The clash rang out again, and the battlefield stilled around them.
Sword and spear—steel and broken wood—ground together, sparks spraying, their arms trembling with the sheer force of each strike. They were no longer men but embodiments of wrath, their bodies smeared in blood and mud, their breath thick with the copper of their own wounds. Every clash reverberated like a bell tolling across the dead.
Ryon's teeth clenched as he shoved forward. His voice came in a guttural growl, close enough for the commander to feel his words hot on his scarred face.
"You'll fall here," Ryon spat, his arms bulging with strain. "Your name will be buried in the mud, forgotten."
The commander's grin split bloody lips. "Then bury me with your own corpse, southerner." His spear twisted, nearly wrenching the sword from Ryon's grip. "The North doesn't forget. We carve memory in bone."
