd had eyes. And the blind were listening.