The clang of steel echoed across the battlefield, a choir of desperation beneath a crimson sky. Sir Alaric of Veyrmont, Crusader of the Holy Banner, pressed his shield against the advancing tide of enemies. His chainmail, soaked in sweat and blood, weighed heavily, but his heart was unwavering.
For weeks, he and his brothers-in-arms had defended the fortress of Blackstone against overwhelming odds. Their enemies were not pagans or rival kings this time—it was a coalition of warlords, each vying for power while the Church squabbled over doctrine.
But Alaric fought not for politics. He fought for God, for honor, and for the souls of those too weak to raise the sword themselves.
Lightning cracked across the heavens as the enemies' ram shattered the gate. In that moment, Alaric whispered a prayer, raising his longsword high.
"Lord, guide me… if I fall, let me serve still."
Then—darkness.
A light, searing and golden, wrapped around him. His body felt torn from the world, his soul pulled through the seams of reality itself. The screams of men and clash of steel faded, replaced by silence.