James didn't think. He moved.
His body launched forward before his mind could catch up again. His boots dug into the dirt, fists swinging wild. His ears rang with the roar of the crowd, the deafening cheers drowning out the blood pounding in his skull.
Ser Edwin wasn't moving. The skin of his face darkened, growing pale everywhere there wasn't a bruise.
James barreled toward the ring, but a soldier stepped in his path. James didn't hesitate. Didn't care. He swung, his knuckles cracking against the soldier's jaw. The man grunted, stumbling back, but another took his place.
"Wait, kid."
A hand grabbed the back of his tunic—James ripped free. He lashed out, his boot connecting with the knee of another guard. The man cursed, staggering.
"Wait. Stop. Kid, Stop."
"James!" Max's voice, sharp and raw, cut through the chaos.
James barely registered it. As he plowed through another soldier. Head down, shoulder connecting to something hard.
The only thing that mattered was getting to Ser Edwin.
I have to get to him. I have to–
A gauntleted fist slammed into his stomach.
James choked, the air ripping from his lungs. Spittle flying. His knees buckled, his vision spun, but he stayed upright. Forced himself to.
He wrenched free, and another hand grabbed his arm, but there were too many.
Too many hands. Too many bodies in James' way. He launched himself into the fray, a blur of fists and kicks. He would get to Ser Edwin, and he would save his family.
"James!" Max again, but this time it was different. Closer.
James twisted, barely catching the sight of Max, fighting just as wildly, just as desperately, his fists swinging at the soldiers trying to hold him back. One had him by the arms, another by the waist. Max thrashed and kicked, his voice breaking and his face twisted in fury and fear.
"Let me go! Let me—James!"
James tried to reach for Max, but it was too slow. A guard was there. He kicked at the guard's knee with a satisfying pop; the guard dropped, yanking on James' arm. James twisted; pain lanced at his shoulder, but it held. He slapped the guard hard with his free hand, his other arm coming free from the grip. James whirled his fist, connecting with more guards' stomachs and chins. Everywhere he turned, uniformed men and women were starting to surround him. Hands gripping weapons, faces locked in grim determination.
They moved as a unit, attacking together, keeping James off balance, and guiding him with their movements; James could see the coordination, and they stopped him no matter where he struck.
The soldiers drove him back, back against that hard thing, that immovable object. The gleam of it in the corner of his eye. He snarled, shoved, and tried to break free—until a sharp pain exploded across the side of his skull. It was like being hit with a hammer, metal on bone, James legs gave out, and his body hit the ground hard. His vision swam, the sky, the sand, and the faces above him blending into a mess of colors and sound. A growing nausea in his gut.
James blinked and gasped for breath, the ringing in his skull drowning out everything else.
Above him, towering like a statue of gleaming marble, was the Justiciar. His golden eyes burned down at him.
James barely registered the Justiciar's massive fist before it came down.
Then there was nothing.
James swam in the black as a voice came to him.
"Are you sure you still don't need me, little seed?"
James woke to the scent of clean linen and blood.
His body ached. His skull throbbed. The world felt wrong.
The ceiling above him was pale canvas, the light shifting as the wind tugged at the edges of the medical tent. Somewhere nearby, metal clanked, boots thudded against dirt, and voices called orders. Hurried. Focused. It was too loud, and each sound was like a knife behind his eyes.
They seemed to be packing. Leaving.
His thoughts snapped back into place. The fight. The Justiciar. Max.
James bolted upright. Pain exploded through his skull. He hissed, clutching his head, vision swimming. The tent blurred around him—rows of cots, doctors, nurses, and medics moving with quiet efficiency, the scent of boiled herbs and salves thick in the air.
A shadow loomed at his bedside.
"You should rest." The voice was deep and calm, but James still flinched back, his breath hitched as he turned, gaze locking onto the man standing beside him. His armor's white and gold gleamed in the tent's muted light as if lit from within. There was a weight of command settled in every inch of him. But now, without the roaring crowd, without the spectacle, there was something softer in his face.
James swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. The sick, sour taste of it lingered in his mouth.
"Where's Max?" His voice came out raw. Strained. Horse.
"Preparing to depart with the Twelfth." The Justiciar exhaled slowly. The Justiciar did not look at James; he simply watched the medical tent as it prepared to leave.
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"Then I need to—" James swung his legs off the cot, ignoring the dizziness and the agony in his head.
The Justiciar raised a hand, stopping him.
"You cannot."
"Like hell, I can't." James' fists clenched. He surged forward, stumbling as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. He struggled against his own weight, which seemed far too heavy. "He's my family."
The Justiciar caught him, steady hands, unyielding grip. He didn't shove James back, didn't strike him down—just held him in place until James' body inevitably gave up the fight.
James trembled. His breath came in short, furious gasps. His knees felt weak, and a burning grew in his gut.
"Judgment was passed," the Justiciar said, voice steady, firm. "And it was final."
James' chest ached—not just from the fight, not just from the blows. From something deeper. Something that felt like breaking.
"You know this isn't right," James whispered, voice shaking, his body on the edge of collapse. Still, he pushed back the weariness, forcing it to stand against the Justicar's grip. "You know he belongs here, with us."
The Justiciar's face softened for the first time, his dark curls falling around his face. A flicker of something crossed his golden eyes—regret, maybe. Then it was gone.
"I am an instrument of the law," he said simply. Unshakable "And Regillius has spoken."
