In the heart of the massacre, where death bloomed like poisonous fungus across a field of flesh and iron, King Irvin Luskarth staggered under the weight of his body's betrayal. His breath was a wet whistle inside his weary chest, and his palms, submerged in the warm mud of a dead man, trembled without strength enough to lift the frail burden of his body. The world around him was a whirl of screaming shadows and severed cries.
Then, like a shadow torn from the very guts of the night, the chaos split apart. Aqua Nightover did not appear—he erupted. He was a pale-white flicker at the edge of Irvin's vision, and then, suddenly, he was a complete presence, filling the void between the king and death.
There was no warning cry, no roar of defiance. Only Aqua's deadly silence, as his body twisted in an inhuman motion to intercept a hulking man of Evalen whose heavy war-axe was descending like a silent thunderbolt toward Irvin's skull.
The meeting was not a mere clash of steel, but an explosion.
SSSSCRRREEEEECH!
White-red sparks burst from the point of collision, as if a spirit had tried to flee hell itself. Aqua, with one arm, caught the blow that should have crushed bone—but the price was carved into his trembling limb, quaking under the strike's sheer force.
And in the instant the giant staggered off balance, Aqua's other hand moved. His sword, Firesong, did not gleam—it vanished. A scarlet flash, no more than a blink, and then it was buried to the hilt in the man's exposed flank, beneath the arm where the cuirass curved. There was no resistance. Only a wet, revolting sound, like raw meat being torn.
The giant shuddered. His wide eyes, hidden within his helm, grew wider still, silent shock replacing hatred. Life began draining from his body even as he stood.
But death, it seemed, had one final lesson to teach.
Before the corpse fell, before Aqua could withdraw his blade, the dying man's axe-hand lurched in one last desperate motion. Not at Aqua—but at the original prey. His wrist bent at a grotesque angle, revealing a small mechanism affixed to his forearm—not a dagger, but a concealed launcher for grenades or bolts.
CLACK!
A dry, mechanical snap—alien among the organic chaos of battle.
There was no time for thought. Only instinct. The dagger-bolt, its head honed to a devil's edge and slick with a dark, viscous substance, shot not toward Irvin's heart, but directly at his wide, frozen eye.
Aqua did not scream. He could not alone halt its path.
But Irvin, at the peak of despair, found a final scrap of survival's instinct. His head, heavy as stone, shifted an inch—only an inch. An inch that drew the line between death and damnation.
The poisoned blade scraped past his cheek, carving a deep groove from cheekbone to jawline, spilling crimson in sheets. For a heartbeat, the ivory of bone flashed in the open wound before it drowned in scarlet. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, it ripped a muffled gasp from Irvin—half shock, half horror at how close he had come to the void.
The bolt struck earth beside his ear and quivered there, humming with a chilling whisper.
Aqua stood bent slightly forward, his breath ragged—audible, for the first time that night. A glance at Irvin's torn cheek, then at the trembling bolt. And for the first time, in those frozen eyes, something akin to pure astonishment appeared—mixed with a dreadful recognition of the razor-thin thread from which they dangled. He had saved a life, yet nearly lost it to a machine he had not even known existed. He had seen death in countless forms, but the vile cowardice of this hidden trick left even his mouth of ice with a bitter taste.
Then came the cry—from Raymond, behind and to the left, sharp and edged with a dread unheard from him before: "Aqua! Behind you!!"
In that fatal instant, something terrifying happened.
Aqua's blue, glacial eyes ignited from within with a supernatural blaze, as though living ice had awoken behind them. They widened, and no longer beheld the battlefield, but something else—a vision, swift as a lightning-bolt nightmare: an arrow piercing his neck from the side, bursting out through his throat in a spray of blood and stolen breath.
Reality snapped back. And in the very instant the real arrow whistled toward him, Aqua's head tilted, impossibly fast. The shaft screamed past, slicing the air where his throat had been.
But the price was ruinous.
Aqua fell to his knees—not from wound, but from a torment unseen. A horrifying scream tore out of him, raw agony unbound, as his palms clutched his eyes, as though trying to crush them. When he pulled his hands away, the sight was grotesque: not tears of blood, but a clotting crimson frost forming over his pupils—blood frozen into glass. His breath heaved, then steadied into a cutting edge, and his voice lashed toward the king—fierce, searing, and merciless.
Aqua: "Stand, King! Rise!! Take up the sword that betrayed you and fight! Fight for every soul that dies here in your name!"
Then, as if he had spoken nothing at all, he surged upright and hurled himself once more into the slaughter, leaving Irvin with only his dreadful command—words that pierced through the fog inside his skull.
Irvin touched his cheek, where the wound burned, then the warm-soaked soil where a corpse lay beside him.
His lips trembled. Rage, shame, pain, and fear stormed within him. His whisper was ragged, hoarse, and aimed more at himself than any foe:
Irvin: "How… dare you…"
And with strength dredged from the rotted core of his spirit, King Irvin Luskarth rose to his feet. He seized his sword, now heavier than a mountain, and stumbled forward. His steps were unsteady, but his eyes—those eyes that had once ruled a kingdom—blazed with a fire unseen in years. The fire of despair transfigured into blind defiance.
But fate was waiting.
A body, hard as stone and clad in black iron, slammed into him with full force. Earl Aldric Fornix. The collision hurled the frail king backward, lifting him from the earth for a moment before dropping him once more like a broken doll. All breath blasted from his chest in a searing hiss.
Aldric loomed above him, his massive shadow blotting out the faint moon. He sighed—a sound thick with savage triumph—and raised his greatsword. The final preparation to end a legend, to kill the Sun of Arcadia.
Irvin stared at the descending blade.
There was no fear now. Only endless exhaustion.
But the blade did not fall.
Instead, a crimson sword, long and terrifying, burst through Aldric's skull from behind and emerged from his mouth in a gruesome explosion of bone, brain, and blood. The warm, filthy fluid splattered across Irvin's face and body, blinding him for an instant.
Aldric swayed, then toppled sideways like a felled tree.
And behind him, standing tall, was Duke Blatir Vanheim. He was not breathing heavily. No triumphant expression crossed his face. Only a vacant, cold gaze—like one who had finished off a bothersome insect. He drew his sword, "Sunburn", from the mangled skull with a sickening hollow sound, then with a cold, professional kick rolled Aldric's corpse away from the king.
