The battlefield was a graveyard of broken men. Smoke curled in the air, twisting like the dying prayers of those who had fallen, mixing with the metallic stench of blood and steel. Kael's boots squelched in the mud as he stepped over a body, barely sparing it a glance. His sword dripped crimson, a heavy reminder of the work he had yet to finish.
Ahead, the skirmish raged, the clash of steel against steel a chorus of violence. Kael moved through it, cold and silent. Each strike was precise, aimed not for glory, but survival. A man lunged at him, sword raised high. Kael sidestepped, his blade cutting through flesh with the ease of a butcher at work. Another down.
The screams around him were distant, muffled by the thrum of his heartbeat and the rhythm of combat. The chaos felt familiar, comforting even. In the heat of battle, nothing mattered but the next swing, the next kill. No past, no future, only now.
A memory flashed in his mind. "Survival is the only truth, Kael," Kerric's voice echoed in his thoughts, the leader's harsh face seared into his mind. "Fight to live. Everything else is a fool's dream." Kael had taken those words to heart, long before the world had given him any reason to doubt them.
Another soldier rushed him, face twisted in rage, swinging a heavy axe. Kael ducked, rolling under the swing, and in a single motion, drove his sword through the man's chest. The soldier gasped, eyes wide, as life left him in a strangled gurgle. Kael yanked his sword free, already moving toward his next target.
He glanced up and spotted the banner of a noble house fluttering in the wind—their insignia barely visible through the haze of smoke and blood. It wasn't one he recognized, but it didn't matter. The nobles fought their wars for power, but mercenaries like Kael fought for something simpler, survival. Every battle was a test, and Kael passed each one by cutting down anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
A sharp whistle tore through the noise of the battlefield, cutting through the clang of weapons and the shouts of dying men. Kael froze for a moment, instinct guiding him to duck low as an arrow whistled past where his head had been seconds before. He turned toward the source, a distant archer hidden among the trees.
He rolled out of the line of fire, closing the gap between him and the archers before they could reload. The archer's eyes went wide as Kael closed the distance, and with a final leap, Kael drove his sword into the man's chest, pulling the blade free just as the archer fell. No second chances.
Somewhere across the battlefield, a familiar figure caught his eye. Silas. The noble stood at the edge of the chaos, surveying the scene with a calm, almost bored expression. Silas hadn't drawn his weapon yet, he never did unless it was necessary. His presence alone was enough to twist a knot in Kael's gut.
Silas turned, locking eyes with Kael for just a moment. No recognition. No respect. Just cold, noble disdain. He looked at Kael the way one might look at a stray dog. Then, as quickly as their eyes met, Silas turned away, disappearing into the smoke.
Kael's grip tightened around his sword. He took a breath, his heartbeat steady despite the chaos around him. The fight was far from over.
Kerric's voice whispered again in his mind: "Remember Kael, everyone dies. It's just a matter of when."
The battle dragged on, each clash of steel punctuated by shouts of agony or desperation. Kael moved through the battlefield like a shadow, a blade in the storm. He had no illusions of honor or justice. This was the only life he had ever known, a brutal dance of survival, where death came swiftly for those who hesitated. And he never hesitated.
As the skirmish wore on, the tide of battle began to shift. The enemy forces, though fierce, were breaking. Panic was spreading like a disease among their ranks, their lines faltering. Kael felt no pity as he drove his blade through another soldier's gut, the man's dying scream barely registering in his mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of enemy soldiers falling back, retreating toward the hills. Their commander barked orders, trying to rally them, but fear had already gripped their hearts. It was over.
Kerric's mercenaries pressed forward, sensing victory. Kael kept his pace measured, moving deliberately. His gaze scanned the field for any sign of Silas, but the noble was gone, likely withdrawing as he always did when the fight wasn't to his liking. Silas didn't care about these petty squabbles, his ambitions laid elsewhere.
A sharp pain shot through Kael's side. He looked down and saw the tip of a spear jutting out from his flank. He hadn't even seen the soldier who struck him, one of the few still clinging to life amidst the carnage. With a grunt, Kael twisted, snapping the spear in two and driving his sword into the man's throat. Blood splattered across his armor as the soldier crumpled to the ground.
Kael staggered for a moment, his hand clutching the wound. It wasn't deep, but it was a reminder, a reminder that even the best of warriors could fall if they weren't careful.
He spat on the ground, eyes narrowing. The battle was won, but the war, his war, was far from over.