James wanted to scream, curse him, fight him, break something, hit something, and burn something.
But his body betrayed him. He could barely keep himself upright. The fight was already over. He collapsed back to the cot.
The Justiciar turned, stepping past him, stopping at the cot across the tent.
Ser Edwin.
James inhaled sharply. The world fuzzed around the edges.
The older man lay deathly still, chest rising in slow, uneven breaths. Too shallow. Too weak. His face was pale beneath the bruises, his body wrecked from the fight.
James lurched forward, grabbing the Justiciar's arm. "He—he's—"
The Justiciar already knew. They both knew. Edwin was dying.
Silently, he unfastened the white gauntlet from his right hand, setting it aside. Then, he lowered his palm to Edwin's chest.
A warm glow bloomed from his fingers.
James felt it. Akin to the power stirring inside him.
A pulse of energy, not like fire or heat, but like light itself. Gentle. Steady. Comforting.
The bruises on Edwin's face lightened but did not go away. The tension in his body eased. His breathing deepened and evened out.
The glow faded. The Justiciar pulled back. The glow in his eyes dimmed slightly.
James swallowed hard. "What did you do?"
The Justiciar flexed his fingers, slipping his gauntlet back into place. "He has a fighting chance now." His golden eyes leveled on James. As though trying to say something unspoken. "That is all I can give him."
James stared at Edwin's face, watching his chest rise and fall. Stronger now. Steadier.
The burning in his gut flickered and faded like a dowsed fire. Replaced by a heavy feeling of something different.
When he finally looked back at the Justiciar, the man was already turning away, already walking toward the tent's exit—toward the Twelfth. Towards his troops. Toward Max.
James' fingers curled into the sheets of the cot. Helpless. He wanted to scream, but there was no energy left in him.
The Justiciar paused at the threshold, sunlight casting a halo around his broad frame.
"I will do what I can for your friend," he said, his voice low. A promise, but not the one James wanted.
Then he was gone.
And Max was going with him.
James leaned against the fence for support—its steadiness, its groundedness. His knuckles were white as he gripped the beam. Below, the soldiers' camp collapsed—quick and efficient—tents were stowed, packs were donned, and carts loaded. The white and gold banners of the Imperium stood tall, like pillars of something greater. And James hated it all. He could see Max—faintly, his red hair was shaved short, and he wore the crisp grey uniform of a recruit—but he worked, helping the Twelfth's blacksmith load the coal and equipment in the back of a wagon. Max straightened his back, wiped the sweat from his brow, and seemed to look back, searching for something or someone coming from the town.
I should volunteer and be a blacksmith. I could protect Max.
But James could see the Justiciar as he walked the camp, his white armor gleaming in the morning light. James swore the dark?skinned man was watching Max, and his words rang in James's mind: "I will do what I can—for your friend."
There was a wet cough behind him—the familiar rhythm of stomping feet. That sinking feeling, that weight in his gut, grew, and he knew he had to stay.
"Watching over him?" The roughness of Ser Edwin's voice was heavy, as though he were struggling not only to find the words but to make this small hike up the hill.
"Saying goodbye, I guess."
They just stood there. Ser Edwin tried to speak, but a wet, horse cough racked his body, and he placed a hand on James's shoulder to steady himself. James tightened his hold on the fence and leaned into it. The world spun slightly less.
The two men watched as the camp broke down further; James kept his eyes on the red?headed boy—his friend, his brother—as the final packs were loaded. Max's head snapped up at a sound James couldn't hear, and all the grey?uniformed recruits ran into neat lines. Their clean uniforms starkly contrasted with the clothes they had worn just a day before.
Max stood near the end of the line.
Even from this far away, James could see Max shift his weight, unable to stand still like the other recruits. The Officer in White commented, and Max abruptly straightened before looking back at the town again.
Why won't he look up here? Should I call out to him? Would he even hear me?
James leaned harder into the comfort of the wood; he feared it might break under the pressure of him and the weight he felt.
A call rang out. The order to march.
The line of recruits moved.
Max took a step forward—then hesitated.
"Come on, Max, keep moving," James whispered.
"Aye, boy, follow orders." James felt the hand on his shoulder tighten, just for a heartbeat. Max frantically turned his head, eyes scanning the town, the hill. He looked like he was searching for something.
He saw them then, leaning against the old fence. James swallowed, his voice catching in his throat. His fingers dug into the wooden beam of the fence. His chest burned, and his feet itched to move.
Say something. Call out to him. Don't let him go like this.
His lips parted.
For a second, James thought he saw something break in Max's face—the same way it had when the Justiciar's verdict had been spoken. Max turned as though he were going to make a break toward them—
A sharp, barked order. James could almost hear.
Max flinched. His body stiffened. And just like that, he turned forward.
He kept walking.
The white and gold banners shifted in the wind, the glint of armor shining beneath the rising sun.
The march moved on.
The two stood there, watching until Max disappeared from sight.
The hand on his shoulder tightened again, then let go as the Twelfth disappeared into the morning light.
Ser Edwin stood at his side, bruised and battered, his chest bound in thick bandages. One eye was swollen shut, the other dull with exhaustion.
But still, he stood.
He gave James a small, tired smile—the kind that never reached his eyes.
"Come on," he said. The words were gentle but firm. "Sil's probably worried sick."
James's shoulders sagged as he glanced over them one last time.
The final white banner vanished beyond the horizon.
James turned back to Edwin and nodded.
"Aye. Let's go home."