Fenrir growled.
Instinctively, he already knew what I was only about to find out.
From the interior of the temple, through the slightly ajar doors, a figure slowly emerged, step by step.
His entire body was covered in a black, iron armor. On the shoulders — red fabric, attached with almost ritual precision, did not flutter in the wind, as if even the air did not want to touch it. The hood concealed his face, but from every crevice, a threat seeped out, silent and unstoppable.
On the chest of the armor, a symbol was etched that needed no introduction — a burning heart, the sign of the Lord of Light.
He stopped only when about ten steps separated us. He stood, with his hand resting on the hilt of a large, curved sword with a flickering flame motif.
Fenrir was becoming increasingly restless, ready to pounce on the opponent at any moment.
I still stood motionless, my hands hanging along my body, not even twitching to reach for Leviathan. I waited to find out what was going on.
And then he spoke — his voice low and rough.
"The Lord of Light demands that you die, wolf."
"Let your god try," — I replied coldly. — "But let him not be surprised if today he loses one of his followers."
When I finished speaking, his sword burst into flames.
I didn't wait, I didn't let him make the first move, quickly reaching for Leviathan.
He moved forward like an executioner carrying out a sentence, and the fiery arc of his curved sword cut through the air with terrifying precision.
I managed to block the first strike — steam burst forth immediately when the northern steel met the burning blade.
The blow pushed me back half a step, but I didn't fall.
The monk moved again. He cut widely from the side, the blade burning with a bright arc that left a streak of light on the retina, as if the fire itself was trying to break free from the metal and devour everything alive.
I parried the blow and jumped to the side.
He attacked from above. The sword descended, and I threw myself to the side, cutting his side in the process — Leviathan's blade cut through the armor, but only superficially, as if the steel, though damaged, did not intend to crack so easily.
"Fenrir!" — I shouted, and he, as if waiting for the command.
He jumped immediately, like an arrow released from a bowstring, completely silently, without warning — just one flash of a wolf's body and the sound of claws bouncing off the stone.
The monk tried to turn, but too late — the wolf's muzzle bit into his forearm, and the tear ripped through the fabric and skin.
I used it immediately — a swing with a turn, Leviathan traced a full arc, the runes flashed, and the blade struck.
The leg was cut off.
The monk howled for the first time truly. Then he lost his balance and fell to the side, like a felled tree, heavily, brutally, with a crash that echoed off the temple walls.
He lay on his back, thrashing, trying to get up.
I approached slowly, Leviathan ready to strike, watching the monk lying on his back, breathing heavily, struggling, as if his body had not yet accepted that the fight was over.
Raising the axe high, with all the strength of my arms, I brought Leviathan down directly into the center of his hood — there was no helmet, only soft fabric and a skull that could not withstand such a blow.
The sound of the impact was different from before — deeper, more personal, as if the stone beneath him had accepted the sound with relief.
The body became completely still.
"Now it's really over," — I whispered.
I began to look around.
The stone courtyard was empty. The temple doors were open, but darkness lay behind them. No guards. No believers. No priests. Just us, the corpse, and the remnants of smoke that still hovered over the site of the duel, as if they did not want to disappear yet.
They really wanted to get rid of me without witnesses.
I picked up the sword and, saying nothing more, headed towards the bridge.
After a few minutes of walking, when the temple's shadow no longer reached my back, I said loudly:
"Patches. Are you going to come out finally?"
A silhouette emerged from the darkness by the stairs.
First the hood. Then a slightly hunched posture. And finally — that smile. Still the same, irritating, slightly malicious, as if the world was just an endless joke that only he knew.
"See?" — I said with a hint of satisfaction in my voice, spreading my arms in a theatrical gesture, as if commenting on the outcome of a predictable spectacle. — "I told you that all these gods always want to eliminate those who interfere with them."
He stopped mid-step, tilted his head, and looked at the monk's lying body — the leg cut off, the arm torn by Fenrir, the head split like a watermelon thrown under a millstone.
"Well, I must admit, my lord, that you are right," — he added after a moment with his overly polite tone, which sounded more like a mockery than respect. — "In the North, where we are supposedly their children, where we still pray to trees... there they send cannibals after us. And now here, thousands of miles from our snows — they send a priest with a sword of fire. A different god, perhaps, but the style feels familiar."
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and said calmly, as if it were a matter as banal as exchanging barrels on a ship:
"That's why I propose executing the 'Happy Camp' plan on Skagos, and you will be responsible for it."
Patches raised his head, and for a moment, he looked as if he was truly moved.
"My lord, are you sure!"