The streets were drowning in blood.
Aric moved like a man possessed, his sword an extension of his rage.
Everywhere—chaos.
Houses burned, their rooftops collapsing in showers of embers. Smoke choked the air, mingling with the stench of iron, sweat, and death.
The once-frozen dirt roads ran slick with crimson.
And the knights of House Margrave—they kept coming.
A villager screamed, backing against a crumbling wall as a knight closed in.
Aric lunged.
His sword clashed against steel, the impact rattling through his bones. He twisted, deflecting the blow and driving his blade through the knight's ribs.
A fatal strike.
And yet—
The knight did not fall.
Lira stabbed from behind, her dagger slicing into the knight's exposed throat.
Blackened blood spilled down his armor.
And yet—
He kept walking.
Kept swinging.
Kept fighting.
Kael's voice cut through the chaos.
"These bastards don't die, Aric!"
Aric gritted his teeth. "Then we cut them apart until they do."
He turned, hacking through another knight, the force of the blow splitting chainmail open.
The knight staggered.
Then—
His empty black eyes met Aric's.
And he kept coming.
Something was wrong.
This wasn't war.
It was a slaughter.
And not for one side.
For both.
The knights of House Margrave were not winning.
They were not losing.
They were simply fulfilling a purpose.
Then—
A new sound rose above the carnage.
A sound too clear, too sharp, too cold.
The clang of a single armored boot against stone.
A presence so heavy it pressed against the battlefield itself.
Aric turned.
And his blood ran cold.
----
Lord Alistair Margrave stepped through the smoke.
He did not run.
He did not shout.
He simply walked.
And every knight near him—parted in silent obedience.
He was a tower of steel and shadows.
His massive black armor was lined with silver etchings, shaped in ancient patterns older than Eldermere itself.
The three-eyed raven sigil of House Margrave gleamed on his breastplate, a symbol of dominion, not nobility.
And his helm—
It was not the face of a man.
It was a death mask.
Smooth black steel, with no openings for eyes, no slits for breath.
A void where a face should be.
As if the man inside no longer needed to see.
The knights of House Margrave knelt in perfect unison.
Even those mid-battle, those injured, those dying.
They bowed their heads as if his presence alone demanded their submission.
And the Rift—
Shuddered.
As if it, too, had noticed.
Lira tensed beside Aric.
"That's him."
Her voice was barely a whisper.
Kael gripped his sword tighter. "I hate this. I hate this so much."
Aric said nothing.
Because he was staring into the blank abyss of that helm.
And for the first time—
He felt a chill unlike any other.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Recognition.
Lord Margrave raised his sword.
And his voice—
Wasn't human.
It was a deep, hollow resonance.
A voice that did not belong to the living.
"Who stands against me?"
The battlefield froze.
Every knight stopped moving.
The Rift groaned.
And for the first time since this war began—
Aric felt utterly alone.
----
Lord Margrave strode forward.
His movements were slow, deliberate.
Unrushed. Unbothered. Unstoppable.
He was not charging into battle.
He was approaching inevitability.
Aric braced himself.
His body screamed to run.
To retreat.
To not fight this thing.
But his mind—
His mind whispered something else.
Something from deep, deep inside.
Face him.
Because this was not the first time.
Lord Margrave stopped just feet away.
The battlefield felt empty.
It was just the two of them now.
The war had faded into silence.
The Rift was listening.
And then—
Lord Margrave raised his sword.
The first strike nearly split Aric in two.
He barely dodged in time, the force of the blow splitting the ground behind him.
His instincts took over.
He countered, aiming for the weak points—the joints, the neck.
But Margrave was too fast.
Faster than he should be.
Faster than anything human.
Their swords clashed again, again, again.
Each blow shook Aric's arms to the bone.
Each parry felt like stopping an avalanche.
And still—
The Rift whispered.
Calling to him.
Lord Margrave swung high.
Aric ducked low, driving his blade into the warlord's side.
Steel bit into flesh.
A deep, sickening crunch.
But Margrave didn't stop.
He didn't even flinch.
Instead—
He grabbed Aric by the throat.
And whispered.
"The gods are watching."
----
The grip around Aric's throat tightened.
Cold, steel fingers dug into his flesh, lifting him from the ground.
He gasped, struggling, his boots scraping against the bloodied dirt.
Lord Margrave's black helm tilted downward, staring into him.
And then—
He spoke again.
"They are watching."
The words rippled through Aric's mind, not just as sound—
But as truth.
Something deeper than words.
Something older than war.
And the Rift—
The Rift was listening.
Aric gritted his teeth.
He could feel it now.
The way the Rift's energy pulsed through the battlefield, weaving between the living and the dead.
The way it recognized him.
The way it clung to Lord Margrave like a second skin.
They were both tied to it.
And only one of them would leave this battlefield alive.
With one last burst of strength, Aric thrust his knee into Margrave's armored chest.
The warlord staggered, releasing his grip.
Aric hit the ground hard, coughing.
His vision blurred.
His lungs burned.
But his sword was still in his hand.
And that meant he could still fight.
Lord Margrave did not attack immediately.
Instead—
He watched.
Standing tall, his massive, blackened sword held effortlessly in one hand.
His breath did not hitch.
His body did not shake.
As if this battle was not meant to end in his death.
As if he knew something Aric did not.
Aric tightened his grip.
Then—
He lunged forward.
His sword clashed against steel, and the final battle truly began.
They fought like monsters.
Margrave's blows shook the earth.
Each strike was calculated, and brutal.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Just relentless, merciless force.
And Aric—
Aric fought like a man with nothing left to lose.
He dodged beneath a crushing overhead strike, rolling to the side.
He countered with a sharp slash to Margrave's leg—
Only for the warlord to block with terrifying speed.
Their swords locked.
Margrave leaned in.
And Aric saw his own reflection in the blackened steel of his helm.
"You do not belong to them," Margrave whispered.
And then—
Aric's blade found its mark.
----
Steel sank into flesh.
Aric's sword pierced through the warlord's chest, straight through the silver crest of House Margrave.
A killing blow.
But Margrave did not fall immediately.
Instead—
He laughed.
A horrible, low, guttural sound.
Not a sound of pain.
Not even a surprise.
But acceptance.
As if this—all of this—had happened before.
As if this was simply another step toward something greater.
Blood dripped from the wound, pooling at his feet.
Margrave's sword slipped from his grip, hitting the ground with a heavy clang.
He staggered once.
Then—
He knelt.
Not in defeat.
Not in submission.
But in acknowledgment.
His helm tilted upward, facing the Rift one last time.
And then—
He whispered.
"The old gods have not forgotten you."
And with that—
He fell.
The moment his body hit the ground, the Rift shuddered.
Not as it had before.
Not as a passive observer.
This was violent.
This was reaction.
This was something waking up.
The battlefield trembled.
The sky ripped open.
And a voice—
A voice not of this world—
Spoke.
"He was merely the first."
Aric's stomach turned to ice.
Because he knew—
This war was not over.
It was only just beginning.