Neda took a step back and shouted- as Titus and Bartholomew had charged her with- for the fight to “Begin!”

As soon as she had spoken the word, Titus leapt towards his brother with his right-hand dagger in the stabbing-position. He held it raised above his brother’s head and seemed to aim it down on his shoulder with lethal intent, only for Bartholomew to grin as he raised his left hand for the block- stopping him with his antebrachium before slamming his elbow into Titus’ cheek.

The golden warrior staggered backwards and prepared himself for the defense as Bartholomew took the initiative and followed up with a slap of his right-handed slashing-dagger to his brother’s cheek. Before Titus could shake from the stupor, Bartholomew had painfully jabbed the blunt, flat edge into his chest and laughed as he spoke: “Two to nil, little one. Had enough yet?” Bartholomew took a swift step back across the rampart and spun the blades confidently around his palms with a grin to inspire the excited, silent masses below. Petrus hadn’t seen Titus lose a match in years, but last he had seen it; it had been far from enjoyable. The sight of someone besting his Master aside, Titus had always been a sore loser... but now... the red-haired warrior seemed to brim with pride and stood to his height to spit a mouthful of blood to their gargantuan wall and laugh.

“You’ve got to do better than that if you wish to lead my men, Barty!” Again, Titus launched forwards- this time with ten times the fervor. He slashed and stabbed, but narrowly missed his dancing brother with every strike. Then... something inexplicable happened. Neda was sure of it- they had to have been casting magic. Their movements grew ever-swifter, ever-stronger, but remained evenly matched. Their arms and legs moved faster than her eyes could catch, but curiously: neither man looked at where they were countering blows, slashing or stabbing. Their eyes were fervently locked onto each-other's, as if the battle of their arms were an autonomous thing.

After an unfortunate slip of Titus’ footing, Bartholomew took another step backwards and rather than dodging, he let the slash of his brother’s left hand carry on through- nearly dragging him off of his balance with the substantial strength of his swing. Bartholomew saw his chance and took it- raising his knee to the man’s chest to slam his patella into the man’s sternum to send him soaring backwards through the air.

What had begun as a mock battle had, in front of Neda’s eyes, become something else. Though she could only imagine what fueled the ferocious battle, she imagined either man had his own motivations. As Bartholomew lunged forwards with both his hands in the stabbing-positions and struck them down towards Titus’ face, the red-haired brother raised his blades and stopped the two, blunt weapons right before his eyes. Neda could only imagine what monstrous strength fueled strikes powerful enough to shower the ramparts in red-hot sparks.

“Had... enough... yet... brother?” Titus spoke through his grin on his back. Bartholomew’s smile had long since faded. Here they were- battling it out as they had done when they were children... but things were different now. He no longer fought his red-haired, sniveling brother. The man struggling on the wood beyond the fountain of sparks was none other than the High Inquisitor’s son- a legacy Bartholomew had turned his back on. This man... this golden, beautiful man at his feet was now a murderer- a foul, terrible mass-murderer responsible for the deaths of numerous innocent children.

“We believe in you, Sir Duke!” A voice from the courtyard stole away Bartholomew’s attention and reminded him that this was a mock battle-…. That this was not the appropriate time for seeking vengeance on behalf of those poor, beaten girls...- not here, not now.

Breaking from his stupor, Titus raised a boot to kick Bartholomew in the chest and send him soaring backwards along the wall. Neda expected to see the wayward Sargerrei fall to his back- to see him lose then and there, but mid-air through his fall, he braced for the impact and instead slid backwards on his feet, where he returned to his honorable stance.

Titus rose from his supine, inferior position to heave for air and grin over at his equally bemused brother. The golden warrior looked over the rampart’s edge to see his glorious Inquisition gape up at the two brethren- equally as amazed as the desert wildling. Titus spun the blades around in his palms for a demonstrative moment before turning to return them back to Neda with a chuckle.

“You had me on my back, Brother. As per our terms, that makes you the victor- yes?” Neda looked up at the dashingly handsome man’s bright smile as she took the hot daggers and stared down at them with awe. Bartholomew seemed briefly confused, before his smug grin returned.

“Oh, I am not so certain your men would agree- we are yet to pummel one-another unconscious.” Bartholomew chuckled and threw a glance down at the gawking masses of purple tabards. Titus laughed warmly and cracked his neck either way before turning to address his men:

“Is that so, good men? Would you really have me pummel my brother, rather than follow him? Have I not deserved a vacation!?” The crowd broke out into jeers of ‘No, Sir!’, ‘Titus’ and ‘Bartholomew’- revealing that, although they were hardly unanimous, they could be controlled. Bartholomew attempted to not let his grin show too much as he, too, turned to address his new charges.

Neda was uncomfortable atop the rampart. The men all stared up at her with ravenous hungers and in tandem with the armors, the experience awoke unpleasant memories of the camp out in the dust. Therefore, as Titus and Bartholomew addressed the men, she took the opportunity to depart down along the rampart and back into the connected training-hall, where Bartholomew had begun the morning’s training-session. There, alone with the worn and blood-soiled mats, she sat down on her knees and holstered the daggers back into the scabbards.

The images of the two men’s fight still repeatedly played out in her memories. Even if she moved as swiftly as she could, she was nowhere near as quick as they had been. She attempted to punch the air, to see whether she could get anywhere close to it, only to find that it was as feeble as she imagined it to be. Before she could completely devolve into her hopelessness, she looked up to see that-… she wasn’t alone.

There; right before her, stood the girl in her white robes, staring at her through the rim of her hood with a malicious grin. The unexpectedness of being snuck up on by the detestable whore made her yelp and rise to her feet, where she still held the holstered blades out before her.

“Y-you!” Neda shouted and hurriedly and clumsily began unholstering the blades.

“I, indeed. How overjoyed I am to see that he has sent you to me- did you come to See His Scripture for yourself? No-…" Lita folded her hands before her face and giggled into her palms.

“You came here to kill me... you detest me- I can feel it even from across the room. I would be lying if I were to say I could not taste it from across the city- that seething hate of yours, but... now that you are here... it is far from as pure and as strong as I made it out to be. You are afraid... terrified...” Finally, Neda managed to free the daggers and took a step forward to shout at her assailant:

“L-leave him alone! He doesn’t want you there- neither do I! So, don’t come back, all right!?” The girl raised a hand to pull back her hood- again mesmerizing Neda with her pale, white beauty.

“You are in the right to be afraid, Neda... but you’ve yet to see what you should fear.” Neda tensed her eyebrows and narrowed her eyes as Lita’s eyes seemed to grow- no... her field of vision was shrinking. She averted her gaze and attempted to rub her eyes with her index fingers, only to realize that even beyond her eyelids... all she could see... were the girl’s bright, deep-blue eyes.