Chaos reigned over the battlefield like a black tide, engulfing everything in a suffocating shroud of despair and violence. The screams were guttural, almost inhuman, blending with the furious clash of swords that rang through the air, thick with the smell of blood, charred flesh, and wet earth. The mist crawled along the ground, thick and dirty, as if even the air was complicit in the carnage. From atop the battlements, Dravenmoor watched the slaughter below, his eyes cold and calculating, but his heart raced with the adrenaline of the impending battle.
His fingers gripped the long sword with restrained force, every muscle in his body tense, like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Beside him, Cerys stood in silence, her lips moving in whispered prayers as she channeled her healing magic. But even she, with all her power, seemed hesitant in the face of the storm about to break loose.
— Don't let me fall, Cerys — Dravenmoor's voice was low, almost a dark whisper, his eyes fixed on the bloodied figure of Aemon, who was tearing through his men with merciless savagery.
He leapt from the battlements in a movement that seemed unnatural, as if gravity dared not hold him down. His black cloak billowed like the wings of a dark crow, and when his feet touched the ground, the impact reverberated like distant thunder. Around him, soldiers instinctively recoiled, sensing the deadly presence emanating from him.
Aemon, covered in blood, slowly turned his head, as if feeling the approach of something equally predatory. His eyes, now stained with a deep darkness, locked onto Dravenmoor's, and for an instant, the entire battlefield seemed to freeze, suffocated by an indescribable tension.
— Keep fighting. — Aemon's voice cut through the silence like a blade of ice. — Defend Volcrist. He's mine.
The soldiers of Volcrist hesitated, their eyes shifting between Aemon and the enemy army. But there was something in Aemon's gaze that forbade disobedience. It wasn't authority — it was something far more primal, a silent and absolute threat.
With slow, deliberate steps, Dravenmoor advanced, the sound of his sword scraping the ground echoing in the ears of all around. The acrid stench of blood and burnt metal hung in the air, while the screams of the soldiers in the distance seemed far away, like echoes of a forgotten memory.
— You think you're strong, Aemon? — Dravenmoor taunted, his voice low and venomous. — A god among men? I'll show you what it truly means to be immortal.
Aemon narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening around his sword until his knuckles turned white. There was something different about him now, something that transcended fury or hatred. It was a pulsing darkness, almost tangible.
— And you — Aemon murmured, his voice as cold as death — will learn what true fear is.
Then they charged.
The first clash of swords was like thunder, a sound so loud it reverberated through the bones of those watching, and sparks flew as steel met steel. Dravenmoor attacked with a cold, calculated ferocity, each strike meticulously aimed to expose a weakness. But Aemon moved with an animalistic speed, dodging every attack with the precision of a seasoned predator.
— Is that it? — Aemon mocked as he blocked a blow that would have decapitated an ordinary man. — Do you really believe you can stop me?
Aemon's laugh echoed across the battlefield, a grotesque sound, almost inhuman. He moved like a shadow, dodging, striking with cruel ferocity, his blades slicing through the air and flesh with equal ease. Dravenmoor, in turn, fought like a man who knew death was only a step away, his eyes glazed, his body fighting against the inevitable.
Their battle wasn't just steel against steel. It was a clash of wills, a silent war between the dying light and the growing darkness. And Aemon, cloaked in that darkness, seemed to grow stronger with every passing second, his body radiating a fury that even the soldiers around could feel, like a crushing weight on their chests.
Dravenmoor launched a brutal series of blows, desperately trying to find an opening. His sword sliced through the air with force, aiming for Aemon's neck. But before the blade could find its mark, Aemon dodged with absurd speed, launching himself to the side and driving his sword into Dravenmoor's arm, the blade tearing through flesh and bone as if they were made of paper.
Dravenmoor's scream was a horrific sound, a wail that seemed to come from the depths of hell. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from his wound, his eyes wide with pain and surprise.
— Cerys! — he shouted, his voice laced with desperation.
Cerys, seeing her companion in agony, began to mutter words of power, but the magic she summoned felt weak, almost impotent in the face of Aemon's fury.
— It's no use — Aemon said, his voice low and cutting. — Nothing can save him now.
Dravenmoor tried to rise, his eyes locked on Aemon, but the horror on his face was evident. He knew death was there, lurking, and there was no escape. Aemon's sword gleamed in the moonlight, soaked in blood, and then it descended with a final, brutal strike.
The blade drove deep into Dravenmoor's chest, the sound of metal tearing through flesh and bone echoing across the silent field. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Dravenmoor's body shuddered, his eyes locked on Aemon, and then, with one final breath, he collapsed, life leaving his body in an instant.
