A pale light filtered through the dead trees, casting shifting shadows over the debris-strewn battlefield. Kael gripped his spear tightly, his breath short, his body trembling from the rush of adrenaline and exhaustion. Around him, the chaos looked like the end of the world—scarred by relentless violence and flooded with the stench of blood and death.
Beside him, Naelys danced through the horde of Vorms, her sword slicing through the air with lethal precision. Each of her movements was a deadly choreography, balanced between grace and brutality. Sweat and dust clung to her face, yet her expression remained calm—though her eyes betrayed the depth of her fear.
Declan, as always, moved like a phantom of war—cutting down creatures with terrifying efficiency. His motions were swift, almost mechanical, driven by a deep fury that never showed on his face but burned in his eyes. He fought like someone who had already survived countless battles in silence.
The ground trembled underfoot from the endless onslaught. Vorms surged from all directions, their poisoned tendrils snapping through the air, seeking flesh. The sounds of battle were deafening—screams, growls, steel against bone—blending into one never-ending crescendo of horror.
Kael barely dodged a tendril aimed at his torso, but the tip grazed his arm. Instantly, a searing pain flared through his skin. Gritting his teeth, he retaliated, swinging his spear with all his strength and cleaving the monster in two. The fear of losing more comrades only fueled his resolve.
Nearby, Naelys parried a cluster of strikes, blood pouring from a deep wound on her side. She winced but didn't falter, her grip on her weapon tightening as she spun and counterattacked with deadly elegance.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the chaos. A young soldier was snatched off the ground by a Vorm. It was Joren—the boy with soft eyes who still believed the world could be kind. His cries were short-lived, drowned in a spray of crimson as the creature crushed him.
"Joren!" Kael cried out, lunging forward, but another Vorm forced him back. Helpless, he watched as Joren vanished beneath the creature's talons.
On a collapsed ledge, Selia fought with a bleeding leg, firing arrows with shaking hands. She managed to shoot down a beast, but her strength was fading fast. Her jaw clenched with frustration, yet she refused to fall.
Nyra and Syla, the twin sisters, moved in perfect harmony as always. Their bladed fans flashed like silver comets, slicing through the swarm with terrifying rhythm. They said nothing—there was no need. They understood each other better than words.
Korven, grizzled and battle-worn, roared as he drove a blade into the skull of a Vorm. A fresh gash split across his cheek, but he stood firm, shielding the younger fighters around him.
A warm gust carried the metallic scent of blood. Kael's heart skipped when he saw Declan stagger, his shoulder torn open by a glancing strike. But Declan barely flinched, raising his weapon again, eyes blazing.
The fighting dragged on. The soldiers were tired—no longer warriors but survivors—but they refused to break. Each moment was a struggle, every second a choice between life and death.
Then it happened. Mira—the young archer always full of light—was caught by a beast twice her size. The Vorm lifted her, crushed her bones in its claws before anyone could react. Her scream ripped through the battlefield, silencing even the creatures.
Kael shouted, throat raw. "MIRA! NO!"
Naelys ran toward him, bloodied and breathless, but it was already over.
Three lives had been taken in less than an hour. Three names carved forever into their memories. Joren. Mira. And Narek, who had fallen earlier in silence, his chest torn open while shielding his friend.
Still, they kept fighting. Not out of duty—but out of rage, grief, and desperation. Every attack was vengeance, every step forward a defiance of fate.
The battlefield was now a slaughterhouse. Red-soaked mud swallowed their boots, the walls painted with entrails and sorrow. Their hands were blistered, arms numb, but their spirits burned hotter than ever.
Kael stumbled but caught himself, locking eyes with Naelys. Even through the haze of pain, he found strength in her stare. They weren't just comrades now—they were family. Wounded, broken, but still standing.
The final Vorm fell beneath their blades, its screech dissolving into a chilling silence. They stood there, panting, surrounded by carnage, blood dripping from their weapons, loss burning in their chests.
They had survived. Barely. The price had been too high.
But the war was far from over.