Beneath the looming arches of Blackthorn Bridge, two knights clashed in a whirlwind of steel and pride, their boasts echoing louder than their blades. As the duel reached its peak, the pilgrims watched with bated breath before pressing onward, leaving the bridge and its battle behind. Elsewhere, a lone messenger rode hard through the night, carrying a warning to the pilgrims—fly soldiers were on their trail, and the kingdom held its breath for Johnny Windrider. By evening, they reached the bustling city of Ewick, where Johnny stood atop an inn beneath a gathering storm. As Gil guided his hands through the first strokes of swordplay, the wind howled like a distant war horn. With each strike, Johnny felt the weight of what lay ahead, knowing that like the rain, every drop—every choice—would shape the coming storm.

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