The rain turned red before it touched the ground.
Cain stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady now—too steady. The field stretched endlessly, broken only by the forms of the fallen. His blade dripped crimson, steam rising from it in slow, curling tendrils. Across from him, Baldur was on one knee, the fire in his eyes dim but not yet extinguished.
"You're… not human," Baldur rasped, pressing a bloodied hand against his chest wound. "No man fights through exhaustion like that."
Cain's reply was a whisper that cut through the thunder. "You're right."
He lifted Eidwyrm and rested the flat against his shoulder, eyes distant. "But neither do you."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Baldur threw his head back and laughed—a sound more beast than man. He planted his axe into the ground and forced himself upright, muscles trembling, veins pulsing with stubborn defiance.
"Good," the Ox King muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth. "I'd rather die to something that isn't a man."