Their eyes met—Irvin's stunned, blood-soaked, hollow stare, and Blatir's controlled, frigid, unreadable one. There were no words of thanks, no gestures. Only a heavy silence bearing a thousand questions and sins. Then, suddenly, the gaze broke.
A scream unlike any this world had ever known split the muddy sky of battle. Not a battle cry, but a howl of raw psychological agony. It came from Morfus Fornix. He had seen his elder brother Aldric fall like a tree trunk, and Duke Blatir standing above him with a killer's calm. Something inside Morfus shattered. All his hidden envy, suppressed hatred, and twisted loyalty toward his brother ignited into a blind, destructive fury. He charged—not as a knight, but as a maddened bull—driving a wave of his loyal men with him, like a torrent of vengeful lava.
The world erupted once again.
A new tide of enemy soldiers, fiercer than before, tore through the last Arcadian line of defense. The wall collapsed completely. The men recoiled in wild panic, shoving one another toward death.
But chaos spares neither friend nor foe. In the blind crush, Morfus slammed with brutal force into a man of iron, driving him violently to the left. Both crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and armor. When Morfus rose, the dust of battle and rage blinded him for an instant. A fresh gash across his cheek bled unnoticed.
Then the haze cleared.
Standing before him was Earl Nicholas Sparoff. He did not stand in a stance of display, but fixed as a rock, his broad sword "Dune" resting on his shoulder with a feigned carelessness. Blood of enemies still dripped from its edge. His cold, sea-colored eyes locked on those of Morfus, who glared back with scorn and disgust, as if staring at some bothersome animal in his way.
Morfus, snarling, foam flecking the corners of his mouth, his voice sharp and broken with rage: "How dare Sparoff meddle in my way!? Get out of here, you lowly dog! I have no interest in fighting you!!"
Nicholas, his voice calm, low, like winter wind brushing stone: "The road to me is your end, whelp of Fornix. Blatir is not here. But I am enough to sate your rage."
He raised his sword slowly, not in threat, but as simple fact. "Arm yourself for hell. I will send you to your brother."
The insult lay not in words, but in the quiet, the indifference—more cutting than any curse. Morfus exploded. He lunged forward, his sword lighter than Nicholas's, moving like lightning, striking with savage randomness—every blow aimed not for clean death, but for mutilation and ruin.
This was not combat—it was a storm of steel battering against a mountain of it. Nicholas did not retreat a single step. He moved with the smallest possible motions. A shoulder to absorb a blow here, a slight bend to evade another there. His sword did not strike often—it blocked, it checked, it wore down. Each slash from Morfus drained his own strength against Nicholas's steady armor, while Nicholas studied, waited, like a hunter who knows the prey will exhaust itself.
Around them, the circle cleared. Any soldier—Arcadian or Evalenian—who came too close lost head or limb within seconds. Not by the duelists, but by Felix Sparoff. The son stood a few steps away, his back to his father's, his sword moving like a precision blade. He did not interfere in the duel; he guarded its sanctity, smiling coldly as he turned any intruder into a corpse. They were the honor guard of vengeance.
The bloody struggle raged on. Morfus, in his ferocity, managed a shallow cut on Nicholas's arm, tearing part of his armor. But Nicholas, in his cold precision, delivered a deeper wound to Morfus's thigh, forcing him to limp. Rage replaced fatigue in Morfus.
Then came the moment.
In a frenzy, Morfus swung a full spinning blow aimed at Nicholas's head. It was powerful, but exposed. Nicholas accepted it. He did not block. Instead, he stepped inside the circle of the swing, slipping past the main edge, and his massive sword moved—not to thrust, but to sever.
SPLAAAASHH!
A wet, horrific sound unlike any before.
Nicholas's heavy blade cleaved through armor, muscle, and bone, severing Morfus's left arm completely at the shoulder.
There was no immediate scream. Only a stunned silence, then a look of disbelief as Morfus stared at the place where his arm had been, blood gushing violently. Then pain and shock erupted into a single monstrous cry—inhuman, saturated with all the despair and hatred of the world.
In that instant of shrieking chaos, Nicholas had already turned. His motion was full, deliberate. His sword, still low after the cut, arced in a complete, terrible swing, riding the momentum.
It did not aim for the neck.
It aimed for the entire head.
The broad, heavy blade smashed into Morfus at the temple. It did not merely slice—it crushed. The helmet buckled, the skull shattered beneath the sheer force. His head was torn from his body not cleanly, but with brutal violence, flying in an arc of pouring crimson to land several feet away, while the body remained standing for a heartbeat, bleeding from its ruined stump, before collapsing into a spreading pool of blood.
Nicholas Sparoff stood, slightly bent, his breath audible at last. He looked at the corpse, then at the severed head, then at his son Felix, who stood motionless, his blue eyes alight with pride.
Nicholas spoke no word. He only gave the smallest of nods, then turned once more to face the battle, leaving the Fornix brothers to meet in death as they had never in life.
The human wave… it was no mere wave, but a moving wall of armed despair. It did not come from a single direction, but burst forth from several breaches torn open by relentless blows, like water suddenly finding every crack in a collapsing dam. These were not mere soldiers; they were the scum of war, the fiercest fanatics in Evalene's army, those left for the dirtiest missions and suicidal charges. Their eyes, visible through the slits of their helmets, held no anger, but a desolate emptiness, as if their souls had been hollowed out and filled with only one desire: destruction.
The Arcadian wall, which had held until now on virtue and will alone, did not fall slowly—it collapsed as a single, organic entity. There was no tactical retreat, but an animalistic panic. Men who had fought like lions moments before turned into terrified herds. They shoved one another, ignoring ranks, ignoring comrades, ignoring everything but the instinctive need to flee from the advancing hell. Sounds could be heard—not screams, but a low moaning, rasping, like animals caught in a trap.
Even Blatir Vanheim found himself surrounded, not by strategy, but by a flood of frenzied flesh. His cold composure shifted into a silent, furious wrath. His long sword, crafted for thrusts and elegant killing, became useless in such a crush. He gripped it by the blade, near the tip, turning it into a heavy club of iron and rage. He struck, he battered with both hands—not to kill, but to smash, to carve out space. The ornate hilt cracked under the force of his blows as he shattered a face here, a helmet there. The sound of bones breaking under sheer power was unlike the sound of death by blade—it was more primal, more humiliating.
