Ashen Kairas's back was pressed against broken stones.
The jagged edges dug into him with every shallow breath, each inhale grinding his shattered ribs against one another.
His right arm was in shambles, a dead weight at his side.
Beside him, his shield was split in two, his sword snapped to a useless shard in the mud.
He turned his head and saw it.
A demon.
Not the kind from old prayers and fire-lit tales, but a crawling horror of bent limbs and eyes that gleamed in the smoke.
It stood in the ruin with him, silent, watching.
Why?
He's just a knight.
Not a hero.
Not a legend.
A man sworn to a banner, paid in coin and bread, trusted with steel and oath.
He remembered polishing his armor by firelight, dreaming not of glory but of survival.
He remembered swearing fealty, his voice steady even as doubt burned in his chest.
Now, all that remained was pain and the silence after battle.
His mind dragged him back to the moment the charge began, to the blinding roar of war horns, to the weight of his horse beneath him, and the promise he had made never to falter.
And now here he was, broken, staring at the endless sky, the demon still watching, stones biting into his back like nails of the earth itself.
Along with the corpses of his fellow soldiers and a pool of his own blood.
He wondered, how had it come to this?
The Night Before
The campfire cracked weakly against the chill.
Smoke drifted low, carrying the scent of wet earth and sweat.
Men huddled close to the embers, some sharpening blades, others whispering prayers under their breath.
Ashen sat a little apart, armor spread before him like scattered bones.
He dragged an oiled rag along the dented steel, each pass steady, methodical.
It was not pride that kept his hands moving; it was habit.
A knight's armor was his skin, and skin left untended rotted fast.
He listened to the others.
The younger ones boasted of glory, speaking of charges and banners raised high.
The older veterans kept quiet, staring into the flames as though they already knew what the next day would bring.
Ashen's gaze drifted upward, past the glow of fire, into the star-choked sky.
There was no destiny written there, no promise of victory.
Just cold light, far and uncaring.
"Ser Kairas," a voice broke his thoughts.
He turned.
A squire barely grown stood awkwardly with a waterskin in hand.
His hair stuck out like straw, his knuckles white from clutching the strap of his sword belt.
"Will we win tomorrow?" the boy asked.
Ashen studied him, the way fear trembled in his shoulders even as he tried to stand tall.
For a moment, Ashen thought of lying, of feeding him some scrap of hope to steady his hands.
But knights, he had learned, did not always wear the armor of truth; they wore the armor of necessity.
"We'll hold the line," Ashen said at last, his voice flat as steel.
The boy nodded quickly, relief flashing in his eyes.
He left without pressing further.
Ashen looked back at his armor, at the firelight playing across its battered plates.
He ran the rag one more time across the breastplate and whispered, not a prayer, not quite a curse.
"Let me stand one more day"
"Still not sure we'll win tomorrow, brother?"
Ashen looked up.
He saw his childhood friend and brother.
"What do you want, Bruce?"
Bruce chuckled as he sat down, holding on to a beer mug.
He handed it to Ashen with care.
"Dude. You gotta stop talking like an old man, we're barely nineteen"
Ashen shook his head as he sipped slowly.
"Bruce, you know better than anyone why I speak like this"
Bruce shrugged, leaning back against a log.
The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the scars already etched from past skirmishes.
"Yeah, I know," he said softly.
"But still… You act like we're marching straight into hell itself"
Ashen let the silence stretch before answering, staring into the embers.
"Because we are…"
Bruce frowned, biting his lip.
He wanted to argue, wanted to push away the shadow Ashen carried, but he didn't.
He had learned long ago that words could not armor a man against what he already knew in his bones.
A breeze stirred the smoke, carrying distant sounds, the faint scrape of armor, the creak of wagons, the restless whispers of soldiers preparing for dawn.
Ashen lowered the mug, setting it carefully beside him.
He traced a finger along the edge of his breastplate, imagining the metal as more than protection, as a reminder of every choice he'd ever made.
Every oath sworn.
Every life counted on him, and every life he would fail if tomorrow turned against them.
"You remember what Father used to say?"
Bruce asked suddenly, his tone quieter now.
"' A knight's worth is not in victory, but in how he bears the fight.'"
Ashen let out a short, humorless laugh.
"He was wrong. Victory matters. Survival matters. Bearing the fight means nothing if there's no one left to remember it"
Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.
