The first rays of dawn crept over the shattered skyline, bathing the war-torn streets in a sickly gold. Smoke hung heavy in the air, each plume twisting upward like the last desperate prayers of the fallen. Beneath the ruined archway of the old district, Kiel stood alone—armor dented, blade still warm from the night's endless skirmishes. His breath was steady, but his eyes burned with that unyielding fire his enemies had learned to fear.
The ground trembled. Not from bombs, not from collapsing walls—this was heavier, deliberate. A slow, pounding rhythm like the heartbeat of some great beast. Kiel's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
From the shadows emerged Veyran, the warlord whose name had silenced towns long before Kiel had even picked up a blade. His armor was a jagged mosaic of black steel and crimson cloth, each piece scarred from battles that history had already forgotten. The man's presence was suffocating, an oppressive weight that seemed to drag the very air down around him.
"Kiel," Veyran's voice was low but carried, gravel rolling through a cavern. "You've become quite the thorn. But every thorn can be plucked."
Kiel stepped forward, boots crunching over glass and rubble. "You've burned too many homes to the ground. I'm here to make sure this one is your last."
They circled each other, the ruins their arena. Every step they took brought with it a small avalanche of dust and debris, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Veyran struck first—no warning, no hesitation. His blade came down like a guillotine, shattering the ground where Kiel had been standing a heartbeat before. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the clash echoing through the broken streets. Kiel countered with a lightning-fast thrust aimed at Veyran's side, but the warlord twisted just enough, the strike slicing only a shallow groove in his armor.
The fight became a storm. Each swing, each block, each sidestep was an act of survival and defiance. They moved with a predator's precision—Kiel darting in and out, probing for weaknesses; Veyran answering with brutal, crushing power.
"You fight like someone who's running out of time," Veyran taunted, forcing Kiel back with a flurry of bone-rattling blows.
"Maybe I am," Kiel replied through clenched teeth. "But so are you."
He feinted left, then spun right, driving his blade upward in a move he'd learned from an old mentor. The steel found a gap in Veyran's shoulder guard, biting deep. The warlord snarled—not in pain, but in something closer to approval.
"Good," Veyran growled. "At least you won't die boring."
The injury didn't slow him much. If anything, it made him more dangerous. His attacks came faster, heavier, like a siege engine rolling downhill. Kiel's arms screamed from the effort of parrying. His boots skidded across the dust-coated stone. Still, he refused to yield.
A lucky strike sent Kiel's sword spinning from his hands, clattering across the ground. Veyran raised his blade for the killing blow.
But Kiel was already moving. He rolled under the descending steel, scooping up a shattered spear from the debris. The jagged shaft was lighter than his sword, but faster. He lunged, driving the broken weapon into the same gap in Veyran's armor, twisting hard.
The warlord staggered, his breath catching for the first time. He ripped the spear free, blood staining the black metal of his chest plate. Their eyes locked—predator to predator, neither willing to admit defeat.
Somewhere in the distance, horns sounded. Reinforcements—Kiel's side or Veyran's, neither could tell.
"This isn't finished," Veyran said, stepping back into the mist and shadow.
Kiel didn't lower his guard until the warlord's presence faded completely. Only then did he let his breath escape in a long, shuddering exhale. The dawn was fully risen now, but the light felt cold.
The battle had been survived, not won. And Kiel knew the next one would be worse.