The battlefield still burned. Wrath had dissolved into smoke, but his mark lingered — a thousand eyes still red with madness, bodies convulsing with fury that no voice could reach. His horde had not vanished. They tore at each other, at the earth, at anything that moved, a storm of rage that refused to die.
Cyrus swayed on his feet, blood dripping from his side. His blade trembled, but he refused to lower it. "It's not over," he rasped, his voice raw. "If they fall, then so does everything we bled for."
Hope, pale and weary, raised her staff high, threads of light weaving desperately across the chaos. A few berserkers staggered back, blinking as clarity touched them — but for each she saved, three more fell deeper into madness.
Love knelt among the wounded, her hands shaking. Tears streaked her face, but her voice was defiant. "This is passion too," she whispered, though no one answered.
The horde surged. Cyrus roared and charged headlong into the fray. Every swing was agony, his vision blurred, but he pressed on. He barked orders to the scattered survivors, his words cutting through fear. "Form ranks! Shields high! Stand, or none of us walk away!"
They rallied, drawn not by his title — an exile had none — but by his unyielding will. Step by brutal step, they carved through the berserkers, holding the line against a tide that should have crushed them. Hope's voice lifted above the slaughter, guiding, steadying. Even Love, torn and trembling, lent her strength where she could.
Hours bled away in fire and steel until at last the madness waned. One by one, the berserkers collapsed, their fury burning out into silence. The battlefield was a graveyard of smoke and ash.
Cyrus dropped to one knee, his blade buried in the soil to hold himself upright. Around him, survivors whispered his name — not as exile, but as shield, as commander. He lifted his gaze to the blackened sky, chest heaving. Wrath was gone, but the war he left behind was far from over.