The road to battle is never a straight path.
Kazue Nakamura stood at the edge of a quiet village, the early morning mist curling around the wooden houses like ghosts haunting the streets. She had already been traveling for days when she crossed the sea into Russia, moving deeper into the mountains, her journey’s end still unclear. Yet she felt it, a pull beneath her skin, like an invisible thread guiding her toward something. Miyamoto Musashi had been silent for most of the journey. He did not fill the air with unnecessary advice or reassurance. His presence alone was enough.
"You can feel it now," he finally said, beside her with arms crossed. It was not a question.
Kazue nodded. "The Gauntlet is leading me."
Musashi’s gaze swept over the mist-shrouded valley. "No. The battle is leading you."
She exhaled slowly, tightening the strap of her pack before stepping forward. The villagers barely paid her any mind. To them, she was just another traveler passing through the mountains. They could not sense the discipline she had dedicated herself to, the path she had chosen—or perhaps, the path that had chosen her. Every step brought her closer, and with it, the air changed. The silence was no longer peaceful; it was charged, impatient. Kazue’s hand brushed the hilt of her blade, but she did not draw it. Not yet.
Closing in on the misty peaks of Russia, Gideon Holt moved through the frozen wilderness with the quiet surety of a wolf. His breath formed short bursts of fog in the frigid air, but he did not feel the cold. He had been walking for days, maybe weeks—it did not matter. The Gauntlet pulled at him the same way the hunt always had. It was instinct, something primal buried in his bones. He did not question it. He simply followed.
A shadow flickered at the corner of his vision, moving through the trees with silent grace. The wolves had been following him for some time now, neither predators nor companions, but something in between. They knew, the land knew: something was coming.
"You feel it now," Herne’s voice rumbled through the cold air, more felt than heard.
"I do." Gideon had spent his life walking the line between man and beast, between hunter and hunted. He was familiar with this pull. He was being drawn toward his prey. And his prey was coming for him.The destination was not far now.
The train pulled out of New Orleans, headed to Miami. The compartment was nearly empty, but the moment Silas Calloway stepped inside, he knew the woman seated near the window was different from the scattered travelers nodding off around her. She sat with her back straight, gaze fixed on the passing landscape, yet he could feel the tension rolling off her in waves. A warrior’s presence.
She was built for endurance, her form lean yet strong, sculpted by years of rigorous training. Her olive-toned skin carried the faint traces of old scars, the kind that spoke of battles fought and won. Dark brown hair was braided tightly down her back, not a strand out of place, a reflection of her discipline. Her features were sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes that held no patience for wasted words or frivolous charm. Valeria Rojas was a woman forged by struggle, and Silas could tell she was not one to be easily swayed.
She felt him, too.
Valeria turned her head slowly, meeting his gaze with sharp discerning eyes. Neither of them spoke, but in the space between that first glance and the next breath, they understood. They were the same. Chosen. Marked for battle.
Silas grinned, stepping further inside, casual as ever. He made a show of adjusting the brim of his hat before settling onto the bench across from her. The light of the sun through the window cast a shadow over his weathered features—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline hidden beneath a dusting of scruff, and hazel eyes that flickered between amusement and calculation. He carried himself with an effortless swagger, the kind that came from knowing exactly how to talk his way out of trouble—or straight into it. His leather duster had seen better days, worn from years of long roads and bad decisions, and the wide-brimmed hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow over his face. "Well now," he drawled, "this is interestin’. Didn’t think I’d be meetin’ another one of us so soon."
Valeria didn't relax. If anything, her posture grew even stiffer. Her fingers twitched toward the knife at her belt—not a full reach, but close enough that he noticed. "You're in the Gauntlet."
He flicked a card from his sleeve and rolled it between his fingers. "That makes two of us."
For a long moment, neither moved. The tension in the cabin thickened, passengers unaware that they sat between two warriors testing the air. Silas noted the way Valeria measured him—not just as a threat, but as an opponent. He could practically hear her calculations in the silence. Could she take him? Would it be quick, or would it be a fight worth having? But just as his own instincts started humming in anticipation, a presence settled between them: something greater than them, watching, waiting.
"You are not each other's prey," a voice whispered, smooth as crushed velvet. Lady Luck appeared at Silas’s side, her golden eyes flickering with amusement as she leaned lazily against the cabin wall. "Not yet, anyway."
