Blake deftly parried the thrust of a soldier's lance with his shield, the force of the blow reverberating through his arm. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, closing the distance in a brutal surge. His axe swung in a deadly arc, biting deep into the soldier's collarbone with a sickening crunch.
Blood sprayed in a hot, crimson arc as the man crumpled to the floor, his eyes wide with shock in his final moments.
Blake barely registered the sound of the dying man's gasp; his focus was elsewhere, caught up in the intoxicating rush of battle.
How much he had missed this—the visceral thrill, the sharp scent of blood mingling with sweat and iron, the cacophony of war surrounding him like a dark symphony. Every clash of steel, every scream of pain, felt like music to his ears, a song he had been too long without.
