The valley floor was a storm of steel.
Kael's horse thundered into the mud, hooves splashing through pools of blood as the companions followed. The armies below barely had time to register who descended from the ridge before Kael's sword flashed—a crimson arc of light that cleaved through the first rank of soldiers.
"Crimson Sever."
The named strike tore through shields and men alike, cutting a ragged line into the battlefield. His companions surged at his flanks:
Darric swung his halberd with brutal efficiency, every strike felling a knight in polished armor.
Lyra's bow sang, arrows wreathed in faint silver flames piercing through visors and chainmail.
Isryn lifted her hands, weaving strands of sorcery that turned the mud beneath enemy riders into sucking mire, dragging men and horses screaming into the earth.
Kaelen, though older, rode like shadow itself, his staff cracking skulls, his muttered words shrouding allies in veils of warding flame.
The clash was overwhelming.
Kael cut left and right, carving through claimants' soldiers, their banners trampled into the mire. "Ashrend." His blade descended, splitting a shield and the man behind it in one brutal stroke. He moved like a storm given flesh, crimson aura burning so brightly that even hardened veterans faltered before him.
But these were no common raiders. Each claimant had sent knights loyal to blood and crown.
One such knight broke through the melee—a towering figure clad in gold-etched plate, helm wrought like a snarling lion. He raised his zweihander high, the blade glowing with sovereign blessing.
"Pretender!" the knight roared. "By decree of the Iron Regent, your head will hang on the walls of Velaryn!"
Kael dismounted, meeting him on foot. The world narrowed. The knight's sword came down with earthshaking force—Kael caught it on his crimson blade, sparks screaming as steel met soul-forged power.
"You'll need more than decrees to kill me," Kael said coldly.
The duel erupted—Kael ducking, weaving, his sword cutting fiery arcs, the knight answering with crushing swings. Each strike shook the mud, companions forced to fall back as the two warriors became the center of the battlefield.
"Crimson Fang!" Kael's blade bit into the knight's pauldron, tearing molten sparks from the metal. The knight snarled, thrusting forward—Kael twisted, dragging his sword down in a flare of blackened lightning.
The crimson aura surged.
"Bloodrend."
The strike cleaved through steel, bone, and pride in one brutal arc. The knight's body fell to the muck, his golden helm rolling into the mud as silence rippled through the battlefield.
Kael lifted his blade, crimson glow spilling like fire across the valley. Soldiers faltered, stumbling back from the sight. His companions pressed the opening, cutting down those who hesitated.
But even as victory swelled, Kaelen's warning rang true.
From the ridges beyond, fresh banners appeared—another claimant's host, descending in formation, drums pounding like thunder. And behind them, cloaked figures moved: Veil cultists, their chants rising above the storm.
Lyra cursed under her breath. "We're not fighting one war, Kael. We're fighting them all at once."
Kael looked at the swelling armies, then at his weary companions, mud and blood dripping from their weapons. He raised his sword once more, voice like a vow.
"Then we'll cut through them. One claimant, one cult, one lie at a time."
The companions rallied around him, and the battle for Cindermoor burned on.