Both fists clenched around the cold steel, veins swelling along his forearms beneath the gauntlet. His face, which had preserved its royal silence, was no longer entirely still. His lips were pressed tight with ferocity, and a deep line carved itself between his brows. But the eyes… the eyes were the most terrifying. They no longer showed mere tension, but a wrathful fury, a profound disdain for this collapse of order, for this irrational panic that had sabotaged his plans, for this chaos that forced him to fight like a raw recruit in the press. He was angry not because his life was in danger, but because the illusion of a dignified death in noble battle had been trampled under the feet of these wretched masses. A quick glance around him, filled with contempt for all—ally and enemy alike—before he returned to his savage work of carving space, smashing with full force into the skull of a soldier who had tried to seize him from behind.
Irvin, swept into the stream of retreat, swung his sword wildly, stabbing at anything that moved before him. The cries he let out were not battle cries, but raw cries of psychic pain—the screams of a man losing everything all at once.
A few yards away, Duke Sathiron Blackmirth stood atop a mound of corpses, his eyes scanning the battlefield with deep alarm. At his side, Cyril, his eldest son, stood on the body of a fallen enemy knight, staring at the chaos on the horizon, before quickly descending and rushing to his father, trying to drag him toward a safer position. "Father, we have to move!"
Sathiron, his voice hoarse: "The king! Where is the king?!!"
On the other side, Raymond Vanheim and Ser Variss Sathray, bloodied and wounded, leapt to Irvin's side as he teetered on the brink of collapse. They stood before him, back-to-back, their notched swords defying the world.
Variss: "Form up! A circle! For the king!"
A fragile, incomplete circle of a few loyal men formed around their dying king. But it was like a fence of straw before a hurricane. Enemy ranks, countless in number, carved their way toward them, swords and spears thirsting to pierce the last symbol of the kingdom.
And in the height of despair, when the end seemed certain, the heavens split open.
It was no true rending of the sky, but a sound.
The sound of trumpets.
Not an ordinary sound, but a specific tune—the ancient Nerossian melody, the Song of the Green Vale. It came from behind, from the depths of the forest the enemy had believed secure.
The reinforcements of Nerossia had arrived.
They were like a mountain torrent, crashing through the neglected rear lines of the enemy at full speed. Their horses were weary but their will was iron, and their knights cried out as one, the voice of Earl Yukron Windsword rising above them all, wounded but unbroken.
Yukron: "For Nerossia! For the king! Death to the invaders!"
The cry was only ninety men, but it carried the hope of a thousand. The moon, now fading, seemed to retreat to make way for the first frail threads of dawn on the horizon.
A new spirit rose in the hearts of the defenders. The exhausted Arcadian forces, bolstered by the reinforcements, surged forward in one last assault. A final cry, brimming with all the pain and fury of the night, was led by King Irvin himself, who stood once more upon his feet, his bloodstained sword raised high toward the sky now washed in a faint pink.
Irvin: "Arcadia! Forever!"
And the enemy's defenses collapsed. Their morale broke, their ranks fell apart. Defeat turned to retreat, and retreat to massacre.
Amid this final chaos, upon a mound of Arcadian corpses he had slain with his own hands, the Marquess Kalibros Santura lay on the ground. His black armor was torn, and his long dagger stuck in the earth like a staff. He breathed heavily, leaning against the body of a young knight. He did not look angry—he looked tired, as though he had simply finished some tedious labor.
Before him stood Duke Lucas Nightover. His white hair was streaked with blood, giving him a demon's gray visage. His sword was bent, yet his hand remained steady. He spoke no word, only fixed his gaze upon Kalibros. The Marquess' look in return held a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
Lucas lifted his sword slowly—not in anger, but as one performing a duty. With a single clean stroke, he brought it down upon the Marquis's heart.
Kalibros's eyes widened, and then he collapsed upon the corpses he himself had made.
Lucas raised his head. The blood on his white hair looked black beneath the spreading dawn. He exhaled—not a sigh of victory, but a sigh of ending.
The dawn that rose behind the hills of Skyrock was not beautiful. Its hue was gray tinged with red, as though the sky itself had bled until it was anemic.
The pale light spilling upon the killing field revealed nothing but the unflinching truth, grotesque in its detail: the endless stretch of torn bodies, bent swords, the swollen bellies of dead horses. The air was heavy with the stench of copper, iron, and excrement, and the shrill cries of gulls circling above the corpses became the only hymn of this so-called "victory."
The men who returned were not heroes—they were stolen ghosts. Their steps were heavy, dragging, as if each carried the weight of every soul taken by his hand or lost before his eyes. The blood upon their armor was no badge of glory but shackles of guilt and terror. They did not speak. They exchanged no glances of triumph. They only walked, eyes hollow in pale faces, staring at nothing—or at everything that had happened. Their victory was bitter as ash and saltwater in every mouth.
And then, the palace appeared.
Skyrock Palace – with its towering white walls and glimmering windows, stood like a being from another world.
From its high windows of the grand hall, strange, jarring sounds drifted outward—muffled laughter, the clink of glasses, the faint strains of music. The feast was still underway.
Inside, the sight was more nauseating still. Nobles, in their finery, strolled or reclined at tables still laden with untouched dishes, complaining perhaps of the dullness of the evening or the lateness of their hosts. They breathed the same air, beneath the same roof, yet lived in a parallel realm—utterly divorced from the inferno only a few hundred paces away.
On the wide balcony overlooking the main gate, a small group had gathered, apart from the revelry of the hall.
Countess Abigael Windsword stood taut as a drawn bowstring. Her hand pressed the cold stone railing until her knuckles whitened. Then she saw them—she saw Yukron at the fore, his armor torn, caked with mud and blood, but still standing, still alive. Her tears were not of joy, but of a terror too long suppressed, bursting free. Her hands trembled as she raised one to stifle a sob or cry. She turned then to her daughter, Isabel, who had leaned forward, eyes wide, mouth open in silent awe. Isabel spoke no word—she simply collapsed forward, as if her bones had melted, throwing herself into her mother's arms, trembling like a leaf in a storm of silence, while her eyes spilled tears of both joy and horror.
Beside them, Duchess Ronessa Blackmirth did not weep. She stood tall as ever, but the hardness of her features had melted. She let out a deep, weary sigh, then placed her hand—not upon her breast, but upon the head of her son, Thian, who stood at her side. She drew him to her in a rare, spontaneous embrace. Thian, struggling to maintain noble composure, could not hide the broad smile that broke across his young face. His eyes were fixed on his father, Sathiron, walking with heavy but unbroken steps.
