The battlefield was a ruin of smoke, broken stone, and the unending echo of steel against steel. Ash drifted through the air like black snow, clinging to the faces of warriors who had long lost the strength to wipe it away. The sun, once bright, was now hidden behind a churning sky, turning the entire world into shades of red and gray.
Kael staggered forward, each step heavier than the last. His sword's blade was cracked near the tip, its once-bright edge dulled by hours of unrelenting combat. His armor was battered, the plates dented in strange, almost skeletal shapes, as if the battle itself had tried to break him apart piece by piece. Blood—his own and others'—coated him in uneven streaks. His breathing came in deep, ragged pulls, and yet his eyes still burned with defiance.
The enemy lines shifted in the haze. They weren't just men—there were creatures now, towering forms with molten eyes and armor that seemed forged from the heart of a volcano. They moved with slow, deliberate malice, each step pounding into the earth like a war drum. Behind them, Kael caught sight of the dark banner of Veythar, the warlord whose name had become a curse whispered by the dying.
A sudden movement at his side broke his focus. Arien, blood trickling from a deep cut on her temple, stumbled but caught herself on her spear. Her voice, though shaking, cut through the chaos.
"We can't hold much longer," she warned, her eyes darting toward the enemy's advancing giants. "Our left flank is breaking. If they push through—"
"They won't," Kael interrupted, his tone sharp, almost a snarl. He looked to the fractured line of warriors behind him—exhausted, wounded, but still gripping their weapons as if they were lifelines. "We stand here. No matter what comes."
The ground trembled. One of the molten-eyed beasts surged forward, swinging a blade the size of a cart. Kael met it head-on, steel ringing against black iron. The impact rattled his bones, but he used the momentum to drive his cracked sword deep into the creature's exposed joint. It roared, stumbling, and Arien darted in to finish it with a thrust through its throat.
More came.
The air became a furnace of heat and sound. Kael's world narrowed to the rhythm of his breath, the weight of his sword, the flicker of death in every movement around him. Somewhere in the chaos, he heard the horns of retreat—but they weren't his army's.
A ripple moved through the enemy ranks. From the smoke, a figure emerged—tall, armored in blackened steel with a helm shaped like a dragon's skull. Veythar himself. His presence was a blade in the air, cutting through courage and filling the void with fear.
Kael stepped forward before his soldiers could falter. The warlord's gaze locked on him, and Kael felt the weight of it like a chain around his neck.
"You've cost me a thousand men," Veythar said, his voice carrying even through the roar of battle. "But you will not cost me victory."
"We'll see," Kael growled.
They clashed. Sparks flew in showers with each strike, the sheer force of the blows cracking the stones beneath their feet. Kael's sword chipped further, each swing a gamble that it wouldn't shatter entirely. Veythar fought like a storm—each movement deliberate, devastating, and meant to end fights in a single stroke.
A lucky deflection gave Kael an opening. He drove his shoulder into Veythar's chest, forcing him back a step. But the warlord's counter was brutal—a gauntleted fist crashing into Kael's jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The world tilted. Sound dulled. Through the haze, Kael saw Veythar raise his blade for the killing blow.
Then a horn blasted—not the retreat, but the call of reinforcements. From the east, fresh banners appeared through the smoke, the crest of allied clans who had sworn to Kael's cause.
Veythar hesitated for the briefest moment, his helm turning toward the horizon.
That hesitation was all Kael needed.
With a roar that tore through the din of battle, Kael surged upward, driving his cracked blade toward the gap in Veythar's armor—straight at the warlord's heart.