"Then fight. But don't carry the weight alone. You're not a hero yet, Ashen… but you don't have to die thinking you should be"
Ashen looked up, meeting his eyes.
The fire reflected in them, steady, unshaken.
For the first time that evening, the weight in his chest felt… slightly lighter.
He nodded, quietly.
"Tomorrow, we will do our best. No more, no less"
Bruce smiled faintly, the kind of small, stubborn grin that refuses to vanish even in the face of war.
"That's all anyone can do. Come on, let's get some sleep before dawn drags us into the dirt"
Ashen leaned back on the stones of the camp floor, hands resting over the armor he had polished so carefully.
Tomorrow, he will stand.
He would fight.
And if he fell, he would fall with the knowledge that he had done his best.
The stars above seemed colder than before, but he felt… ready.
Early Morning
Ashen rose, stiff and aching, every muscle reminding him of the life he had already lived in the night.
Armor clanged lightly as he strapped on his breastplate, each piece a familiar weight, a familiar burden.
Around him, the camp stirred.
Men tightened gauntlets, checked blades, and whispered hurried prayers to gods who may or may not be listening.
The air smelled of wet earth, smoke, and iron.
Bruce fell beside him, sword at his hip, shield on his arm, expression set with determination.
"No promises," he muttered, "but we'll get through this"
Ashen nodded.
"No promises," he echoed, though inwardly he knew promises were meaningless on a field like this.
The horn sounded, a low, mournful wail that rolled across the valley and sank into the hearts of every soldier.
Ashen tightened his grip on his sword.
It was not polished, nor was it perfect.
It had no magic, no hidden lineage.
But it was steel, and it should be enough.
Ahead, the enemy waited.
Shadows moved in the mist, shapes blurred but unmistakably wrong, humans, but not quite.
Ashen's mind flicked briefly to the stories whispered in fear, of horrors that did not belong to this world.
But he pushed it down.
Stories were for kids, not for men who had to hold a line.
He turned to Bruce, and he nodded without question.
They stepped forward, the stones crunching beneath their boots, hearts hammering with the same rhythm as the approaching horns.
As they hopped onto their horses
The leather reins felt damp in Ashen's grip, slick with morning dew and the sweat of the beast beneath him.
His horse shifted nervously, ears twitching at the sound of the horns, as if it too understood what waited.
Ashen steadied it with a firm pat on the neck.
"Easy girl," he muttered, though the words were as much for himself as the animal.
The line formed.
Shields lifted.
Banners snapped faintly in the thin wind, their colors muted by the morning mist.
Commanders barked orders, their voices sharp but trembling with the weight of what they were about to unleash.
Ashen looked down the row and saw faces, some boys hardly older than the squire from last night, others weathered men with scars deep as rivers carved across their skin.
All wore the same look now: fear, smothered beneath the thin veil of duty.
The second horn blast cut through the valley, higher this time, urgent.
Ahead, the mist shifted, and the enemy came into view.
They moved wrong.
Too quick, too many at once, their bodies bent and stretched in ways no human frame was meant to carry.
Weapons glinted in their hands, rusted axes, crude spears, jagged blades that looked stolen rather than forged.
Eyes glowed faintly in the gray.
Ashen swallowed, tasting iron already on his tongue.
"Remember, Bruce," he said quietly, "shield to shield. Don't let the line break!"
Bruce gave a sharp nod, jaw set, his grip on his shield tightening until the knuckles turned white.
Then came the third horn.
The charge.
Ashen's heels dug into his horse's flanks, and the beast surged forward, the ground trembling under the thunder of hooves.
His shield rattled against his arm, his sword heavy but ready.
Around him, the roar of a hundred voices rose into the morning air, a desperate, furious cry meant to drown out fear.
Ahead, the shadows screamed back.
And the world became nothing but the clash of steel and blood.
SCREEEK!!!
The first collision was thunder.
Ashen's shield slammed against twisted flesh, the impact rattling through his bones.
His sword came down in a clean arc, tearing across a snarling face that looked human only in the vaguest outline.
Hot blood sprayed, steaming in the cold air.
The line shook.
Men screamed.
Horses reared.
The mist became a storm of iron and flesh, shapes lunging from every direction.
Ashen gritted his teeth and pushed forward.
His horse shrieked, kicking wildly, but he drove his shield up to catch a jagged spear.