Across from her, a deeper voice rumbled, like stone against steel. "Stay your hand, Valeria. The Gauntlet does not waste its warriors on meaningless scuffles," Atlas’s form loomed behind her like an immovable mountain. He was function given form, carved from the very bones of the earth. His skin bore the texture of weathered stone, his shoulders broad enough to bear unimaginable burdens. A great cloak, resembling the shifting hues of the sky before a storm, draped over him, fastened with a heavy bronze clasp. His eyes, deep-set and unyielding, burned like smoldering embers, ancient and knowing. He was not a being of subtlety or deception—Atlas was weight, responsibility, and strength incarnate, and when he spoke, the world seemed to listen.
Valeria’s grip on her knife loosened, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. Silas let out a breath through his nose, lips curving into something between a smirk and a sigh. "Well, ain’t that a shame. Here I was, thinkin’ we were about to have a bit of fun."
"Seems the Gauntlet has rules after all." Valeria exhaled sharply but withdrew her hand from her weapon.
"Looks that way." Silas tipped his hat back. "Guess that means we’ve got time to kill before the real fight starts. What do you say—fancy a wager instead?"
Marrakesh was a city built on trade—gold, spice, secrets. Idris Al-Masri walked its winding streets with an easy stride, the warm evening light catching against his angular features. His deep brown skin bore the tale of past conflicts, as did the keen, calculating glint in his amber eyes. Dressed in a fitted black jacket and crisp white shirt, he carried himself with effortless poise, his every movement measured and deliberate. He had the look of a man who belonged anywhere and nowhere, always changing, always adapting. Every glance, every step, was a thread in the web he was weaving. A word to a merchant, a quiet nod to a courier, the moment Silas set foot in the city, the trap would tighten.
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Anansi’s voice curled into his ear, warm and amused. "You do enjoy your little games."
Perched just beyond Idris’s shoulder, Anansi’s form shimmered, never quite solid, shifting between shapes like a half-remembered dream. Sometimes a man with dark, gleaming skin, draped in flowing silks of gold and crimson, his smile pointed and knowing. Other times, a great spider, its many legs moving with eerie grace, weaving intangible threads between the mortal and divine. And sometimes—something in between, limbs too fluid, eyes too many, as if his existence refused to be pinned down. The threads of old stories clung to him, and his laughter carried the tune of tricksters long past, ever-entwined with the fate of those who played his game.
Idris smirked. "Why rush the kill when you can make them stumble first? Besides, Silas owes me. It’s time he pays."
A young boy slipped a folded note into his palm. Money well spent. Idris scanned the message.
Calloway’s en route.
"Good. Let’s see how long it takes him to realize he's already caught."
The web was in place. Now all he had to do was wait.
The mountains stretched endlessly before Kazue, their peaks rising like silent sentinels against the sky. She had left the last village behind hours ago, following the pull that guided her toward her destination. The air grew thinner with each step, her breath misting in the cold as the terrain turned from forested paths to rocky inclines. She adjusted the strap of her pack and pressed on, her focus unwavering.Miyamoto Musashi walked beside her, silent as ever, his spectral presence unburdened by the climb. His gaze, however, was piercing, watching the landscape as if he, too, felt the unavoidable clash drawing near.
“It is near.”
Kazue didn’t answer immediately. She did feel it—something just at the edges of perception, an awareness that she was no longer simply traveling. She was approaching something. Someone.
She glanced toward Musashi. "How close?"
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. "Not far. The other moves as you do, closing the distance without hesitation."
A warrior, then. She had expected nothing less.
Nearing her path, Gideon Holt made his way up the steep incline of a craggy slope, his boots crunching against the frost-covered earth. He was no stranger to the mountains, though these peaks were foreign to him. The scent of pine and stone filled his lungs, but there was something else carried in the wind now. A presence. A certainty that had nothing to do with sight or sound.
"Someone’s near," he muttered.
"She is," Herne confirmed, his voice low, steady as the world itself.
Gideon let out a slow breath, his fingers flexing at his sides. This wasn’t just the Gauntlet pulling him forward. This was instinct. The same force that told a wolf when another predator entered its territory. The battle hadn’t started yet, but the hunt had.
The path ahead narrowed, winding along the edge of a steep drop-off. His opponent would be coming from the other direction. There would be no avoiding the meeting. No turning away. He could feel it now—just beyond the bend, just past the next ridge.
Kazue and Gideon were closing in on each other. And soon, there would be no more distance left to cross.
The game had lasted longer than Valeria expected. Silas played like he lived—recklessly, with a devil’s grin and a gambler’s nerve. He pushed his luck, made impossible bluffs, and made every bet with the confidence of a man who had never considered losing.