And in a shadowed corner of Skyrock's balcony stood Viscountess Talia Vanheim, with her younger brother, Viscount Deon Vanheim, at her side. They were silent, their eyes tense as they scanned the stone path toward the gate. Talia was not searching for a single face, but for the returning bodies out of the dark. Her sharp gray eyes clung to the horizon, her stern focus barely masking her deep unease.
And then… she saw them.
The torches flared, revealing the knights returning from battle. On the right of the vanguard walked Aqua Nightover, weary but proud, with Ser Darren Castro at his side. Ahead of them, with slower steps, appeared Blatir Vanheim, her father—stained with dust and blood, but still standing, still defiant.
Talia gripped the railing with her hand, her fingers trembling despite the firmness of her expression. Deon, meanwhile, stood beside her, silent like a statue. His cold eyes did not blink, nor did he show any reaction to the Arcadian forces returning unharmed from the battle. His features remained unchanged even when he saw his father among the survivors; only a vacant look, devoid of relief or worry, as if he were watching a familiar scene that meant nothing to him... or maybe he was hoping for a slight change.
But suddenly… his eyes narrowed.
Among the shadows trailing Aqua Nightover was a man in a black hood, his face obscured, walking with an unnervingly steady gait—no stagger, no fatigue like the rest. Something in his bearing, in his height, in the way he moved, stabbed through Deon's memory like a blade.
His eyes widened in silent shock. Then he whispered to himself, as though even the air was unworthy of hearing:
Deon: "…Raymond."
His gaze shot up to the balcony, heart pounding violently, his hand gripping the railing. He did not know whether to cry out the name or choke it back. Talia noticed the change in his face but said nothing. She kept her eyes fixed upon her father amidst the crowd, composed as ever—though inside her, an unspoken question burned.
And so, beneath the red dawn sky, with the stench of blood and death still clinging to them, the survivors entered the palace. The music and laughter ceased at once, replaced by a heavy silence, then whispers of fear and shame.
And the engagement of Isabel Windsword and Felix Sparoff—meant to be the grandest festivity of the season—was etched forever in memory not as a celebration of love, but as a silent witness to the abyss dividing halls of joy from halls of grief, and to the bitter truth that life, in its trivial pleasures, goes on indifferent, even upon soil drenched knee-deep in the blood of its sons.
And so, the battle of the "Royal Dawn" was inscribed in Arcadia's forgotten records with lines of blood and wounded heroism, later whispered timidly, like a tale told to frighten children when the nights grew long.
The scene shifted… weeks after the battle's end.
In Dreamcrown, under a clear sky of azure, Talia Vanheim sat on a short, cracked white marble wall that bordered the royal palace courtyard. Her posture was not one of relaxation; she sat harmoniously and upright, as if upon an invisible throne. The warm sun caressed the chestnut strands of her hair that fell over her shoulders, yet her gray eyes held a hidden chill, gazing beyond the game before her.
Kneeling on the grassy mat in front of her were Nyle and Vyler, the youngest sons of Ser Darren Castro. Their pale green hair, inherited from their warrior father, shimmered in the light, and their clear blue eyes, like the calm surface of a summer sea, stared at her with absolute focus, captivated by the story and its terrors.
The story ended. A brief silence, then curiosity erupted from both of them.
Nyle, with a small leap, his innocent, high-pitched voice breaking the quiet: "But! But! What exactly is a 'Frozen Eye'? I want one too!"
Talia raised an eyebrow slightly, a nearly invisible smile touching the corners of her lips. She was about to answer, perhaps weaving a delicate metaphor about gifts and curses, when a graceful shadow appeared.
Countess Hilary Castro arrived like a gentle breeze. Her rich green gown, embroidered with pale golden threads that glittered with every movement, complemented the color of her serene blue eyes. Her silky emerald hair, styled in a complex yet elegant updo, not a strand out of place, framed her presence. She stood behind her little ones, placing her soft hands on their shoulders.
Hilary, her voice soft yet firm, carrying the warmth of motherhood: "Enough, children. You've already spent more time with Lady Talia than is proper. Isn't it rude to ask for more?" Her gaze at the boys was tender but decisive.
The two murmured, Nyle with some subtle protest, Vyler with clear frustration. Hilary gently took their hands. Then she turned to Talia, her tone softening further, infused with genuine gratitude befitting a noble.
Hilary: "Thank you, Talia. That was very kind of you. And I apologize if these little rebels tired you."
Talia tilted her head slightly in a subtle, precise nod, as if accepting an apology from a queen.
Talia: "No need to apologize, Countess. My time with them was precious." Her words were polite, yet her eyes did not smile. There was an invisible barrier, as always.
As the Countess began to leave, holding the boys' hands, Vyler suddenly turned, as if one final question had sprung to his young mind.
Vyler, in an excited and curious tone: "Lady Talia! And what about Isabel's secret?"
Talia paused for a moment. It was no surprise, merely an assessment. Then she smiled. Not a wide smile, but a calm, mysterious one, carrying within it a thousand secrets of the palace.
Talia: "Hmm… I suppose some secrets, Vyler, remain secrets for a reason… and they're more enjoyable that way."
Vyler smiled, feeling part of some conspiracy, then walked with his mother, leaving Talia alone on the wall.
Talia remained seated, watching the horizon where the boys' shadows vanished. But her gaze was not on the trees or the sky. It was on nothing—or on everything. The calm that surrounded her was heavy, filled with echoes of the story she had told, and with the secrets left unsaid.
Then…
She lifted the crystal wine glass beside her on the wall. She did not drink, merely studying the crimson liquid against the sunlight.
And as she did… the trance broke.
She returned to reality.
Dreamcrown – In the Royal Palace Garden
Talia returned to the present, freeing herself from the vivid current of memories that had carried her through the events of the previous night. She found herself seated within the tea circle, the warmth of the sun brushing her shoulders, while the distant whispers of the garden settled quietly around her.
She rested her chin on her hand, her gray eyes fixed intently on Isabel, observing the smallest movements and expressions—the subtle cues the younger woman tried to conceal.
The fresh memories of last night, when she had told the story to the boys, still rippled through her mind like reflections on the surface of a calm pond, moving gently beneath the serene exterior she presented to the world.
Talia looked at Isabele, who was trying to appear strong and composed, but every movement betrayed a hidden anxiety. Then, in a calm and deliberate tone, she spoke.
