The soldiers moved with practiced rhythm, their tasks a familiar routine that provided a strange sense of calm. For a moment, everything seemed ordinary. Lucas and Finn stood in the training yard, their weapons in hand, sweat gleaming on their brows.
Finn adjusted his stance, thrusting his spear forward with sharp precision. "You're too tense again, Lucas. Relax your grip, or you'll tire yourself out before the real fight even begins."
Lucas nodded absently, loosening his hold on the sword. "Yeah, got it." He followed through with a slash, his mind distracted despite his movements. The clang of steel rang out as he and Finn sparred, drawing the attention of a few soldiers passing by.
Nearby, the blacksmith hammered away at a breastplate, the rhythmic clang of his hammer mingling with the murmurs of the camp. High-ranking officers gathered in the command tent, poring over maps and scrolls as they strategized for the days ahead. The atmosphere felt almost peaceful, but Lucas couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that gnawed at him.
The day drifted on in quiet repetition. By evening, the soldiers gathered to eat. Laughter and chatter filled the air as they shared stories and meals, their spirits lifted by the brief respite. Lucas sat beside Finn, quietly eating his portion, his eyes scanning the faces around him. Everyone seemed so… normal, as if the horrors of war were a distant memory. But Lucas knew better. He'd learned that peace was often the calm before the storm.
---
That night, Lucas drifted into a restless sleep. Dreams of Brighthaven haunted him—his mother's laughter, the warmth of home, the screams, and the blood. It was a cycle he couldn't escape.
Then came the noise. A loud, jarring explosion that shook the ground beneath him.
Lucas's eyes snapped open. He sat up, his heart racing. The tent was empty. "Finn?" he called out, but there was no answer. Outside, a flickering light seeped through the canvas walls. Fire.
Scrambling to his feet, Lucas stumbled out of the tent. His breath hitched as he took in the sight before him. The camp was engulfed in flames, the fire roaring like a living beast as it consumed tents and supplies. Soldiers shouted orders, their voices barely audible over the chaos. Civilians screamed, scattering like frightened birds.
Enemy soldiers. They were everywhere, their blackened armor reflecting the firelight as they cut through the camp's defenses. Lucas's blood ran cold. This attack wasn't part of the Bloodlord's usual strategy. It didn't make sense.
And then it hit him.
"A diversion," he whispered, his stomach dropping. The scout he'd killed was just a sacrificial pawn. Astrid had been lured away deliberately, and this camp—with its strategists and leaders—had been the true target all along.
Lucas scanned the chaos, his heart hammering in his chest. "Finn," he muttered, his grip tightening on his sword.
He spotted his friend near the edge of the camp, helping civilians escape through a break in the flames. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived. Lucas ran toward Finn, his voice hoarse. "Finn! I'll join the fight!"
Finn turned, his face pale with urgency. "Lucas, wait—"
But Lucas didn't wait. He sprinted toward his tent, grabbing his sword and gear. The heat of the fire pressed against his skin as he charged into the fray. Enemy soldiers loomed before him, and Lucas's body moved on instinct. His blade clashed with theirs, his strikes fueled by adrenaline and desperation.
The first soldier fell, then another. But with every life he took, the memory of the scout surfaced, vivid and haunting. His stomach churned, and his grip faltered momentarily. He gritted his teeth, pushing the thoughts aside. This was different. This was war.
Dozens of enemy soldiers fell by his hand, but the cost was high. His arms ached, his breath came in ragged gasps, and blood trickled down his side from a shallow cut. Lucas paused to catch his breath, his eyes scanning the camp. Civilians had nearly all retreated, and the commander was signaling for the remaining soldiers to fall back.
Lucas turned to join the retreat, but something caught his eye. Among the trampled ground and scattered belongings, a small stuffed toy lay bloodied. His heart clenched. It was Lila's. The girl he'd played with just days ago. The girl who'd called him "big brother."
He searched the area desperately, but her body was nowhere to be found. A cold, sinking feeling settled in his chest. She was gone. The flames of the camp seemed to burn brighter as his rage ignited. He thought of his mother, of Brighthaven, of the promise he'd made to protect others. He had failed again.
"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Not again."
A scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural. It echoed through the camp, reaching Finn's ears. Finn turned, his eyes widening in alarm. "Lucas!" he shouted, breaking into a sprint. But the commander grabbed him, pulling him back.
"We're retreating," the commander barked. "You can't save him now!"
Finn struggled against the grip, shouting Lucas's name. But Lucas couldn't hear him. He was already charging back into the fight, his sword blazing through the enemy ranks. His movements were wild, fueled by fury and despair. Blood splattered his armor as he cut through soldier after soldier, but exhaustion was catching up to him.
A sharp pain tore through his chest as an enemy's blade found its mark. Lucas staggered, his vision blurring. In the distance, he heard Finn's voice, screaming his name "LUCAS!!!!". But the chaos swallowed it.
Clutching his wound, Lucas stumbled toward the forest. His legs felt like lead, his breaths shallow and labored. He tripped over roots and branches, his mind a haze of pain and self-loathing.
"Weak," he muttered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm too weak. I couldn't save them."
He thought of Lila, of his mother, of everyone who had suffered because of his failures. Rage bubbled within him, mingling with his despair. He cursed himself, cursed the Bloodlord, cursed the world.
His foot caught on a root, and he tumbled down a slope. The forest spun around him, and he crashed into the underbrush, rolling uncontrollably. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in his body. Before he could recover, he felt the cold rush of water.
The river.
The current was strong, dragging him under. Lucas gasped for air, but his exhaustion and wounds left him powerless against the raging waters. His vision darkened as he was pulled along, his strength fading.
"I'm sorry," he thought as the darkness claimed him.
And then, silence.