The battlefield was a wasteland of scattered bodies, broken weapons, and smoldering debris. The sky was darkening, and the cool breeze carried the stench of blood and defeat. Raelis stood in the center of it all, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his fingers trembling around the hilt of his sword. His face was twisted in rage, but behind the fury, there was fear—a cold, creeping realization that his grand ambition was crumbling before his eyes.
But he wasn't done. He couldn't be. Not yet.
He turned his gaze to Eldric, standing a short distance away, calm and collected, his sword lowered but his eyes locked on Raelis. The ease with which he had commanded the battlefield, the way his knights had dismantled Raelis's army piece by piece, was infuriating. Eldric was supposed to be weak, a puppet king. Yet here he stood, victorious, unshaken, as if the battle had hardly affected him.
