Lightning struck.

Caden collapsed again, barely able to keep himself up on one knee at this point. It didn't help that his final opponent seemed content to let him wait, and for once in his life, the Wizard didn't have it in him to try and exploit the opening that time gave. He had lost too much blood. He was too exhausted. The only thing even keeping him alive at this point, let alone mobile, was a combination of spite, stubborness and magic. It wasn't that a mere lesser man would have collapsed and died by now. Greater men would have done that well before the Skyrider, maybe even before the Scholar. And the more that Caden thought about it, the more he realized that greater men had fallen by now.

Commander Law, Hero of Raiaera. Forged upon the anvil of war; he was called to greatness and he answered it. Repeatedly, he fought and laid it on the line for people he did not -- could not know.

Watchman Law, Clerical-Wizard and husband of Veshua. He was noble in the way that fathers and men of the church should be.

Sage Blueraven, scholar and master of the arcane. A lesser kind of greatness, of humility, but genius and talent second to none.

Sir Caden Law, the Spring Knight Rising. He had made the choices, and a Thayne had called him by a Title that held more weight than the rest of them combined.

And the Skyrider, a Caden Law perhaps forged in the skies of Kebiras. A revolutionary, maybe, or perhaps just a vagabond trying to find his way home. His magic told the story of a fighter, his style told the story of courage.

They were all dead, and only the lowly wretch remained. The Wizard Blueraven. Caden Law, seventh of eight, who had a question that still wasn't answered.

"On your feet!" Spoke a Voice of power and strength, if not reason or wisdom. "STAND UP!"

Caden complied. A few seconds later, there was a familiar chuff and his sword lay in the snow before him. Chuff, and there was his bowie. He snorted congealed blood from his nose, then wheezed and forced himself to stand straight, tall, rigid. The man standing before him would expect no less.

He was different from the rest of them, except maybe the Spring Knight. Broader, more muscular. His eyes needed no glasses, and the iris was the orange of his patron. His hair was butchered short, something approximating a crewcut, and he had probably thrown away the Hat years ago and the coat with it. He wore the garb of a warrior-cultist in the most literal sense: Bands of cloth around his feet, leaving his toes exposed; a long brown kilt beneath hanging plates of armor on the outer leg and straight down from the belt buckle; a tattered short-sleeved shirt beneath a black iron chestplate of Kachukian origin, heavy matching pauldrons covered in spikes and the vambraces to match. Last was the cloak, tattered and hooded, clinking with every step as if to indicate the chainmail woven in.

He carried a sword much too big for Caden himself to even lift. Four-handed on the hilt, its pommel flanged like a tiny mace head, sporting a thick cross guard bordering a wide, sturdy blade that was more like a slab of silver and onyx than shaped steel. Runes were carved and etched in orange along the blacker portions of the blade, each one misting slightly in the cold evening light.

And there was another thing that reminded Caden of the Spring Knight: Lines. Displayed much more prominently upon the stranger's arms, his feet, face and neck. Thick orange things that were patterned in perfect symmetry, and as the blade began to glow so did the lines on his skin.

"So," Caden said to himself, stooping down to try and pick up his blades. He came up clumsy, sheathing the knife and his wand in the same motion. The sword and rod stayed out. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Orange eyes narrowed, but Blueraven did not falter. He was too tired to be intimidated or frightened now. "I want to know something about you before I bury you."

"I serve no petty court," Spoke the stranger in his skin. "When Raiaera fell, I ran the Wilds of Tembrethnil. That's all you need to know."

He raised his sword, awful thing that it was, and the air burned with power all around him. It knew no solid shape, the way that the myriad Blueravens' powers had. It was truly wild, truly uncontrolled by anything but the loose constraints of savage intent. Caden responded in kind, drawing his rod and sword up and crossing them momentarily before assuming a defensive stance taught him by a dwarf in the mountains: Feet spread, sword low, rod straight out.

"Do you still have a Name?" Caden asked.

"I don't need one."

"Too bad," Caden said. "I dub thee-"