Steel screamed as their blades slid apart, sparks leaping into the smoky dawn.
Hiral pressed forward again, every strike a merciless test of Alexis's guard—thrusts for the artery beneath his arm, slashes angled to cripple a knee, feints that curved into killing blows.
Each movement was precise, efficient, without waste, the kind of swordsmanship that left no room for hesitation.
And yet hesitation was there—in his chest, in his heart.
For every time Alexis's parries faltered, every time Hiral glimpsed the opening to end it, he was forced to stare into those grief-clouded eyes.
Eyes that begged, silently, for something other than this war.
Eyes that carried sorrow heavier than armor.
Perhaps if I had only spoken sooner, Hiral thought bitterly. If I had found better words, better plan, better path… Alexis would not look at me like this.
His blade whirled again, a deadly arc, but inside him another thought whispered louder than steel:
We could have just sailed away. We could have left the weight behind.
Alexis met each cut with vicious counterstrikes, his aggression raw, unrelenting.
His style was fierce, where Hiral's was sharp, each blow like a storm breaking against the shore.
But the fury of his sword betrayed the torment in his soul.
Every time steel bit against Hiral's armor, every gash that drew blood, Alexis felt the wound in his own chest deepen.
End me, he begged silently, his arms refusing to stop.
Spare me the crime of hurting you further.
Yet his duty bound him tighter than chains.
The men of Ro screamed his name, their voices dragging him forward, blade after blade, cut after cut.
He wanted nothing more than to let his sword fall, to throw it aside and reach for Hiral, but he could not.
He was the leader to them, savior, hope. And that hope demanded blood.
The world constricted until it was only them—steel, sweat, sorrow.
Smoke coiled like mourning veils, and the distant roar of war drums faded beneath the sharp ring of two blades locked mid-strike—neither yielding, neither retreating.
Hiral's sword quivered inches from Alexis's throat, his arm taut with purpose yet trembling with something unspoken.
Alexis, his own blade poised just beneath Hiral's jaw, met his rival's gaze with the same raw ache.
Their bodies bore the grace of masters, sweat and blood mingling on their armor, but it was their eyes—shadowed and sorrowful—that revealed the truth they could not voice.
The battle around them blurred.
"I…" Hiral's lips barely parted, then sealed again. His breath hitched as if the words might cut deeper than any sword could.
Run away with me.
The thought thundered behind his silence, louder than the chaos around them.
He could see it, that fragile dream—some distant shore, some nameless village untouched by the rot of duty, the weight of thrones.
A place where the only command was to follow their own hearts.
But duty had a blade too, and it was pressed to his spine.
Across from him, Alexis's jaw clenched, his eyes glistening with unshed grief.
The way he looked at Hiral was almost too much to bear—soft, even in war.
Longing.
Alexis's mouth twitched, betraying the desire to speak, but no words came.
Yet in Alexis's mind, he whispered:
If I fall—and I hope I will—for it is truly unbearable to hurt you when all I want is to embrace you instead… So just this once, let me have this moment to carve your image into my soul.
Their blades trembled against each other, steel grating, breaths ragged, eyes locked in a silence heavier than the roar of battle.
For a heartbeat, the war outside felt distant—as though the chaos itself had paused to witness them.
Then the world intruded.
A horn's shrill cry split the air.
A soldier's scream cut close.
The ground quaked with the trampling rush of cavalry surging too near.
The fragile cocoon of their standoff shattered.
Both generals broke apart, forced by necessity, their movements snapping back into brutal rhythm.
The battle would not wait. And neither could they.
Hiral's strikes came swiftly as storm winds, a relentless tide meant to drive Alexis into recklessness.
Each blow was measured, merciless, forcing him to answer with desperate strength rather than calculated precision.
Alexis's counters grew sharper, heavier—less measured, more frantic.
His arms trembled not from weakness, but from the crushing weight of faith laid upon him: his men's belief, his kingdom's expectation, the unspoken demand that he must not falter.
Every swing of his blade became a denial of his own heart, which balked and shuddered at striking down the one man he could not bear to kill.
And Hiral—bleeding, watchful, calculating even through the haze of pain—saw the opening he had been shaping from the first exchange.
Alexis lunged, his sword carving forward in a wide, reckless arc.
The instant it left his grip, he knew—knew with bone-deep certainty—that Hiral would seize upon his mistake, that this would be the moment his life ended.
His punishment. His release.
To fall at Hiral's hand was a death he could bear.
For the briefest breath, a flicker of hope ignited in his chest.
But instead of parrying, instead of ending it, Hiral stepped into the strike.
Steel bit deep into flesh.
Warmth exploded across Alexis's face, his armor, his hands. The hot sting of blood splattered like rain, a baptism of ruin.
Time fractured.
The world moved at a crawl, as though fate itself demanded that Alexis endure every fragment of this horror.
He saw it—the dimming of Hiral's eyes, the crimson spray catching the light like shards of a shattered dawn, the way his body folded in upon itself before the sound of the wound even reached Alexis's ears.
Then came the thud—soft, final, merciless—as Hiral struck the earth.
Silence swallowed the field.
Alexis's sword slipped from his numb fingers, clattering uselessly against the ground.
His legs gave way, dragging him to his knees as though some divine hand had torn the strength from him.
He stared, unable to breathe, unable to think—only the question echoing in him like a dirge:
What have I done?
Across the battlefield, Seran's voice split the silence, raw with anguish.
"Hiral!"
He lurched forward a step, another, his whole frame trembling with the urge to reach his friend.
But his jaw locked, his teeth biting down hard enough to draw blood.
He remembered. Hiral's words. His orders.
His voice cracked as it rose, breaking but resolute:
"Retreat! Fall back!"
The Eastern lines obeyed at once, instinctive, unhesitating.
They trusted Seran, their second-in-command, as they had always trusted the plan of their general.
Retreat banners rose like mourning shrouds, and the army began to withdraw in disciplined silence.
Alexis's head snapped toward them, eyes wide, disbelieving.
The sound of retreat tore him from his daze like a cruel awakening.
His heart screamed to pursue, to strike, to shatter the East once and for all.
Victory was within reach—one final surge would have broken them.
But instead of triumph, he turned back to the ruin lying at his knees.
"Hiral…"
The name left his lips as a broken prayer.
His hands pressed against the wound, desperate, frantic, feeling the hot gush of blood seep through his fingers.
The sight of Hiral's face—drained of color, lashes still, lips parted in silence—nearly split him apart.
He wanted to wail.
To collapse and let grief consume him whole. But there was no time.
There was never enough time.
Jerking his head up, he roared, his voice carrying across the field:
"Cease pursuit! Hold the lines—we've won!"
His men obeyed without hesitation, their king-to-be's command sealing the moment.
Swords lowered, banners stilled, and the cries of battle ebbed into the heavy hush of aftermath.
Alexis's body trembled as he forced himself to act, to move, to live when every part of him wished only to fall beside Hiral and never rise again.
He bent low, gathering Hiral into his arms, the weight both unbearable and sacred.
He cradled him as one might cradle a fallen star—fragile, burning, too precious to lose—carrying not only a wounded man, but the unbearable paradox of triumph and ruin.
Each step toward the medics' tents was a foreign motion, as though his body belonged to another, but his heart—splintered, heavy, breaking—was his own, and it dragged behind him like a chain he would never escape.