Talia: "Hmm… Lady Isabele, is this chair you're sitting on… the same one Lady Ariana Nightover used to sit on?"
It took Isabelle only a moment to turn her face, as if suddenly struck. For a brief moment, her usual arrogant expression faded, replaced by a shadow of confusion. But she quickly regained her composure, though something in her eyes suggested she had lost her balance for an instant.
Isabele, pretending nonchalance as she shrugged: "Huh? What does it matter? It's just a chair… Lady Taliah, are you quite alright?"
Katerina and Renalis let out soft laughs, dripping with obvious sarcasm, as if the situation amused them. But Talia ignored them, continuing coldly, her eyes still fixed on Isabele, as though she were enjoying watching the mask slowly crack.
Taliah: "Hmm… Never mind, I was just admiring this clear sky, so blue… flawless. A sky that brings joy… truly beautiful."
She paused, as if thinking aloud, then added in a lighter tone, yet laced with venom.
Talia: "It came to me while I was admiring it… and I also remembered your fiancé, Earl Felix Sparoff… I think he loved it too."
"Stop!"
Isabele's voice was sharp and cutting, filled with agitation. There was something akin to panic in her eyes, as if she had realized too late where this conversation was heading. Her hands were clenched tightly on the table, her breath ragged as she tried to calm herself, but her body betrayed her.
Talia did not stop. Instead, she leaned slightly forward, lowering her voice, yet each word was like the edge of a knife slowly sinking into Isabele's consciousness.
Taliah: "He adored her…"
In an instant, something inside Isabele seemed to shatter. She stared at Talia in shock, then slammed the table violently, as if trying to break free from the feeling overwhelming her.
Isabele: "I told you, stop!!! What nonsense are you spouting!?"
Her voice was filled with anger, but it wasn't directed solely at Talia. She was angry at herself, too. Angry at her weakness, at the fact that Talia had exposed her so easily in front of everyone.
The tea in Rosaline's cup was slowly cooling, but she seemed uninterested. She lifted the cup elegantly, took a sip, then slowly returned it to the table, as if the noise around her meant nothing. Renalis, meanwhile, averted her gaze, unwilling to be drawn into this tense whirlwind.
In stark contrast, Katerina sat motionless, as if she had lost the ability to move. Her eyes were wide, lost in emptiness, and her lips trembled. She placed her trembling fingers over her mouth, trying to control her frantic breathing, but the shivering was unmistakable, revealing her inner state.
But Talia showed no trace of emotion. She stood there motionless, her cold eyes fixed on Isabele, as if she had anticipated all of this from the beginning, as if she knew things would inevitably reach this point. Then, in a calm yet terrifyingly sharp voice, she spoke.
Talia: "Because the truth always finds its way to the surface, Lady Isabele… just as impurities appear when the sky is clear."
She paused, then slowly turned to Katerina, who was trembling as if on the verge of collapse. In the same cold tone, she continued.
Talia: "Since you love rumors so much… why don't you tell her yourself, Lady Katerina?"
Isabele froze. Her gaze slowly turned toward Katerina, who did not dare meet her eyes. Something was wrong. Something she couldn't immediately grasp, but when she saw Katerina's trembling, the way she curled into herself, she understood.
"...Y…You!?"
It wasn't a scream, but a hoarse whisper escaped her lips, as if she couldn't believe that the person she considered her loyal shadow could be the one holding the dagger to her back. But the shock quickly turned into intense anger, an explosion of emotions.
In a moment of madness, Isabelle raised her hand and slapped Katerina hard. The sound echoed through the air, causing everyone to freeze. But Isabelle didn't stop there. She grabbed Katerina's clothes, lifting her to eye level, narrowing her eyes like a snake ready to strike.
Isabelle: "You wretched, miserable girl! How dare you do this to me!!!"
Her breathing was rapid, as if she were trying to process the reality that the person she trusted, the one she believed was on her side, was the very dagger plunged into her back. As for Katerina, she did not resist, did not defend herself, but stared at Isabelle with trembling eyes, her hands clenched tightly, her nails digging into her palms… as if struggling to hold onto her composure.
Meanwhile, as chaos escalated, Talia stood indifferently, as if what was happening was merely the inevitable outcome of what she had set in motion moments earlier. Beside her, Rosaline sighed softly, then approached and whispered.
Rosaline: "It seems you were a bit harsh on them."
But Talia did not respond. She merely watched the scene for a few moments, then turned and began to leave, followed by Rosaline. As the voices of Isabelle and Katerina grew louder behind them, Renalis still refused to look, as if ignoring it would make it all disappear.
Nothing moved for a second. Even the leaves stopped whispering, and the garden birds fell silent. All that remained was the sound of pulses in Isabelle's ears, the image of Talia walking away coldly, and Rosaline, who did not even look back.
Then… Katerina exploded.
She rose from her seat as if electrocuted. The cup in her fingers trembled and then fell onto the grass with a muted thud, as if the world had held its breath to listen. Her blue eyes were wide, swimming in a pool of suppressed tears and unbearable panic. Her slender body shook like a leaf in a final breeze, but her voice, when it emerged, was both broken and resolute.
Katerina: "Y…yes!! Yes, I did it! Do you know why!?"
Her voice rose suddenly, sharp as a blade, cutting through the velvety silence of the tea party.
Katerina: "Because you left me no choice but to cling to something that might help me against you. You… you always treat me like a servant!!! Why!? Why is it that whenever I am beside you, I feel worthless? Even though I am no different from you… my father is an Earl, too! So why do you treat me with such contempt?"
Isabele did not move. She was a statue of shock and ice. Her wide hazel eyes, accustomed to looking at the world with confident indifference, were now trembling. One could see in them the confusion of a child watching a precious toy break without understanding why. She wasn't so much hearing Katerina's words as watching her lips move, as if observing a silent play about her own betrayal.
Then… a smile formed on her lips. Not one of joy or mockery, but something bitter, involuntary, distorted, as if the muscles of her face had rebelled against what they were hearing. It was a smile of pure pain that could only express itself through contradiction.
Her voice emerged hoarse, low, and confused, as if coming from the bottom of a well. She spoke as if testing the taste of the words on her tongue for the first time, unable to believe she was uttering them.
Isabele: "Huh… heh… what…"
She slowly raised her chin, that aristocratic gesture she always used to assert her superiority, but this time it seemed like a desperate attempt to control a world that could no longer be controlled.
Isabele: "I am not like you, Katerina… My father… is not like yours."
