Chapter 35 : In the Company of Water

The Gaud estate did not stand as a fortress by stone and steel alone, but by the iron-willed defenders who nested within its walls. Its grand gates, wrought not for war but as a testament to lineage and legacy, had long been a symbol of House Gaud’s pride—ornate and towering, yet untouched by true siege. But now, in the hush before battle’s storm, those very gates were riven asunder in a single thunderous strike.

The sound of splintering oak echoed like a war-drum across the courtyard.

The warriors of Narok, until then disciplined in their march, erupted in triumphant roar. The air crackled with newfound fervor, their hearts buoyed by the miracle they had just witnessed. That gate—an emblem of noble arrogance—had been humbled by a single spell. Conversely, though no cries came from behind the ruined portal, one could imagine the silence of Gaud’s soldiers, struck dumb by the sight. What hope remained when even their gates failed them?

Bruno, seasoned and stalwart, found himself murmuring in awe. “You claimed you no longer needed the water cart… and I see now you were right.”

Curtis, the spellcaster once thought merely precise, now loomed in the minds of all as a force of nature itself. Yet his voice was calm, his expression unreadable.

“An abundance of water,” he replied, “does not mean boundless power. There is only so much one mage can will.”

He spoke not in boast, but in clarity. “Before, when the firecaller sowed infernos with reckless abandon, I needed swift access—tools for a swift response. But today, we hold the windward ground.”

In truth, his communion with the water spirit had rendered barrels and carts obsolete. Now, the very air, thick with brine and sea-spray, whispered to him. If ever he needed more, the spirit within his hidden reservoir would answer. To all others, it would seem conjuration from the heavens themselves.

“You’ve grown stronger,” Bruno said at last, eyes narrowed with soldier’s instinct.

“Perhaps,” Curtis allowed. “But here, the air clings with the sea’s breath. Every step I take stirs the tide. That alone aids me more than any spellbook.”

Terity, ever watchful, asked, “So it is the air that grants you this edge?”

Curtis nodded once. “There is water in all things. Even now, it gathers around us, waiting to be shaped.”

Their conversation wove between the measured advance of the Narok host. No one charged blindly. Though the gate was gone, the threat of hidden crossbows remained. They moved in calculated formations—like wolves approaching a den.

As they passed the ruined gateway, a barricade cobbled together in haste revealed itself beyond. Curtis raised a hand. The water pooled from the earlier assault stirred, as if roused by a silent command. It surged forward—not with brute force, but as a lash of vengeance—and swept the makeshift defenses away in a single crashing blow.

Silver-ranked warriors led the vanguard into the courtyard, bronze-shielded fighters at their backs. Once inside, they fanned out, forming a crescent of steel and discipline, making way for Curtis, Bruno, and Terity.

Across the grounds, Gaud’s remaining strength assembled. A half-circle of defenders, their formation broken by gardens and statuary, lined the estate’s breadth. Though proud, their footing was uneven, their numbers thinned.

Bruno’s gaze found a familiar silhouette.

“Marcus!” he roared, his voice a herald’s call.

From beyond the ranks came a bellow in answer. “Bruno, you wretch! You bring ruin to my gate and dare summon me by name?”

“You forget who struck first, Marcus,” Bruno replied coolly. “Now you reap the storm you sowed.”

“Silence, mongrel! We are not defeated yet!”

“Oh? Then where is your fireborn champion? Dead, is she not?” Bruno’s words fell like a blade, clean and cruel.

Marcus fumed. The mention of Redna, their vanquished pyromancer, was a dagger in his pride. Bruno pressed on.

“Spare your men, Marcus. Send out your best—or send them to die.”

“You crow over a single victory, as if the gods themselves favor you!”

But Marcus, behind the bluster, saw only one path: a final gamble. One clean duel between elites might yet salvage what pride remained.

Bruno understood just as well. A bloody siege would serve neither house. Best to end it with honor.

And so, from both sides, champions stepped forward—cloaked in steel, their ranks gleaming with prestige. Twenty-six from Gaud. Twenty-eight from Narok. The finest warriors in all of Nizerte. A single breath could tip the scales.

Curtis stepped back with Terity, the two exchanging silent words. They would intervene only as needed. War, after all, was not always won by swords alone.

Then, the charge.

Steel clashed against steel. Sparks leapt from the clash of blades. This was no frenzied melee. This was artistry—a deadly waltz of masters.

Curtis watched, calculating, until Terity’s quiet voice reached his ear.

“I see the first mark.”

“Which?”

“The brown-haired brute fighting our golden ally. He strikes for the shoulder.”

Curtis’s eyes narrowed. “Understood.”

From there, shadows stirred, and the true tide began to turn.

There was little need for further explanation. Naturally, the warriors stationed closest to Marcus, head of House Gaud, were his personal retainers—just as those guarding Bruno were of House Narok.

The target Terity pointed out was locked in a bitter duel, blow for blow.

It was an evenly matched struggle—precisely the sort where even a moment’s distraction could shift the tide irrevocably.

With the mark identified, Curtis lowered his left hand, making a show of gathering moisture while quietly altering his spirit’s form.

The spirit, which had been resting as a bracelet around his wrist, unraveled like a stream and pooled silently on the ground, then reformed itself—round and glistening, about the size of a newborn’s head.

Then, it began to roll—slowly, almost playfully—toward its prey.

The water spirit had no true means of movement. It could quiver, ripple, or ooze, but no more. And yet, being made of water, it could be moved—guided—by Flowweaving.

“A curious tactic,” Terity remarked. He had seen Curtis mold water into orbs before and did not suspect it to be the spirit. It simply didn’t look like an attack.