The force jolted his shoulder, but Bruce was there, slamming his own shield sideways, shoving the attacker into the mud.
"Left!" Bruce barked.
Ashen turned just in time to see another figure sprinting low, too fast, its arms too long.
His blade swung out, biting deep, but the creature didn't fall.
It clawed at his leg, nails scraping steel.
Ashen yanked his knee high, driving it into the thing's face until it finally collapsed.
The ground was already slick.
Men were falling, their cries swallowed in the fog.
Somewhere, a horse went down, and the knight riding it screamed as he was dragged beneath a tide of claws and rusted steel.
Ashen's breath came harsh, hot inside his helm.
He had no time to think, only to swing, block, shove, and survive.
His sword was plain, unmarked, but it split flesh all the same.
"Hold the line!" someone bellowed through the din.
But the line was buckling.
Ashen glanced toward Bruce, catching sight of his brother's shield raised high, teeth bared in a snarl.
Still holding, fighting.
That one sight steadied him, reminded him of the oath, of the promise.
He shouted, voice hoarse but fierce: "Shield to shield! Hold!"
And then the fog shifted again, and something larger moved within it.
A shadow that did not run like the others.
It crawled, towering even as it hunched, its many limbs dragging across the earth with a sound like knives on stone.
Its eyes burned brighter, fixed on the chaos with patient hunger.
Ashen's heart clenched.
It was not a story anymore.
The demon had come, and it broke through the fog.
Its head split down the center, jaws peeling back into a cavern of teeth that dripped black ichor.
When it roared, the sound shook the marrow of every man on the field.
And men broke.
The first line shattered under its charge.
Shields splintered, bones cracked, and horses were hurled aside like dolls.
The air filled with the raw music of war, men screaming, steel clanging, the gurgle of lives ending too soon.
Ashen cut down another twisted soldier, his blade slipping from its ribs with a wet rip, and in that heartbeat of silence, he heard it… pleas.
Knights begging for their mothers.
Others choked out prayers as claws opened their bellies.
One man, crawling through the mud with half a leg, sobbing, "Please… please, gods, please…"
And then the demon's claw crushed him flat.
"Bruce!"
Ashen's voice cracked.
"On me!"
Bruce's shield was half-split, his arm bleeding, but he was still there, snarling through the blood on his teeth.
"Aye! Let's kill the bastard!"
But before Ashen could move, horns sounded again, retreating.
Not from their side.
From behind.
Ashen turned and saw their commanders, cloaks bright against the smoke and mist, spurring their horses away.
They didn't look back.
They didn't shout orders.
They just fled, leaving their men in the slaughter.
For a moment, rage drowned out fear.
His hand shook on his sword hilt.
"Cowards… they left us…"
Bruce spat blood into the mud.
"Then it's us or nothing"
The demon barreled closer, its many limbs dragging trenches through the corpses as it advanced.
Soldiers scrambled back, some throwing down weapons, others trying to run but caught in the tide of monsters that tore them down before they could take ten steps.
Ashen gritted his teeth, breath heaving inside his helm.
His horse was gone, the reins cut from his hand when the first wave hit.
But he stood his ground, battered shield raised, sword slick with blood that wasn't his.
He looked at Bruce.
Bruce looked at him.
No words needed.
They charged.
The ground shook as they ran straight into death, screams and fire rising all around them.
But… try as they might.
As hard as one can dream and struggle.
This was reality.
And it wasn't warm-hearted, yet it was forgiving most brutally.
"Ack!"
Bruce's shield gave first.
The demon's claw came down like a hammer.
The wood and iron shattered in a single blow, snapping his arm with it.
Bruce screamed, stumbling back, sword still raised in defiance.
Ashen lunged forward, striking deep into its limb, black ichor spraying as the monster reeled.
"R- run, Ashen!"
Bruce roared, voice breaking as he pushed himself back into the fray.
"RUN!"
But Ashen didn't move.
He couldn't.
His legs felt nailed to the earth.
The demon's jaws unhinged wider than any beast should, closing around Bruce before Ashen could reach him.
There was a crunch, wet and final, and his brother's scream cut off in an instant.
The world blurred.
Ashen's sword slipped in his hand, his shield dragged low.
He couldn't hear the men screaming anymore, couldn't hear the clash of steel.
All he heard was silence and the sound of his own breath rattling in his chest.
We knew we were weak.
The demon's arm lashed out.
