At the Border.
Pierce…
The sound split the air like thunder cracking through bone. The spear didn't just impale—it thrust with such force that it ripped through the shield, the spine, the ribs, and the emblazoned sigil of Berkimhum, punching through the soldier's back with a sound that was not a scream, but a gargle—wet, raw, final.
His eyes widened, not in surprise, but in inevitability. He had trained for this. Had dreamt of dying in battle. But not like this. Not 'so easily.' Not without seeing his enemy's face while being killed.
The cold spearhead tore through his chest, emerging with a sickening 'crack' right where his heart should've been—a gaping wound leaking crimson in spurts.
He stared down at the iron shaft protruding from his body. The pain was distant. Only the sound of blood—his blood—dripping onto dry leaves reached him now. Drip. Drip. Like rain in a drought.
'I'm sorry… Mother.'
The thought came softly, like a lullaby on his final breath.