The final phrase had been said thousands of times in their halls, but always through implication, glances, gestures. Saying it out loud, here, now, made it seem crude, dirty, and horrifyingly strange. She had broken the unspoken rule. She had spoken the unspoken.
She looked at Katerina, and in her eyes was not only anger but a deep, existential confusion. Her pride had been wounded, yes, but more importantly, her faith in the order of the universe had been shaken. How dare this shadow she had chosen to be her friend, this mirror through which she saw her own superiority, shatter and return her image distorted?
That look Isabele had cast over her shoulder, trapped between unbelievable shock and a bitter, distorted smile. It was a look that said: "You are an insect. How dare you speak? How dare you exist?" Katerina saw herself reflected in Isabelle's wide eyes: small, trivial, shameful. She had been judged.
In that moment, something inside Katerina finally broke. There was no more anger or tears. Only a deadly silence and a cold emptiness spreading through her chest. It was all over.
She turned on her heel. The movement was mechanical, as if her body knew what to do while her mind remained trapped in that gaze. She did not look back. She walked away, her steps quiet yet firm on the green grass until she reached the marble pavement, distancing herself from the tea table, from the girl who, until minutes ago, had been her closest friend.
She could hear nothing but the beating of her own heart in her ears. Even the whispers of Renalis, who was trying to catch up, sounded as if they were coming from underwater.
Renalis paused for a moment, her eyes darting between whom to follow. The petrified Isabele, standing rigid, or Katerina, walking toward the unknown. Then, with a slight, sorrowful tilt of her head, as if apologizing to a world that would never be the same again, she hurried after Katerina, leaving Isabelle alone.
And Isabele was left alone.
Standing rigidly, surrounded by a silent chaos of half-empty teacups and untouched pastries. The air, which moments before had been fragrant with the soft scent of jasmine, was now heavy with the taste of bitterness and betrayal. The gaze she had fixed upon Katerina still hung in the air before her, but there was no one left to see it.
She was alone. Not just in the garden. But in her universe. She had expelled the shadow that made her light appear bright, and now she had to face the glare of her own self, alone, with no one beneath her to make her feel superior.
Slowly, she raised her hand, as if verifying her own existence, then placed it over her chest where a new pain throbbed. She did not cry. Tears were for people like Katerina. All that remained was a terrible silence and the void of command, with no one left to order.
In a corner of the garden, where the trees began to intertwine more densely, as if forming a world separate from the stage of events they had left behind, Rosaline broke the silence.
She turned to Taliah with a warm smile, though it was not without a faint shadow of sadness. Her voice was calm, soft, like the evening breeze beginning to stir around them.
Rosaline: "I feel bad for her now..."
The statement carried not a trace of arrogance or triumph, merely a sorrowful acknowledgment of a painful reality.
At the edge of the garden, where the manicured grass met the flower beds, Talia stopped. She did not respond to Rosaline immediately. Instead, she slowly lifted her head toward the sky, where scattered clouds were tinged gold and pink by the last rays of the sun. She took a deep, long breath, as if filling her lungs not just with air, but with peace. Then she released it slowly in a long exhale, carrying away the last remnants of the tension that had clung to her.
She whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves, yet her words were heavy with their harsh clarity.
Talia: "The truth is always more painful than lies… but I do not sympathize with those who build their pride on illusions."
She needed to explain no further. Rosaline looked at her, her gentle smile unwavering, but her eyes held a complete understanding of all that had been left unspoken. She understood that Talia was not speaking only of Isabele, but of a deeper law governing their entire world.
Rosaline nodded affirmatively, as if sealing this shared wisdom. Then, without another word, she turned toward the right path, the one leading to the palace. Meanwhile, Talia turned left, toward the open lands and the forest.
Each walked her own path, not looking back. Leaving behind not only a scene charged with anger and wounds, but also people who had yet to realize that their real battle was not with each other…
But with the truth itself.
The Battlefield – Under the Watchful Eyes of House Malacard.
Aqua was amidst a sea of blood, breathing heavily—attacking, blocking, dodging—as though his body moved with a will of its own. Two knights charged toward him, but he didn't think, didn't retreat. Instead, he advanced straight at them, raising his sword, ready to clash…
But in the blink of an eye, Earl Yukron Windsword appeared.
He seized Aqua's shoulder and yanked him back violently, nearly throwing him off balance. Before Aqua could even process what had happened, the Earl had stepped forward, taking the blow meant for him.
A swift strike from Yukron's sword knocked the first knight's weapon from his hand, and with one decisive motion, he severed his head. As for the second knight, who attempted a quick thrust, Yukron skillfully ducked beneath the blade and drove his sword deep into his opponent's abdomen, bringing him down lifeless.
Aqua stood panting, swaying slightly, dizzy and disoriented. Yukron approached him angrily, gripping his arm tightly, glaring with fierce intensity before speaking in a low, contemptuous voice.
Yukron: "What are you doing here, boy!!? Your father has no one but you... Do you intend to make him a widower as well?!"
He didn't wait for a reply. Shoving Aqua backward, he turned and rejoined the other knights, pushing deeper into the heart of the battle.
Aqua remained where he was, gasping for air, looking around with blood smeared across his face and hands. Then he lifted his gaze toward the hilltop…
There, at the summit, two horses stood firm, their riders observing the scene from above. The stench of blood and gunpowder filled the air; sweat and blood stained their clothes and faces, marking the brutality of the battle they had just endured.
The first was Duke Rossipov Malacard, a man in his fifties, bears upon his armor the marks of a thousand strikes—each one a poem written by war. His golden hair, which has yielded to white just as his kingdom yielded to ruin, falls like a curtain over a brow that has witnessed the fall of civilizations. A thick beard, like snow stained with golden ash, frames his face. And his eyes, golden like a sun drowning in twilight, hold an unspoken secret: that dawn comes only with blood. He wears a blue cloak edged in gold, and over his black armor rests a collar of golden fur. His presence commanded respect, radiating an aura of power. Yet the blood staining his cloak did little to conceal the cruelty in his gaze.
To his left sat his eldest son, the young Duke… Lord Kray Malacard. A man in his twenties with short, dark beige-blond hair and stern features sharpened by merciless golden eyes. He wore a dark green robe adorned with gold trim over his golden armor, and for a moment, he appeared not merely as an heir, but as a confident leader astride his steed. Though fatigue marked his face, the glow of youth and ambition shone in his eyes, and the battle blood staining his armor did not dim the hope burning in his heart.
