The day had been cruel—bitterly cold, with winds that scoured the land as if stripping it of all remaining life. Above the battlefield, ravens wheeled and screamed, their sharp cries cutting through the air as they settled upon the fallen, feasting as though at a blood-soaked banquet. Torn bodies lay scattered in every direction, drowned in pools of blood that mingled with the mud, turning the ground slick and reeking of death.
Amid this hell, amid ruin and desolation, one knight had survived—somehow. He knelt among the corpses, drenched in blood, his breath ragged, his heart pounding like the last drums of war. Slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes wandering across what remained of the field. He was not alone.
Only a few steps away, the monsters gathered.
Some wore the shapes of knights, their eyes hollow of life, their armor twisted and ruined, as if they were no more than puppets inhabited by a darker will. Others were beasts in their truest form—fangs dripping venom, claws sharp enough to tear iron before flesh. There was the towering one, rising like a mountain of shadow, and the smaller things, slithering low, hunting like serpents.
The knight closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as though gathering the last shards of his strength. Then he leaned upon his sword, drove its blade into the earth, and forced his broken body to stand. This might be the final time he ever rose—but he would not fall on his knees. He would not be defeated while breath and steel still answered his call.
He lifted his sword and faced the creatures encircling him, knowing full well that death was already on its way.