Aemon stood there, panting, his eyes wild, staring at the lifeless body before him. Dravenmoor's blood dripped from his sword, mixing with the soaked ground, and the air felt heavier, as if the battlefield itself had become saturated with the looming death.
— This... — he murmured, his eyes fixed on the dark horizon — was just the beginning.
The soldiers of Volcrist, still panting and bloodstained, silently observed Dravenmoor's fallen body before Aemon, who stood victorious. The silence that followed the enemy's death seemed to carry an almost unbearable weight, as if the very air had been saturated with the metallic scent of fresh blood. Aemon's breathing was heavy, echoing across the battlefield as his eyes, now darkened by savagery, slowly lifted and locked onto Lady Cerys.
She shuddered under the weight of that gaze. For the first time, fear took hold of the mage. Her lips, once confident in speaking words of power, trembled. The battle still raged fiercely around them. The remaining invaders continued to fight desperately against the soldiers of Volcrist, but now, something different stirred on the battlefield.
Suddenly, without anyone noticing where it came from, the invaders began falling in droves, struck down by a brilliant magic of fire. What was once bright had now darkened under the weight of the smoke that clouded the field. Her eyes remained fixed on Aemon, who stood tall like a fallen god, his body drenched in the blood of his enemies. His hair, once white as snow, was now stained red, like a macabre crown of his conquest and the chaos he carried within him. Aemon was a man who once had nothing. Everything he had conquered, he had done with his own hands. And now, he returned to the void, to the darkness from which he had emerged, thanks to rebellious and treacherous hearts.
The soldiers of Volcrist, renewed by Dravenmoor's death and Lilith's arrival, charged forward with fury. The sound of clashing swords, the screams of wounded men, and the crack of breaking bones echoed through the air. But above all the chaos, Lilith watched Aemon with a look of respect and a shadow of desire. That man was not the same as she had known before. Now, he carried something more—a dark and untamable power that made him a force of nature, as uncontrollable as the storm that ravaged the battlefield.
With his eyes fixed on Cerys, Aemon began to run toward the castle. His heavy footsteps crushed the earth beneath him, like the prelude to a devastating storm. Cerys, sensing the impending danger, turned and ran as well. Fear surged through her veins as she tried to escape, the sounds of battle becoming a distant hum in her ears. She had to survive, she had to live to fight another day.
But when Cerys reached the doors of the throne room, she was stopped. Those who remained inside—Thorne, Seraphine, Cedric, Edric, and Fianna—blocked her way. Their expressions were determined, but a shadow of despair lingered in each of their eyes. They knew they were facing a mage, and though their intentions were noble, the cruel truth was that they stood no chance against her.
Without wasting time, Cerys raised her hands and whispered ancient, cruel words. A chilling wind, charged with magic, swept through the room, and the brave ones who tried to stop her were thrown to the ground like lifeless puppets. The sound of bones breaking and screams of pain filled the air. Cedric, with his arm twisted at a grotesque angle, groaned, unable to rise. Seraphine, her beauty now marred by blood, tried to conjure her own spells, but was interrupted by a wave of pain that brought her to her knees.
—You are nothing, Cerys hissed, her eyes glowing with hatred and disdain. —Do you think you can stop me?
Thorne, who had been slammed against a column, struggled to get up but could barely breathe. Edric, spitting blood, looked helplessly at the chaos unfolding before him. Each attempt to stop Cerys resulted in nothing but more suffering, more wounds that would never heal.
Fianna, even with the others fallen around her, refused to give up. With fierce determination, she ran toward the mage, trying to grab her, anything to slow her down. But Cerys, exasperated by the persistence, turned with a sharp gesture and cast a binding spell. Fianna was slammed to the ground, her body bound in invisible chains that immobilized her completely.
—Pathetic, Cerys murmured, approaching Fianna with a cruel smile on her lips. —You've been caught in chaos that was never meant to be yours. Look at you, heir to a decaying Dominion. Her voice dripped with disdain. —A kingdom that begged for Volcrist's aid, clinging to memories of the past like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. And now, look where you are… subject to the whims of the strong.
Though immobilized, Fianna didn't look away. Her breathing was heavy, her eyes burning with a flame of silent fury. But before she could respond, something cut through the air with deadly speed—Aemon's sword, hurled straight at Cerys.
The steel whizzed past the mage's head, barely missing its mark, but it was enough to make her freeze. Her eyes widened as she realized Aemon had arrived, his dark presence filling the room. The air around them seemed to constrict, becoming suffocating, and the very ground seemed to tremble beneath his steps.