From their elevated position, they watched everything unfold. Aqua couldn't tell whether they were observing him with interest or merely studying the battlefield like pieces on a chessboard.
The Duke spoke softly, yet his words cut through the air like lightning, flashing across the cold distance between him and his son.
Rossipov: "Mark this scene well… son, for you may never see its like again."
Kray, who had been gazing toward the horizon, turned his head slightly toward his father.
Rossipov: "The glory of the past means nothing if power fades in the present. History will not restore your dignity when you break today… Remember this well."
He paused, his eyes still fixed on the ground below, where blood pooled like rivers and the moans of the fallen filled the air.
Rossipov: "Ever since we weakened… since our strength crumbled in the war against the occupation, and the kingdom betrayed all our sacrifices, here we stand now. Watching our lands plundered before our very eyes by the Arcadians. It is easy to believe that weakness justifies everything… but the truth, my son, is that if we surrender now, we will never return."
Kray met his father's gaze. It seemed he wanted to give voice to his tangled emotions, but he remained silent, as though his lips had been sealed by a mist of confusion and indifference.
Rossipov: "We do not fight for the past, but for the future. We will stand here, on this land watered with our blood, and defend all that was once ours… whether the kingdom recognizes our sacrifices or not. Whether banners are raised in our name or not. We will follow the path chosen by our blood."
The Duke's eyes burned with an undimmed fire despite the ruin surrounding them. The dry wind howled through dead trees as their gazes remained fixed on the Arcadian army looting the remnants of their land.
Rossipov: "This moment, son, is the end of what we once were… but also the beginning of what we shall become. Remember this, for everything here depends on you. Do not let weakness cloud your resolve."
Kray drew a deep breath, then lifted his head toward the sky as if searching for answers in the endless horizon. His once-lost eyes now gleamed with determination, though shadows still lingered in his heart.
Kray: "If this is the path we must walk, then we will not turn back until the sun rises anew… even if the ground beneath us remains shrouded in darkness."
The Duke leaned forward slightly, his tone sharp, carrying an unspoken weight.
Rossipov: "We will not linger in the shadows long, Kray. The sun will rise and set, but remember: only our strength endures. If you wish to leave a legacy in this world, let it be your power that speaks… even if tears must water the path ahead."
The sounds of battle and distant beastly howls faded into the background as the scent of blood and sweat mingled with the scorched earth beneath them. The blood staining their faces and clothes seemed to merge with the brutality of this merciless war. The air between them grew thick with cruelty and despair, conveyed through heavy breaths and wary eyes.
Then, in a moment charged with fury and dread, Aqua's scream tore across the battlefield—a cry echoing with rage and awe, as though he were trying to reassemble himself amid the chaos and bloodshed.
With eyes blazing, he lifted his gaze once more toward the hill, where Duke Rossipov Malacard and his son Kray watched from above.
Aqua: "MALACAAARD!!! You cowards!!"
His voice sliced through the hill's silence like a sharp blade—a challenge, an insult.
Astride his steed, Lord Kray immediately raised his head, eyes narrowing as his grip tightened on the reins. Rage simmered in his chest, yet he held his composure.
As for Duke Rossipov, he remained motionless, his sharp features unchanged, as though he had heard nothing of consequence. In a voice cold as ice, he spoke to his son without turning.
Rossipov: "He is provoking you..."
Kray's hold on the reins tightened further, his voice sharp yet restrained.
Kray: "I know..."
But his gaze remained locked on Aqua… as if he had fallen into a trap with no escape.
Aqua stood rigid, yet there was something in his expression… something inhuman. A presence that sent shivers down the spine. It was as though the scream that had just erupted was not merely one of anger, but the awakening of something deeper—something long chained within him, now breaking free.
His heart hammered wildly, but this heartbeat was not a sign of life… it was the sound of war drums echoing from a dark abyss, heralding death's arrival.
He was not merely standing… He was a force pulsating between reality and oblivion.
His sword was raised high toward them, its edge gleaming as if thirsting for blood, crying out for destruction, demanding devastation.
That gesture… That signal…
It was not merely a challenge, but a deadly prophecy known to all. The moment Aqua raised his sword in that manner... this was no longer a battle between warriors.
It was a declaration that one of them would not leave this place alive.
On the other side of the battlefield, amid the chaos, a dance of death unfolded... performed by a single woman.
Viscountess Silvia Blackmirth, clad in a black robe embroidered with silver threads, moved among her enemies like a deadly shadow. She was not merely a warrior; she was the embodiment of agility, grace, and brutality combined.
Her silver eyes, cold as the night, showed no fear or hesitation. They were like mirrors reflecting the fate of all who stood in her path.
She wielded a long, slender sword, designed to pierce joints and cut with deadly speed. Every step she took was measured, every movement a blend of elegance and lethal precision.
A strike… A dodge… A slash… Blood sprayed… A body fell… then she turned again to face another opponent.
Three heavily armored knights surrounded her, their thick hands gripping massive swords, believing their weight alone would crush her… But they did not realize that the very weight of their weapons would be their downfall against the speed of the cursed Viscountess.
The first knight charged forward, shouting, his sword raised for a vertical slash. But she bent backward, making his blade pass mere centimeters above her. Then, she spun like a black whirlwind, her sword flashing with lethal grace, severing his leg at the knee. He screamed as his heavy body crashed to the ground, but he had no time to suffer... Silvia plunged her blade into his neck without hesitation, ending his life before he even realized what had happened.
She gave the others no time to react. She dashed toward the second knight with blinding speed. Instead of parrying his strike, she sidestepped and circled around him, her sword darting like a viper's fang, striking with deadly precision. He barely had time to turn before he felt a burning pain in his side... her blade had found a weak spot in his armor. She wrenched it free with force, sending him stumbling backward, crashing into the third knight.
The last knight, witnessing the brutal downfall of his comrades in mere moments, hesitated, stepping back. But hesitation was his final mistake. In a single heartbeat, Silvia leaped into the air, twisting her body as her sword descended like a falling meteor, cleaving his head in two before he could even raise his weapon.
Viscountess Silvia Blackmirth, the Weeping Shadow, clad in a black robe embroidered with silver threads, moved among her enemies like a deadly shade. She was not merely a warrior; she was the embodiment of agility, elegance, and brutality combined.
