The roar of the battlefield echoed through the air, an unrelenting sound of clashing swords, cries of pain, and the thunderous gallop of hooves. The sky above was an ominous grey, thick with smoke, the stench of sweat and blood hanging heavy. Victor Arenthis, the young commander of his father's forces, stood at the front lines, his sword gripped in his gloved hand. His armour, once gleaming with polished brass, now marred with bloodstains and dirt, felt suffocating.
His orders were simple, his position unquestionable, but the weight of it all—the lives hanging by the thinnest of threads—pressed down on him like an anchor in a storm. "Hold the line!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos, trying to instil some sense of order amidst the carnage. His soldiers, faces pale with fear and determination, nodded and took their places, but Victor could see it in their eyes. They did not differ from him: young men caught in the maelstrom, forced to grow up too fast.
A soldier beside him fell, the arrow piercing his throat with a sickening crack. Victor didn't flinch; he couldn't. To show weakness was to risk everything. But even as his command cut through the air, he felt the shift inside him—a tightening in his chest that wasn't from the weight of his armour.
He had always known this was coming, knew he would inherit the responsibility of his family's name, the role of a commander long before he was ready. The Arenthis family had no place for weakness, no room for mercy. Yet, as he watched his men fall, one by one, it became harder to reconcile the man his father expected him to be and the man he thought he could become. The blood of these soldiers was on his hands, their lives taken not by fate, but by the weight of his command. And for what? For honour? For glory? Or was it all just a ruthless game, played with the lives of those who had no say in the matter?
The frantic call of a soldier interrupted Victor's thoughts. "Commander! The left flank is breaking!"
His heart pounded in his chest. Without thinking, he turned, issuing another order with a force that surprised even him. "Form a new line! Don't let them break!"
He pushed forward, his mind racing. Every decision felt like a gamble. Every movement could mean the difference between victory and destruction. His heart pounded in time with his boots striking the blood-drenched ground, but even as he took charge, something inside him cracked.
He was still so young, barely more than a child, yet here he was, commanding men who trusted him with their lives. The weight of the responsibility crushed him in ways his armour never could. He fought on—driven not by a desire for glory, but by the bitter knowledge that he had no choice.
As the battle continued, Victor retreated to a private corner of the battlefield, his gaze distant. The screams and clashing swords seemed to fade into nothingness as his mind wandered. What was it all for?
His eyes closed for a moment, and in the silence, the image of Verina surfaced, clear and vivid. He saw her again, as he had when they first met—the soft light of the evening sky casting a warm glow around her, her laughter at the festival ringing through the air like a song. That moment felt like another life, one untouched by the bloodshed of war.
For a fleeting second, he let himself imagine that life. What if I didn't have to be here? What if I could run away, be with her, somewhere far from all of this?
But the vision shattered as quickly as it had come. The harsh reality of his position was undeniable. The battlefield was more than just a place of death; The Arenthis name would not allow him to walk away. What would be left of him if he walked away? Would he even recognise himself in a world without the constant pressure, without the bloodshed?
The sound of boots crunching on the ground broke through his reverie. Sergeant Maelis stood nearby, his face set in the same grim line that had grown all too familiar. "The rear guard is holding steady, Commander," he said, his voice almost drowned by the surrounding noise. "But we've sustained heavy losses. We've lost too many. We need to rally the survivors before it's too late."
Victor felt the tension building within him. Maelis wasn't wrong—they had lost many good men, and retreat was an option that seemed more and more likely. But a part of Victor rebelled against it. Retreat? His pride as a commander, the pressure to never show weakness, made it almost impossible for him to consider. He had to win, had to prove that he could lead. But even he knew that pride alone wouldn't save them.
He gritted his teeth, the familiar taste of metal and blood in his mouth as he turned back toward the battlefield. "We push forward," he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. "We can't afford to retreat. Not when we've come this far."
Victor's eyes met Maelis's, seeing not just the soldier but the man who had trained him since he could hold a sword. Maelis had been more than a mentor; he had been the closest thing to a steady hand in the chaos of Victor's upbringing.
"You've seen worse, haven't you, Maelis?" Victor's voice carried a hint of something almost like desperation.
Maelis's eyes softened, just for a moment. "Worse, yes. But never this senseless," he murmured. "Your father fought for power. You—" He stopped, as if choosing his words carefully. "You fight for something different. Remember that."
As the men moved forward, Victor stayed at the front, the battlefield a blur around him. His movements were mechanical now—no longer filled with the fire of a young man eager for battle, but rather driven by the cold necessity of survival. Each strike of his sword felt like an echo in a vast emptiness, a hollow sound that reverberated through him long after the clash.
It wasn't until the light began to fade, casting the battlefield into an eerie twilight, that Victor found himself retreating from the front lines again. The pull of exhaustion was undeniable, and he sought refuge in the small tent he had set up away from the main camp. Inside, he allowed himself a moment of respite, flopping onto the camp cot.
The silence in the tent was almost deafening after the chaos of battle, but it wasn't enough to silence the screams still ringing in his ears, the faces of the fallen flashing behind his eyelids. He scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble and the fatigue that had seeped into his bones.
Slowly, surely, he was becoming someone who would never fit into the life he had once dreamed of. The part of him that had longed for freedom, for peace, was dying beneath the heavy mantle of his lineage.
He gripped the charm tighter, willing the fading image of Verina to hold him together, if only for a moment longer.
Just then, a shadow fell across the entrance of the tent, and Maelis appeared once again, his expression tense. "Commander," he began, but there was something different in his tone—an urgency. "We've received word from the front. The enemy is regrouping. They're preparing for another assault."
Victor stood up abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. Another assault? The pressure, the constant demand to perform, to survive, was relentless. He felt his chest tighten again as he grabbed for his sword, the cold steel a constant reminder of his duty.
"Get the men ready. We fight," Victor said, his voice steel, but inside, his heart had grown cold. The moment of vulnerability, the thought of Verina, felt like a dream now.
It's too late for me. Too late for anything but this.