She should have known better than to underestimate him.
The final hand played out in silence, the rhythmic clatter of the train the only sound between them. Valeria’s eyes focused on her cards. A near-perfect hand. Yet, something felt off.
Silas leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled, watching her reaction with lazy amusement.
"Call it, soldier."
She studied him, her mind working through the possibilities. He had bluffed before, and yet…
Valeria exhaled through her nose and laid down her cards. "Show me."
Silas grinned and turned his hand. A winning spread. Perfect. Too perfect.
A moment of stillness passed between them before realization set in. Valeria’s gaze snapped to his with cold calculation. "You cheated."
Silas chuckled, collecting the cards with an easy flourish of his wrist. "Now, now. That’s a mighty strong accusation."
"I don’t make accusations. I state facts." Her expression didn’t change, but there was something sharper in her voice now. "You stacked the deck."
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he tapped the side of his hat and gave her an infuriatingly self-satisfied look. "Ain’t my fault you weren’t watching close enough."
Valeria’s fingers curled into a fist, but she let the moment pass. He had played the game on his terms, and she had let him. That was her mistake. Next time, she wouldn’t be so careless.
She stood from her seat. "Enjoy your victory, Calloway. It’ll be the last one."
Silas tilted his head, watching as she stepped toward the exit. "That a promise, Valeria?"
She didn’t look back.
"A guarantee."
The doors to the compartment slid open, and the clack of the train flowed in. Their paths were about to split, but the next time they met, it wouldn’t be over a game of cards. It would be something far more serious.
The city had transformed by the time Idris returned to the heart of it. The pink and purple hues of sunset had given way to the deep indigo of night, and Marrakesh was alive in a different way now. Lamps flickered against the ancient walls, and voices hummed in a dozen languages, weaving together like threads in a musical loom. Idris moved through the narrow streets with practiced ease, each step carrying purpose, each glance a quiet calculation.
The web was strong.
He stopped at a quiet café tucked between two market stalls, selecting a table with a view of the street. His contacts had done their work. Silas would arrive sooner or later—perhaps unaware, perhaps already suspecting. It didn’t matter. The trap was not about catching him. It was about setting the stage.
Anansi perched on the edge of the table, not quite there, not quite absent. "Tell me, my dear little schemer," Anansi purred, amusement curling around his words. "Do you think he will be grateful for all this effort?"
Idris smirked, lifting a glass of spiced tea to his lips. "Grateful? No. But he’ll realize he has no choice but to play."
Anansi’s many eyes gleamed. "And if he tries to cut the strings?"
Idris set the glass down, watching the street. "Then I’ll remind him what happens to men who think they can walk free from a debt."
The night stretched around them, alive with movement and whispers. Somewhere beyond the flickering lamplight, Silas Calloway was drawing closer. And Idris would be waiting.
Kazue stepped onto the final stretch of stone leading toward the monastery, the mountain wind whipping against her. The apprehension in her chest deepened. She was here. Her opponent was here. The world had narrowed to a single, unavoidable moment.
Gideon crested the ridge on the opposite end, his form silhouetted against the mist-shrouded peaks. He paused, taking in the sight of her with the awareness of a predator meeting its equal. He did not reach for a weapon. Neither did she. Not yet.
Musashi and Herne stood beside one another, overlooking their Vessels. The old warrior looked weathered, hardened by more than one lifetime of battle and discipline. It was as though every ounce of weakness, every speck of kindness and compassion, every minor flaw of his peaceful nature, had been hammered out of him. What was left was a stillness that commanded caution and respect. Herne’s presence was vast and unmoving, more a force of nature than a man. His broad, antlered silhouette melded into the landscape, form wreathed in shadow and the scent of earth and rain. His eyes, aglow like embers beneath a heavy brow, echoed ancient wisdom and primal instinct. Draped in a tattered cloak of moss and bark, his presence was both guardian and hunter, the embodiment of the wild’s relentless cycle. He did not command anything. He did not coerce. He simply was—as eternal and unshakable as the mountains themselves.
Herne’s voice hummed low inside Gideon’s head. "This is the moment. No words will change it."
Kazue exhaled, fingers brushing the hilts of her blades. This was not a decision, not a matter of choice. This was fate, written in the wind and stone. She stepped forward, slow and measured, as did Gideon. The distance between them had been chipped away. Neither spoke. There was no need. The Gauntlet had them here, and now, it had begun.
Who do you think will win the battle next chapter?
