December 9, 1706

Garoc stared at the body of the young man whose life he had just taken. His eyes scanned the lifeless face, completely pale and smeared with blood. He couldn't have been older than sixteen. Garoc's katana was still embedded in his chest, and as he pulled it out, blood oozed slowly, staining the ground beneath his feet. The crimson liquid snaked between the rocks, forming a pool near him.

The air smelled of iron. The distant echo of screams and the clash of weapons mingled with the whisper of the wind. Once again, Garoc questioned the reason for this war. The reason for staining his katana with blood every day. The blade had almost begun to turn red. He couldn't understand why the species couldn't live in harmony. Even those of the same kind were now turning against each other.

The world of Eriath had always been known for the diversity of species that inhabited it. From humans, known for their great adaptability, to the draconids, whose overwhelming strength made the rest tremble. Every corner was populated by different creatures. At first, all the species coexisted in peace. However, over the years, cracks in Eriath's harmony began to show. Thus, the diversity that had once been its greatest feature became its greatest weakness. The conflicts escalated to the point where war became inevitable.

A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Hey, Garoc! Don't just stand there."

A figure clad in white robes with embroidered patterns advanced among the fallen bodies. Blood of various colors stained the ground: red, purple, green. Although none of the corpses moved, a confusing haze of sounds floated in the air—moans of pain, wails of sorrow. Some of the bodies were even his comrades. There was no point in thinking about them anymore. They had given their lives to defeat the enemy troops. They had fulfilled their purpose, and that was all that mattered in war.

Garoc turned again toward the person speaking to him. It was Dorwan, his superior. After the recent death of Caspian, Garoc's brother, Dorwan had taken over as leader of the squad Garoc belonged to—Squad Two. Though he was just one of the many who would end up dying, they did not wear armor like the royal guard. They only wore modest clothes: a linen shirt, leather boots, and a beige cloak. All of their garments were stained with the blood of battle.

Deep down, Garoc wished his older brother were there with him. Caspian had always shown much more talent and had been part of the royal guard. Not only that, but he had led one of the main squads, including Squad Two during the war. If not for him, Garoc would have been assigned to an entirely different squad. He was nothing more than a foot soldier in an unnamed platoon. He still didn't understand why he was alive. He had even lost his guardian in the battle.

Dorwan sheathed his sword and cautiously approached Garoc. He looked at him, realizing that Garoc had completely forgotten his order.

"You seem distracted. Are you all right?"

Dorwan had been Caspian's comrade in the royal guard, and Garoc had often heard about him. He had served in the same squad as Caspian, with Caspian as the vice-captain. From what Garoc understood, his brother had asked Dorwan to look after him if he fell, and that was exactly what he was doing.

Garoc nodded, also sheathing his sword. Although his gesture didn't seem to convince Dorwan, he turned his back to him.

"Then let's move. The enemy could return at any moment."

Garoc joined the march of his platoon. Around him resounded countless cries, some of pain, others of fury. They mixed with the clash of weapons and the roars of certain creatures. The chaos of the battlefield was like an unleashed storm, and he felt like a mere leaf of paper in its midst. As he came to, Garoc found himself face-to-face with an enormous draconid emerging from the smoke. Its eyes burned like two fiery embers, glowing with ferocity. It had lost its mind and transformed.

Garoc took several steps back. Bravery had never been his greatest virtue. The draconid, though injured, still exuded an intimidating presence. Its tattered wings and the scars covering its body revealed that this wasn't its first battle of the day. While Garoc could barely stand, Dorwan raised his sword.

"Ready to fight?"

"Ready!" shouted all the soldiers in unison.

"Bond!" he commanded, and the guardians accompanying the warriors disappeared.

Weapons in hand, they charged at the draconid. Some were hurled through the air with a single sweep of its powerful tail, while others pressed on relentlessly, channeling their magic to force it back. The creature roared, making the ground tremble and spitting flames that consumed several of their comrades. The searing heat grazed Garoc, who instinctively covered his face.

The battle was brutal. Garoc dodged and struck, his movements clumsy compared to the skill of his comrades. He felt the weight of his sword as if it were made of lead, and every blow reverberated through his aching arms. Blood and sweat blurred his vision.

After the grueling battle, Garoc circled the corpse of the great draconid, now lying lifeless on the ground, and stopped, exhausted. Its head was severed from its body. The red eyes that had once burned with fury were now extinguished, empty like bottomless pits. Even in death, it still made him shudder.

It had been a hard-fought battle. Several warriors were needed to bring down just one of them. With sorrow on his face, he looked at the bodies around him. Many were human; many others were not.