Ashen barely raised his shield before it slammed into him, the force lifting him from the ground like a child's toy.
That being human made us weak.
The sky spun.
His stomach lurched.
And then the ground rose to meet him.
His back struck broken stone, jagged rubble biting through the gaps in his armor.
Air fled his lungs, and pain lanced through his ribs.
His right arm was numb, useless.
But why?
Blood filled his mouth.
He coughed it out, vision swimming as the demon's shadow loomed over him, blotting out the mist and sun alike.
Why must we suffer for the mistakes of gods?
Ashen clawed at the ground, tried to rise, but his body screamed betrayal with every movement.
He could only watch as the monster turned, crushing another soldier underfoot like he was nothing more than spilled grain.
The failure of not protecting my brother…
The memory of Bruce's last stand burned in his mind, the roar, the broken shield, the order to run.
…makes my throat burn with anger towards myself.
Ashen spat blood, dragging himself onto his side, forcing his body to move through agony.
His sword lay just out of reach, gleaming dully in the mud and gore.
He stretched his fingers toward it, jaw clenched against the pain, the rage, the shame.
The demon turned its gaze back to him.
And Ashen knew it wasn't done.
With a guttural growl, he clenched his teeth around the hilt of his sword, dragging it up with his mouth like a starving dog refusing to let go of a bone.
The taste of iron mixed with his own blood, but he bit harder, forcing himself onto his knees.
The demon bellowed, jaws splitting unnaturally wide, its claws sinking into the ground as it prepared to crush him once and for all.
Ashen rose, every movement agony, legs trembling but holding.
Sword clenched in his teeth, eyes blazing not with hope, but defiance.
If I am to die… let me die as a knight.
With a roar that tore his throat raw, Ashen charged.
The demon thundered forward, its shriek rattling the very stones beneath them.
And just as they met, light split the mist.
A blade of pure radiance crashed down between them, searing the ground and halting the demon's advance.
The monster reeled back, shrieking as holy fire burned its flesh.
Ashen staggered, eyes wide as shapes emerged from the haze.
A man in gleaming armor, golden sigils blazing across his breastplate, his blade dripping with light itself.
The Hero.
And behind him, his party.
The mage's staff hummed with arcane energy, runes crackling across the air.
The priestess raised her hands, her voice already chanting, each word a balm against despair.
The rogue slipped like a shadow across the chaos, daggers flashing with cruel precision.
Ashen fell to one knee, sword still between his teeth, blood pooling around him.
The Hero didn't look at him, not yet.
His eyes were on the demon.
"Stand, men!" the Hero roared, voice carrying like thunder over the broken battlefield.
"You are not alone!"
For the first time that morning, the tide shifted.
And Ashen, broken and bleeding, could only stare as the other knee hit the floor.
He spat the sword from his mouth, his chest heaving, blood and spit stringing down his chin.
Light washed over him, warm, suffocating, unwelcome.
The priestess's hands hovered above his chest, her magic pouring into his torn flesh, knitting bone, forcing breath back into his lungs.
But all he felt was rage.
His eyes darted across the ruin of the field.
Soldiers he had trained with.
Laughed with.
Slept beside in mud and rain.
Men who had prayed, sharpened steel, clutched their tokens of faith.
Gone.
Their screams still clung to the air, their blood ran black in the dirt.
And Bruce...
Ashen's throat burned.
He tried to sit up, to shove the healing light away, but the priestess pressed him down with trembling strength.
"Stay still—your ribs—"
"Don't touch me!" he snarled, voice breaking, raw.
The Hero didn't even glance his way, his holy blade cleaving through the demon with righteous fury, his party shining like the stories promised.
Ashen's fists shook against the ground, nails digging into mud until they bled anew.
His vision blurred with tears and fury.
Bruce is dead.
The men are dead.
And only now, you arrive?
The priestess whispered softly, "You're safe now…"
Safe.
The word cracked something inside him.
Ashen let out a choked laugh, bitter and sharp as broken glass.
Safe.
When everything that mattered was already ash and ruin.
He looked past the priestess, past the healing glow, to the Hero who swung his radiant sword like a savior.
Ashen's jaw tightened, teeth grinding.
Why did so many have to die?
Why the fuck did you come so late?
The anger sat heavy in his chest, heavier than the wounds.
And as the light closed his flesh, his heart only grew darker.
