Movement catches my eye and I spin away from him, landing on the ground as the Young Lord’s katana slices the air where I’d been, ripping into the ribcage of the dying fire-mage before pulling free. Gobbets of fiery gore cling to his katana as I turn to face him while the burning man, his flesh now charring into ash, crumbles as he falls to the ground.

Standing on the rock slightly above me, the Young Lord spins and slashes down at my head. I raise Master to block and sparks fly like dancing stars as the steel of his katana meets black metal and slides off, Master light in my hands as I twist him in a tight circle and slash at the leader’s legs.

The Young Lord leaps over me and tumbles away, light as a snowflake with phantom ice coating his hair. He has mass but no weight and his momentum carries him farther up the slope, the wind off the mountain blowing him slightly to one side as his feet touch the ground and he leaps away again while I watch. The phantom ice leaves his hair as he lands a second time and I know his weight has returned.

Instead of chasing him I stop a moment and look around. The bandits have broken; instead of fighting I hear the screams of the dying and the scrabbling of men desperately trying to escape while other men run them down. To my left I see the Daemo’s armor lying broken on the ground with its helm crushed and the body of the Daemo vanished, meaning it has returned to the spawning pits of the Underworld where it belongs. 

The Ogra-Ki is alive and breathing hard, his face bruised but his wounds being attended to by the Summer-mage, who has his gnarled hands on the Ogra-Ki’s bloody thigh as he sings in a voice too soft for me to hear. To my right, the lady knight in her Artifact coat-of-plate armor has her sword at the throat of Blood-archer, who is on his knees with his head bowed in defeat.

I turn back towards the Young Lord. This is to be our dance, he and I, the last dance for one of us, and I dig my bare toes into the dirt as I inhale the scents of the forest, from the sweet scents of the King’s Laurel bush I see farther up the slope, to the reek of ash, and the tang of blood soaking into the hungry earth. Master understands, for though he is restless to finish what we started, he savors the moment with me, not comprehending the meaning of death but sympathetic to our passionate relationship, and together he and I take in the scents around us.

“Why are you waiting,” the Young Lord calls out in a mocking tone. “Are you afraid?”

“There’s King’s Laurel on the slope above you,” I call back. “Breathe deep through your nose and you can catch its scent.”

The white haired young man merely sneers. “The only thing I want to smell is your blood clotting on my sword. Come up and die.”

Was I ever this young, this arrogant? Or was I born old, learning to kill with steel at an age boys are hitting each other with wood, Fate laughing as she turned up the cards showing the path my life would take. I only know that Master feels my honor has been stained… and that only blood will wash it clean once more. “As you wish,” I call back and move towards him up the slope.

He raises his sword over his head in an aggressive manner as if he wants to fight blade to blade… but the phantom ice in his hair betrays him. I use the trees for cover, yet I know he’s smart, learning from his mistakes, and if he throws another icy blast I’ll just move through the Shadowlands towards him and he won’t get another chance. 

He needs me close, so close I can’t enter the grey doorway before he kills me. I know this as well and look for chinks in his defenses, noticing the gaps between the plates of his armor.  Then I do as he expects me to do; I open a doorway before me into the Grey, and run through it.

The world loses all color as I hear wings above. The Shadow Raptor is treetop level, as large as a stallion but in shape more like a lizard with wings, its head long and narrow with a beak coming to a sharp point, and as I race up the slope it swoops towards me, passing through the trees like wind as it opens its rear claws to rend my flesh. I form the doorway to the world as it opens its mouth, its claws now level with me as I reach the doorway and pass through.

“Ghostdog.” The wind whispers my name as color returns to the world. But I ignore it, my katana rising to meet the steel blade with its rose petal guard slashing down. Blades clash and we fall apart then come back together, steel and black metal ringing as we trade blows, the leader using the tree beside him for defense as I press the attack. I feint at his head; his blade rises to block but I slash at his side instead, the black metal pinging as it bounces off an Artifact plate. The leader staggers back and I follow, relentless as death.

In desperation the Young Lord slams his blade against mine, trapping it against a tree trunk as he lets go with one hand. He expects me to pull my katana back and a look of triumph sweeps across his face as an icy storm begins forming in his free hand…