He planted his sword in the ground and knelt, his breath escaping his lungs in irregular gasps. The scent of burnt grass and damp earth mixed with the stench of death nearby. For a moment, he thought it would be his last battle. That it would all end there. But he had survived. Again.

Dorwan's voice echoed nearby.

"We'd better retreat for the day."

Unlike Garoc, Dorwan didn't seem tired, even though he had fought more than most. If it were up to him, he could face another wave of enemies. Garoc couldn't. Soldiers began regrouping, some helping the wounded, others scavenging what they could from the wreckage.

Garoc tried to stand, though his legs trembled like jelly. As he made his way across the battlefield, he pressed the wound on his chest caused by the draconid. The pain returned with intensity. The effects of the painkiller had worn off minutes ago. He knew he could have fallen. Among his comrades, he wasn't the best, nor the worst. Stronger people had fallen in battle. Now only the remnants of what had been a fierce fight remained. Most of the troops had withdrawn. They would return the next day.

He glanced down at his sword. It was stained with dried blood—the blood of his enemies, and some of his allies. The image of Caspian writhing in pain against a rock came to his mind. As much as it pained him, he knew it was for the best. He didn't want to see him suffer anymore. He had no other choice, especially when it was his own brother who had begged him to end his life. If he was going to die, he didn't want to give the favor of death to an enemy. He still remembered how Caspian had grabbed his sword and aimed it at his own heart. Garoc only had to move his arm. That way, his brother could rest in peace.

He headed toward the mountain. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky with shades of red and orange. The clouds were tinged with purple, creating a scene as beautiful as it was desolate. His squad had returned long ago. He was likely the last one to arrive—of those still alive, that is.

Near the edge of the cliff, a solitary figure stared at the horizon. A young elf with pale skin and snow-white hair. His pointed ears peeked out from beneath the hood of his white tunic, adorned with silver embroidery. Garoc recognized him immediately.

"Elwing?"

His voice was barely a whisper, unsure if it was truly him.

The elf turned slowly to look at him, his piercing blue eyes meeting Garoc's. A faint smile seemed to form on his pale face.

Despite being of different species, Elwing and Garoc had come to respect one another. At first, the elf had viewed Garoc as just another human—an enemy. But over time, he learned more about him. Garoc wasn't like the others. Of that, he was sure.

"Hello, Garoc. I see you're still alive," said the elf, offering a smile. His gaze swept the surroundings, as if searching for something. "Caspian… didn't come with you?"

Garoc lowered his eyes before responding, fixing his gaze on the ground.

"He fell in battle."

A heavy silence settled between them. Elwing nodded, feeling his loss, but he knew it was to be expected. In war, people always fell. Death was an old acquaintance, after all. The wind blew between them, carrying the stench of blood and rusted metal.

"Most of the troops have already retreated," Elwing murmured, his gaze lost in the scattered remnants of the platoons visible in the distance.

"They'll return tomorrow at dawn."

"Like every day…"

Garoc clenched his fists, furious. His body was consumed by helplessness.

"How much longer must this war go on?" His voice was filled with anger. Every day was a repetition of the last, an endless spiral of violence and loss.

Elwing averted his eyes. They had endured years of torment, though they had grown used to it. Over time, the bloodstained ground had become as mundane as eating breakfast in the morning. Taking the lives of their enemies was now their only mission. But for what? To prove that one species was better than another?

Without a word, Elwing unsheathed his sword. The blade, made of gleaming metal, reflected the last rays of sunlight, shining with a cold brilliance. He pointed the weapon at Garoc, whose eyes widened in surprise and confusion. But deep down, he knew it had to happen.

He raised his own sword, his fingers gripping the hilt tightly, feeling the cold steel contrast with the warmth coursing through his body. His heart pounded, and his legs began to tremble.

For a few moments, the two stared at each other, motionless. Elwing maintained a calm expression. He knew neither of them was in any condition to fight. Slowly, he lowered his sword and planted it in the ground. Garoc, understanding the gesture, did the same.

"Let's end this war."

"What?" Garoc didn't understand what Elwing was saying. Had he gone mad? "What are you talking about?"

"We can do it. We just need to convince more people."

"Do you really think we can end this war?"

"Not us, but… maybe others can."

Garoc searched the elf's face for signs of mockery or madness, but found only deep and sincere determination.

"I suppose we have nothing to lose by trying," Garoc murmured finally, though he wasn't entirely sure.

Without another word, Elwing bent down, pulled his sword from the ground, and walked away without looking back, vanishing into the shadows that began to envelop the landscape.

With a deep sigh, Garoc freed his own sword from the earth and made his way to the camp where his squad awaited him. As he walked away, he wondered if they truly had any hope of achieving their goal, of putting an end to this absurd war.

It was clear that they couldn't. But perhaps… someday… someone could.