She drifted through her foes as though she were a mortal omen. Not just a fighter, but the incarnation of lethal grace and absolute cruelty. In her hands, she held a long, slender sword, crafted to pierce joints and cut with merciless speed. Every step she took was measured, every movement a union of elegance and precision. "Whisper"—the sound her enemies heard only in the final breath before silence.
Her silver eyes, cold as a full moon, betrayed no fear. They were mirrors reflecting the fate of all who stood against the Weeping Shadow—a title she had not earned from tears, but because she had not been seen to smile since the Black Sun War. And also, for the rain of blood she unleashed, and the anguished wails she left behind.
A strike from Whisper… a dodge… a slash… blood spraying… a body falling… then she turned again, the blade humming a mournful song only she could hear.
Three armored knights encircled the Weeping Shadow, confident their weight would crush her. The first charged, but she bent backward, his blade slicing through empty air. She spun, a black whirlwind, Whisper flashing as it severed his leg at the knee. Before his scream could even form, her blade plunged into his neck—a merciful end to a foolish choice.
She granted the others no time. She dashed toward the second knight. She did not parry, but slipped aside, circling him, her sword darting like a viper's fang into a weak point in his armor. She wrenched it free with a wet hiss, sending him stumbling backward into his comrade.
A strike… a dodge… a slash… blood spraying… a body falling… then she turned again to face the next opponent.
Three armored knights surrounded her, their thick hands gripping massive swords, certain their sheer weight would crush her… yet they did not realize that very weight would spell their doom against the cursed Viscountess's speed.
The first knight roared, his sword raised high for a vertical strike. But she bent backward, the blade passing mere inches above her. Then she spun, a storm of black steel, Whisper flashing with murderous elegance as it severed his leg at the knee. He screamed as his heavy body crashed to the ground, but had no time to suffer—for Silvia's blade drove into his throat without hesitation, ending him before he even knew death was upon him.
She offered no pause. She lunged at the second knight with blinding speed. Not blocking, but slipping past, her blade struck like a serpent's fang into the soft gap of his armor. She tore it free with force, sending him staggering back into the third knight.
The last knight, seeing his companions cut down in the span of moments, faltered, retreating a step. But hesitation was the final note of his song. Silvia leapt, twisting in the air, and Whisper fell like a burning star, cleaving through helm and skull alike.
A brief silence… then the Weeping Shadow moved on, leaving three more regrets staining the earth. The surrounding knights were beginning to grasp the truth: this was no ordinary fighter. She was a storm, and her blade was the thunder that announced the end.
A brief silence… then Silvia moved again, leaving behind three corpses, their fresh blood staining the scorching earth.
The surrounding knights were beginning to grasp the truth... this woman was no ordinary fighter. She was a storm of death moving through them, unstoppable. Some immediately retreated, while others... the reckless or the foolish... charged at her, clinging to a desperate hope that they could stop her.
But they had yet to understand… that no one could stop her when she was in the midst of this deadly dance.
Amid the chaos, where the clash of steel intertwined with the screams of the fallen, Marchioness Atris Starkov carved her path through the enemy lines, her slender sword striking with unexpected agility for a woman who had spent years buried in treaties and golden negotiations. She was not a warrior by nature, but she was no stranger to battle either. Beside her, Ser Variss Sathray fought with his usual sardonic grin, laughing amidst the carnage.
Variss, dodging a deadly strike with a smirk: "I didn't know you were still this agile, Lady Atris… I thought life in the palaces had made you soft."
Atris, driving her sword into an enemy's heart before yanking it free: "If I had known I'd die here, I wouldn't have wasted my years chasing gold and political nonsense!"
Variss chuckled as he sliced off an attacker's arm and kicked him aside. Atris turned to face another foe, giving him no chance to strike. Her sword moved like an arrow, slashing his throat with lethal precision.
Variss, flicking his sword to rid it of blood: "Ah, but imagine… at least you could have bought yourself a golden coffin instead of bleeding out here in the mud."
Atris, parrying an attack and countering with a swift strike: "I'll leave it to you if I die first. Seems like you enjoy luxury more than I do."
Variss laughed again, but suddenly raised his sword to deflect a surprise attack aimed at Atris. She spun swiftly, driving her blade into the attacker's gut before he could become a real threat.
Atris, casting him a wry look: "That's twice now I've saved your life, Variss… Do you plan on returning the favor?"
Variss, grinning as he readied his sword for another opponent: "If we survive the night, I'll buy you the finest wine in Novaka. And if we die? Well, at least they'll say I fought beside the most stubborn... and beautiful woman in the kingdom."
In the heart of the overwhelming chaos of battle, where the scent of blood and soil hung heavy over everything, Ser Variss stood beside Marchioness Atris, their armor stained with gore and their faces set with unyielding resolve. This was not merely the usual grimness of war—it was something deeper, the look of those who had faced death eye to eye and no longer feared it.
Amid the clashing of swords and the cries of the dying, Variss leaned toward her with a twisted smile, carrying within it a dark irony toward fate itself.
Variss: "Your House's words... might serve us well at this moment."
Atris paused. The smile that touched her lips did not convey joy, but rather a fatalistic acceptance of a harsh reality. She closed her eyes for a second, as if recalling an old memory—perhaps a childhood spent reciting this motto without truly understanding its weight. Then she took a deep breath and looked ahead where the tragedy unfolded. Her voice was not loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade.
Atris: "From the stars to the earth... we know only steadfastness... and we do not bow to death."
The words were not merely a motto—they were the cry of a spirit that refused to break. There was something existential in them: that humanity, in the face of nothingness, creates its own meaning through defiance.
Variss laughed... a stifled laugh filled with bitterness and defiance. It was not a mockery, but an expression of the utter absurdity of the situation—that a person could find the peak of their resolve at the brink of oblivion.
Variss: "Well... my enthusiasm and determination have never been higher than they are at this very moment!... Hahahaha!"
But the laughter was not entirely pure—it was a mixture of will and despair. His eyes did not laugh; they retained that strange glow—the glow of one who realized this moment might be the last thing he remembered, and had decided to live it fully, without regret.
And before they could steady themselves, they returned to the fray—not as legendary heroes, but as human beings who knew they might die, yet refused to die without meaning.
For a brief, shining instant, the relentless brutality of the battlefield gave way to a spark of levity.
In that shared moment of camaraderie, their laughter and words intertwined with the echo of clashing swords, a testament to the indomitable spirit that refused to be broken even in the face of overwhelming despair.