The battlefield had become a nightmare of smoke, ash, and blood. The constant clash of steel and the cries of the dying echoed under the blackened sky, yet Arteja stood firm at the center of it all. Her body ached, her lungs burned, but her grip on the spear was unrelenting.
The enemy was faltering. Where once they surged with confidence, now hesitation spread through their ranks like a plague. Arteja's storm had broken their formations, and their siege engines lay shattered—smoldering wrecks of splintered wood and iron. Yet, the enemy commanders pushed on, throwing more men into the fray, desperate to claim victory.
Arteja turned her gaze to the fortress walls. The defenders were rallying. Arrows rained down in disciplined volleys, thinning out the remaining enemy troops as Corliss barked orders from atop the battlements. Lirael fought with unyielding ferocity, leading her small force in a countercharge to push back the enemy that had breached the gates.
But Arteja knew the battle had to end. They could not endure another wave.
Thunder rumbled overhead as she took a step forward, her spear crackling with raw energy. The storm she had summoned was no longer just a weapon—it was a force of nature that answered her call.
"Enough," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
In the distance, an enemy commander clad in dark armor rallied his remaining troops for one final push. His black banner, emblazoned with a serpent, rippled in the wind as he raised his sword high. "For the glory of the serpent! Advance! Crush them!"
Arteja narrowed her eyes.
She began to move. Her steps were slow at first, deliberate, but each stride built momentum. Her spear thrummed with power, arcs of lightning jumping to the ground as she passed fallen soldiers. The enemy, emboldened by their leader's cry, turned their attention to her, hundreds of men pressing forward in a desperate charge.
She broke into a run.
The storm broke with her.
A blinding flash split the sky as Arteja leapt into the air, her spear raised high. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. The soldiers below stared up, their faces pale with terror as the storm gathered above her—a swirling vortex of black clouds and blue light, all converging on one point.
Then Arteja struck.
The spear crashed into the ground, and the world erupted. A deafening explosion of lightning radiated outward in all directions. Soldiers were thrown back like leaves in a hurricane, their weapons and shields torn from their hands. The ground split and burned, jagged lines of blue energy carving through the earth.
The black banner of the serpent burned to ash.
When the light faded and the dust settled, silence reigned. Arteja stood alone at the center of a massive crater, her spear still planted in the ground. Around her, the battlefield was littered with fallen bodies—men who had been too close to the blast, their armor scorched and smoking.
The remaining enemy soldiers stared at her in horror. Some dropped their weapons and fled, stumbling over the bodies of their comrades. Others fell to their knees, their spirits shattered.
The enemy commander, once so bold, stood frozen. His armor was dented and blackened by the blast, his sword trembling in his hand. He met Arteja's gaze, and for the first time, she saw fear in his eyes.
Arteja took a step toward him, her spear sparking faintly as it dragged across the ground.
"Call your men back," she said, her voice cold and even. "Or I will finish what I started."
The commander hesitated, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came. With one final look at the devastation surrounding him, he turned and dropped his sword.
"Fall back!" he roared, his voice desperate. "Retreat! Retreat!"
The remaining soldiers turned and ran, their once-disciplined ranks disintegrating as they fled toward the distant hills. The thunder rolled one last time, as if in warning, and then the storm began to fade.
Arteja stood in the stillness that followed, the crackle of lightning now replaced by the faint cries of the wounded and the soft patter of rain. Her limbs felt heavy, her vision swimming as exhaustion began to creep in. She had given everything.
"Arteja!"
She turned her head to see Lirael running toward her, her face streaked with blood and dirt. Behind her, Corliss and a group of defenders approached cautiously, their eyes wide with awe as they took in the scorched earth and smoldering remains.
Lirael reached Arteja's side and grabbed her shoulders, searching her face. "Are you all right? Can you stand?"
"I'm fine," Arteja murmured, though her legs threatened to give way.
"You did it," Lirael said, her voice filled with equal parts relief and disbelief. She glanced around at the battlefield. "You ended it."
Corliss approached, her usually stern face softening as she regarded Arteja. "You saved us all. The fortress would have fallen without you."
Arteja pulled her spear free from the ground, the last of the lightning fading from its tip. She looked toward the distant horizon, where the enemy had fled. "They'll return," she said quietly. "This was only a delay."
"Then we'll be ready," Corliss replied firmly. "Thanks to you."
Lirael smiled faintly and nudged Arteja's arm. "Come on. Let's get you back inside before you collapse."
Together, they turned and walked toward the fortress gates. The defenders on the walls cheered as Arteja passed, their voices ringing out in triumph. It was a hard-won victory, and they all knew it could have ended differently.
As Arteja entered the fortress, she glanced back at the battlefield one last time. The storm had passed, but its mark remained—scorched earth and broken banners, a warning to anyone who dared test her wrath.
And Arteja knew the war was far from over.
For now, though, they had survived.
And survival, she thought, was victory enough.