Slowly, Aemon began to walk toward Cerys. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the hall, each beat heavier than the last, as though he carried the weight of all the hatred and suffering of that kingdom. Cerys, sensing the danger growing with each of his movements, stepped back, her lips beginning to mutter another spell—but her voice faltered. Something in Aemon's gaze made her hesitate.
The darkness in his eyes was so deep that it seemed to swallow all the light in the room.
And then, the true confrontation began.
Each step Aemon took toward Cerys echoed through the vast hall, heavy, as if the very ground trembled in acknowledgment of the darkness he carried. But even with the evident threat, Cerys, her face still held by a mixture of fear and hatred, forced a tense smile. Her body trembled, but her sharp mind was already weaving new strategies. She raised her chin slightly, trying to maintain her composure.
—Do you really think you've won, Aemon? — she said, her voice soft but filled with malice, cutting the air between them. —You may have defeated Dravenmoor, but this, my dear, is only the beginning. If even Volcrist's subdomains rebelled against Cedric, who is the legitimate son of the king... imagine what will happen when that discord reaches domains the size of Volcrist.
Aemon paused momentarily, still far enough to keep his sword raised, the blood still dripping from the blade. Cerys seized the hesitation.
—Do you think you can control all of this? — she continued, now smiling with a hint of venom. —Your enemies will multiply exponentially. You won't be able to stop a war of this magnitude... just like in the past. Volcrist's bloody legacy will come back to haunt you, and you won't be prepared for it. And now, Dravenmoor, a powerful ally, was killed by your own hands. Your subdomains won't stay quiet, Aemon. They won't accept any attempt to reclaim what was his. The same will happen if you kill me.
Cerys' smile widened, her eyes gleaming with cunning. She could see the hesitation in Aemon's eyes, even if slight, a flicker of doubt she knew she could exploit. He stared at her coldly, but his hatred began to give way to strategy.
—Tell me, Aemon, what would you gain from killing me? — she asked, her voice now softer, almost a whisper. —Volcrist needs my subdomain. — She stepped forward, calculating each movement. —You know as well as I do that it is my domain that keeps your economy flowing. The festivals, the events, the harvests... all pass through me. If you kill me, the people will not accept another in command. They know me, they follow me, they fear me. Killing me would be a mistake.
Aemon remained motionless, his eyes locked on hers. His chest still rose and fell with restrained fury, but his hands, steady until then, relaxed for a brief moment. He knew she was right, and that enraged him even more.
—And so, Aemon? — Cerys taunted, a manipulative glint in her eyes. —What reason do you have to spare a traitor like me?
Aemon took another step forward, his voice low and heavy when he finally responded.
—Give me a reason to spare a traitor like you.
Cerys took a deep breath, controlling the tremor in her chest. She knew she was in his hands, but she also knew he was more than a soldier blinded by vengeance. The politics of Volcrist were an intricate web, and even the fiercest warrior had to know when to retreat.
—I am the reason, Aemon, — she said calmly, a tone of confidence slipping into her words. —You need me. My people will never accept another in command. You would kill a traitor but create ten enemies in my place. Think about it. Do you want more wars? More enemies conspiring around you? Or do you prefer that I maintain control of my subdomain and, perhaps, we make an agreement?
The hall was silent, the air thick with the tension between the two. Aemon, still covered in blood, with his darkened, intense eyes, seemed to wrestle with himself. His breathing, which had once roared like a beast's, began to calm. He knew that more enemies would only bring more chaos, more bloodshed. Cerys, as much as he despised her, was a key piece in a war he wasn't ready to fight alone.
He lowered his sword slightly, his eyes still locked on hers.
—You will live, — he finally said, his voice grave. —But if you betray me again, there will be no conversation.
Cerys stood up slowly, her eyes calm and her movements calculated, as if she had been in control from the beginning. The weight of defeat didn't seem to touch her, while Aemon moved away toward the window. His gaze, once a consuming fire, was now cold and distant. He opened the window with a firm motion, observing the devastated field below, where the chaos and brutality of battle still echoed in the air.
—It's done. It's over. — Aemon's voice rang out, firm, carried by the wind. —Cerys has surrendered.
The soldiers of Volcrist, weary and wounded, slowly lowered their swords. The metallic sound of blades being sheathed echoed across the field, like the sound of a cycle of violence coming to an end. The bows were put away, the spells unwoven, and the weapons, one by one, were dropped on the blood-stained ground. A murmur spread through the ranks, among the soldiers and rebels, their voices low and bitter.
—Is this what we fought for? — whispered one soldier, his eyes fixed on the bodies piling up on the field. —Men, women... there's no distinction in what war takes from us.
