The sun had barely risen, yet the battlefield was already awake with the restless energy of men who knew death might visit before dusk. A thin mist clung to the ground like the memory of last night's rain, swirling in lazy wisps around the boots of warriors. Spears were planted in the soil, their tips glistening faintly in the pale light, while banners flapped gently in the early breeze—each a declaration of pride, defiance, or desperation.
Veer stood at the ridge overlooking the plain, his eyes scanning the horizon where the enemy's camp stirred like a waking beast. Behind him, the Nine Tribes' warriors waited in tense silence. Armor clinked softly, leather straps were adjusted, blades tested against whetstones one final time. The scent of oil, sweat, and iron mingled with the damp air.
Arjun, Veer's second-in-command, approached with the morning report."They've begun moving, Veer. Their front lines are forming… and they have war chariots." His voice was low, but the underlying tension was unmistakable.
Veer didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the enemy formation. "Good. Let them come. Today, we burn their will before we burn their camp."
He finally faced Arjun, his expression calm but his eyes carrying the weight of a storm. "Signal the Drums of Dawn."
The great war drums roared moments later, their deep, thunderous beats rolling across the plain. The sound was not just for communication—it was a challenge, an omen, a declaration that the Nine Tribes would not kneel. The enemy answered with their own horns, a harsh, braying call that sliced through the mist.
The two armies began their approach.
As the distance between them closed, Veer's mind was a blade—sharp, deliberate, and without hesitation. He had fought battles before, but this one… this was different. The stakes were no longer just survival or territory. This was about uniting the tribes under one banner, about proving that a scattered people could stand as one against a common enemy.
He lifted his spear and shouted, his voice carrying like a wave over the warriors:"Today, the earth will drink the blood of those who think we are prey! Today, we show the gods that the Nine Tribes are not leaves blown by the wind—but the wind itself!"
The warriors roared back, the sound shaking the mist from the ground.
The clash came suddenly—like two storms colliding.
Steel bit into steel, shields splintered under heavy blows, and the air filled with the metallic tang of blood. War cries mingled with screams, the rhythm of the battle as chaotic as it was relentless. Veer fought at the very front, his spear a blur. He moved like a dancer on a stage of death—thrusting, sweeping, spinning—each motion purposeful, each strike lethal.
A chariot thundered toward him, its wheels cutting through mud and bone alike. The warrior riding it swung a massive curved blade meant to cleave a man in two. Veer sidestepped at the last possible heartbeat, driving his spear through the axle. The chariot lurched violently, throwing its rider to the ground. Veer ended him with a single, merciful thrust.
To his left, Arjun was holding the flank against three enemy swordsmen. One came dangerously close to breaking through, but Veer hurled his spear like a lightning bolt, the iron tip piercing the man's throat before he could strike. Arjun gave him a quick nod before returning to his own bloody dance.
Hours blurred into moments.
The sun rose higher, burning away the mist but revealing the sheer carnage. Both sides had lost many, yet neither yielded. The enemy commander—a tall man clad in blackened armor—rode forward with a line of elite guards. His arrival seemed to ignite his soldiers with renewed fury.
Veer's chest heaved as he tightened his grip on his blade. "Arjun… the head of the snake."
They surged toward the commander together, cutting a path through the chaos. Veer's mind drowned out the screams and the clash of weapons—there was only the heartbeat of the man before him. The two locked eyes, and in that instant, the battlefield seemed to fade away.
The commander swung a heavy war axe in a brutal arc. Veer ducked low, feeling the wind of the blow graze his hair, and countered with a slash toward the man's ribs. The commander blocked, sparks flying where their weapons met. The clash was raw power against precision, brute force against controlled fury.
They circled each other, trading blows that could kill in a blink. Once, the commander's axe split Veer's shield in half; another time, Veer's sword tore a deep cut across the man's shoulder. The duel was a storm inside the greater storm of battle.
Finally, Veer found his opening. He feinted left, drawing the commander's guard, then pivoted right and drove his blade deep into the gap in his armor. The commander staggered, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing into the churned mud.
The enemy line faltered.
"NOW!" Veer bellowed.
The Nine Tribes surged forward, their war cries rolling like thunder. The enemy, leaderless and shaken, began to crumble. Some fled, others were cut down where they stood. The momentum shifted completely, and soon, the plain belonged to Veer's warriors.
The battle was over.
As the last shouts faded into silence, Veer stood among the fallen. His armor was splattered with blood—some his own, most not. Around him, his warriors tended to the wounded, gathered the dead, and raised the banners of the Nine Tribes in the wind. The morning mist was long gone, replaced by the thick, metallic scent of victory.
Arjun approached, his expression a mix of exhaustion and pride. "It's done. They'll speak of this battle for generations."
Veer looked at the horizon where the enemy had once stood strong. "No, Arjun. They'll speak of what comes next. This victory means nothing if we can't hold it together."
His eyes hardened, a leader already thinking beyond the battlefield. The uniting of the Nine Tribes had begun, but it was still fragile—a fire that could be extinguished as easily as it had been lit.
For now, though, the wind carried only the sound of banners snapping and the quiet hum of a people daring to believe.