His vision swam, black closing in at the edges, the priestess's light searing his chest.
He tried to fight it, to hold on, but the weight of grief pressed harder than any wound.
Darkness claimed him.
Sometime Later…
He opened his eyes slowly.
The smell of blood and mud was gone.
He lay in a bed softer than anything he had ever touched, his body sinking into silk sheets and feathered cushions.
Golden light streamed through tall windows, glinting off polished marble and walls carved with scenes of kings long past.
The air smelled faintly of incense and rosewater, not smoke, not iron, not death.
Ashen shifted, and pain flickered through him, muted now, dulled by healing.
His chest was wrapped in fresh bandages, neat and white, but not many.
The priestess's magic had done most of the work.
He pushed himself up slowly, eyes scanning the room.
Velvet drapes.
Gilded frames.
The crest of the kingdom was woven into tapestries that hung with quiet pride.
A castle chamber.
The King's castle.
The very man he and Bruce had sworn their swords to protect.
The man their brothers-in-arms had bled and died for on those broken stones.
Ashen's throat tightened, his hand curling into the sheets.
He was alive, in the warmth of the King's walls, while they rotted on a field that no silk bed could erase from his mind.
"Why was I saved?"
The door creaked open.
Ashen's head lifted, strands of dark hair falling over his eyes.
Soft footsteps entered, measured, careful.
Not the weight of armored boots, but something lighter.
When he looked, he froze.
A beautiful woman stood in the doorway.
Golden hair spilled down her shoulders in gentle waves, catching the sunlight like spun gold.
Her dress was pale blue silk, stitched with silver thread, far too fine for anyone but nobility.
And her eyes, bright and earnest, lingered on him with a kind of awe that twisted his stomach.
The First Princess.
He had seen her once before, from a distance, at a parade when he was still a boy.
Untouchable then, and even more so now.
But here she was, standing in the same room as him, looking at him as though, what?
She had been waiting?
Her cheeks colored faintly as her gaze flicked over his chest, his shoulders, the hard lines of his body that even the bandages couldn't hide.
Ashen felt the weight of her stare and hated it.
Hated the timing, the absurdity.
She… this princess… is looking at me as if I'm something to admire?
Anger curled in his gut, but duty moved faster than grief.
He forced himself from the bed, every muscle protesting, his ribs grinding against the bandages.
His legs trembled, but he lowered himself, bowing on one knee, head bowed low.
"Your Highness," he rasped, voice rough, bitter at the edges.
The princess's eyes widened, and she stepped forward quickly, hands lifting as if to stop him.
"Please—don't kneel! You're injured—"
Her voice was gentle, sweet, and touched with panic.
Ashen stayed where he was, every breath a fight.
He didn't want her pity.
He didn't want her awe.
He only wanted silence, time enough to grieve the man who would never kneel again.
"Um… SirKairas…"
Her voice wavered, soft, caught between formality and something else.
Ashen lifted his head slightly.
His breath was steadying now, though his chest still burned.
He took a moment to remind himself that she was not the enemy.
Not the one who arrived too late.
Not the one who sent boys to die and never rode among them.
My anger is for the Hero.
For his shining blade that cut only when all else had fallen.
For the King who sits on a throne of oaths paid in blood.
Never her.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
His tone was level, controlled.
She clasped her hands in front of her, fingers twisting against the fabric of her gown.
"I… I only wished to see you for myself. The knights say you held the line longer than anyone. That you fought until your body broke…"
Her eyes darted down, cheeks coloring again.
"And I can see… they weren't exaggerating. You—"
She caught herself, smoothing her tone quickly.
"You've done more for the kingdom than anyone could have asked"
Ashen inhaled slowly.
Her words cut sharper than she realized.
More for the kingdom… yet not enough to save my brother.
He forced the bitterness back, burying it behind the mask of a knight.
His bow deepened a fraction.
"I did only what was required of me, Your Highness"
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to argue, but instead she stepped closer, the faint scent of rosewater drifting with her.
"Even so… you should be resting, not kneeling before me. Please, Sir Kairas… stand"
Ashen hesitated.
Rising felt heavier than kneeling.
Still, with effort, he pushed himself upright, standing tall despite the tremor in his legs.
For the first time, their eyes met directly, hers bright and searching, his dark and tired, but steady.
And though she smiled softly, Ashen's heart felt nothing but the hollow ache of loss.