Another soldier, his face marked by scars and his soul exhausted, clenched his fists at his sides. —It's always the same ones who survive to tell the story. The lords remain on their thrones while we... — He looked down at the ground, where a comrade lay still, his body disfigured by the brutality of battle. —We're the ones who pay the price.
The wind blowing across the field carried with it the stench of death, a mixture of blood, earth, and burnt flesh. On the horizon, bodies impaled on stakes and fallen figures painted a scene of horror, a grim reminder that war doesn't choose its victims. There was no honor in the end, only the relentless pain of those who remained standing.
A younger soldier, barely able to hold his sword in trembling hands, looked at the bodies around him. His eyes were glazed over, as if he could barely comprehend what had just happened. —He died for nothing... — he murmured, his lips dry. —All of them. None of this matters. In the end, we're just bodies in the mud.
An older warrior, his face hardened by past battles, spat on the ground, bitter. —And for what? So another nobility can play war with our lives. It's never enough, it never ends... until there's nothing left to fight for.
The landscape was devastating. Bodies of men and women lay side by side, mixed in a grotesque scene of violence. There was no distinction of age or gender — all were equal in death. Sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters... all fallen as if war had drained any remnants of humanity. A soldier standing further away looked at a fallen woman, her face covered in dust and dried blood.
—It doesn't matter who we are... — he murmured to himself. —When war comes, we're all just meat for the blade.
The murmurs continued, some more philosophical, others just expressions of anger and despair.
—The peace that comes after battle... — said another, his voice choking as he held a comrade's wounded shoulder. —It's an illusion. The cycle always begins again.
—There are no winners here. — grumbled an archer, wiping the sweat from his brow. —Only the living... and the dead. Today we survive, tomorrow who knows.
Aemon watched all of this from above, his mind trapped in a whirlwind of thoughts. The victory was his, but the cost was too great to celebrate.
The battlefield was immersed in a tense peace, fragile like glass. Everyone had lowered their weapons, soldiers and rebels alike, believing the war had finally come to an end. But the calm was abruptly shattered when, suddenly, a Volcrist soldier unsheathed his sword with a cold gleam in his eyes. Without warning, he lunged at an unarmed rebel. The strike was quick and deadly—an instant death.
The sound of the blade cutting through flesh and the rebel's body collapsing to the ground echoed across the field. Everyone stood still. Shock took hold of the expressions of those who still breathed, both soldiers and rebels. The war had been sealed, they thought. But no. Resentment still lingered, and the soldier, now panting, his eyes filled with hatred, broke the silence.
—You blame us, but look around! — he roared, pointing his bloodied sword at both comrades and enemies. —What do you see? What was the need for all of this? There were other ways, more diplomatic ways, but you chose war!
His voice echoed across the field, laden with frustration and pain. He spun the sword, pointing at the bodies scattered around, men and women indistinguishable in death. —Look at what you've done! The blood is on your hands. You forced this!
Thorne, older and weary from battle, slowly approached Aemon, who remained standing near the window, his eyes distant, as if victory had lost its taste. Beside Thorne, Lilith moved silently, sensing the tension in the air. But it was Thorne who, with his wisdom, spoke first, placing a hand on Aemon's shoulder.
—This is the life of a king, Aemon. — His voice was deep but full of understanding. —It's not just about riches, gold, women, or conquests. There are losses... even in victory. In fact, there are more losses than anyone could bear. Men died today, and others will die tomorrow. And it will always be this way, until the end of time. For a cause... our cause was to defend Volcrist. The invaders' cause may seem senseless, but to them, it had its reasons.
Aemon, still gazing at the body-strewn field, said nothing immediately. Thorne continued, stepping a bit closer.
—A king's duty is not just to fight and win. It's to understand both sides. To feel the weight of all the lives lost and those yet to come. — He looked at the soldiers and rebels, now quiet, his eyes scanning the field. —And that weight never goes away. It only grows heavier. The war never ends for a king, Aemon. Never.
Aemon clenched his fists for a moment, feeling the weight of Thorne's words. He took a deep breath, allowing the silence to stretch before speaking.
—Gather the wounded... — He turned to Thorne, his gaze finally steadier, though still shadowed with uncertainty. —Ask Lilith to heal them. All of them. It doesn't matter which side they fought for.
Lilith, who had quietly moved closer, nodded with a slight inclination of her head, ready to carry out the order. She began moving among the fallen, preparing her healing magic while Thorne watched with approval. Aemon, however, still had something on his mind. He turned to Thorne again, a serious and inquisitive expression on his face.
—And what will we do with Cerys? — Aemon asked, his voice laden with tension. —She's a traitor. But after all this... what should I do?
