Alaric stood still, his breath coming in shallow bursts as the dense fog surrounded him. The voice's words hung heavy in the air, cutting deeper than any blade. He gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles white, but the weight in his chest was unbearable.
"**I fight because it's my duty,**" he repeated, more forcefully this time, trying to banish the unease rising within him.
The voice, low and unyielding, answered with chilling clarity.
"**Duty? Or fear of what lies behind if you stop? What haunts you, Alaric? What are you running from?**"
The fog swirled, thickening around him, and then, like a scene drawn from memory, the fog parted to reveal a battlefield. His battlefield. It was the one he had seen a thousand times in his nightmares. Bodies littered the ground, men and women who had once trusted him, fought beside him—and died under his command.