Thorne, with the wisdom of a man who had seen many conflicts, smiled slightly, though without joy. —If you listened to what I said, Aemon... you already know the answer.
Aemon remained silent for a moment, processing Thorne's words. He finally understood that being a king meant more than just punishing the guilty and celebrating victories. It was about understanding the bigger picture, the motivations, and the burden of making decisions that could shape the fate of an entire kingdom.
The turmoil on the battlefield grew, echoing between the blood-soaked stones and fallen bodies. The rebels, many of them from the lower classes or former slaves, began raising their voices, filled with rage and despair. Their shouts pierced the heavy air, each one loaded with pain accumulated over a lifetime of suffering.
"You soldiers of the king will never understand!" one of them shouted, his eyes burning with resentment. "You've never gone hungry, never watched your children die from disease while the nobles feast in their golden halls!"
"All we have are the scraps!" exclaimed another, his fist raised, trembling with fury. "The scraps from the feasts of the powerful, the decisions they make without consulting us, the lives they destroy without even noticing! You kill for a king who has never known the weight of a hard life, who has never been humiliated, trampled... like we have."
The cries of indignation and pain quickly spread, inflaming those around. Some wept, others raised their hands to the sky as if pleading for a justice that had never come. The battlefield, once a place of physical struggle, now became a stage for emotional and philosophical conflicts, where hatred and hopelessness clashed with the authority of the royal soldiers.
"And what do you think you've gained?" a soldier of Volcrist retorted, his voice filled with frustration but also with unspoken pain. "Do you think we haven't suffered too? Do you think we've lost nothing? Look around! How many of us have died defending this kingdom?"
Another soldier stepped forward, shaking his head as he looked at the rebels, his eyes filled with sadness. "Yes, we fight for a king, for a kingdom. But the truth is, we're not so different from you. Do you think we feast with the nobles? No, we're sent to the front lines, to die first, while the powerful stay behind safe walls. The difference between us and you is that we have even less choice."
"Choice?" a rebel spat on the ground, his teeth clenched in anger. "You do have a choice, the choice to stop supporting a system that oppresses us, or the choice to fight with us to change it. But you... you choose to keep protecting those who trample on you too! Do you think you're free? You're just pawns in a larger game!"
The conversation between soldiers and rebels swung between sadness, anger, and reflection. The weight of the war, the losses, and the invisible wounds—both physical and emotional—seemed to hang over everyone. Death had leveled men and women, soldiers and rebels alike. And yet, the scars of class and stories of oppression remained open, bleeding like the wounds on the field.
Aemon, watching the growing chaos, turned to Thorne, seeking guidance. The uncertainty in his eyes reflected the weight of his new responsibilities.
Thorne looked at Aemon with the calm of a man who had lived through much, his words laden with simple yet profound wisdom. "You know what to do. This... is more than war. It's about hearts. And only you can calm this field."
Aemon took a deep breath. He knew this wasn't just about winning battles or making strategic decisions. Now, he needed to save his people from something far greater than swords and arrows—he needed to save their souls from despair.
Without a word, he stepped onto the field, his steps firm, but his heart full of doubt. This time, he was not going to kill. He was going to heal the wounds that steel and fire could not touch.
When he reached the middle of the turmoil, the eyes of both rebels and soldiers fell upon him. Some still held weapons, but Aemon raised his hands, asking for silence. His presence, once marked by darkness and the fury of previous battles, now carried a different energy—an appeal for something beyond blood.
"Enough death." His voice rang out strong, but with a tone of exhaustion, as if he too was weary of all the violence. "We are not here just to win or lose. We are here because all of you, every one of you, wanted to be heard. You wanted to be seen. I hear you."
The murmurs began to die down. Soldiers slowly lowered their swords. Rebels, once consumed by rage, now looked at Aemon with a mixture of distrust and hope.
"We have fought, bled, and died. And in the end, the question is... why? Why are we here, standing, while so many have fallen?" He looked around, his eyes scanning the bodies on the ground, the lives lost on both sides. "Because all of you, just like me, believed there was something worth fighting for."
As Aemon spoke, Cerys and Lilith, still inside the castle, moved among the wounded, using their magic to heal those they could. Pain was everywhere, but so too was a new chance for redemption and rebuilding.
Aemon gave one last look to Thorne, who watched him with wise eyes. The young king knew what had to be done. "Gather everyone... both ours and theirs. Everyone needs healing now. And there will be no more bloodshed."
Thorne, beside him, nodded, knowing that this was the beginning of a new era for Volcrist—one in which the kingdom would need a healer more than a warrior.