A once-flat plain — so dry, once beautiful, so good to see and walk on. Its cool breeze, calmness, and quietness stretched endlessly, filled with sand and stones. But its colors had long been burned by the scorching sunlight. Its sand was hot to the touch, and the place now looked like a desert.
Yet its beauty, once a landmark, now lay destroyed. For upon this land, a throng of people fought — not just people, but soldiers of two distinct kingdoms, fighting fervently as if their very lives depended on it.
War cries rose in the air, not only from soldiers but from women, men, and children alike — slaves, merchants, peasants, all caught in it.
Some of the unfortunate ones were brutally killed — sometimes accidentally by weapons as they strayed too close to the battlefield, sometimes out of the soldiers' frustration, or for no reason at all. Children, mothers, families — people and kin — were seized, their lives decided, their fates too grim to be spoken of.
But the soldiers themselves were not spared either. Those on the losing side met their fate as well — killed foolishly in cowardice, or struck down by the victorious soldiers as they tried to flee. A fate well deserved, some might say, for they knew the war was lost. Others who could not flee, or who chose to face their deaths, were struck down by the very enemies they had been fighting and losing to.
On the battlefield, more of the fleeing soldiers were slain by their own commanders — higher ones among them, clad in rough hides strapped with iron, fur-lined cloaks hanging loose from their shoulders, boots strapped to their legs, and short knee-length garments below. Many bore long hair and heavy beards, their helms plain and dented, though a few had polished silver ones, shining so bright that a man could see his face reflected in them. Their weapons varied — some heavy axes, some great hammers, each striking down the pitied soldiers who fled.
Across the plain, their enemies advanced in grim order — shields close, spears angled forward, bronze glinting in the sun. Their helmets caught the light, uniform and smooth, like a wave of iron moving as one. Standards bearing eagle-like emblems rose above them, the polished discipline of their lines a stark contrast to the chaos of the routed.
At their head rode commanders unlike the fur-clad ones. These men were steel incarnate — their armor polished, their helms crested with horsehair dyed crimson, their cloaks short and neat. They carried short stabbing swords at their sides and tall rectangular shields polished to a mirror shine. They gave clipped orders, their voices carried by horns and signals. A raised hand brought a column forward; a downward sweep loosed a storm of javelins into the enemy ranks. Where the prince's lords fought with raw fury, these commanders broke men with discipline, their soldiers drilled to move as one.
The battlefield was filled with hardened bodies — men scarred from wars, their muscles forged by discipline and blood. Their faces were many: some stoic, some smiling, some eager and hungry for blood, rushing headlong into the fray, especially among the victors. Dust and sweat mingled with the smell of iron, the clash of weapons ringing above the cries of the dying.
In the midst of the commanders of the losing side, at the far end of the battlefield, was a young man — not a boy, but a fully grown prince. Handsome, though his body seemed frail, almost woman-like, it was still built for battle. His presence alone was striking enough to captivate any girl and command respect from any man. He wore the same clothing as the commanders, though finer in cut, marking his status as prince.
At his side were the remaining two of the commanders, both of them cutting down retreating soldiers. One was a man, full-grown and commanding. The other — a woman, cloaked at first, but now revealed as a formidable warrior.
The man continued striking down retreating soldiers without pause, showing his discipline, prowess, and intellect. The woman, by contrast, stood with nonchalance, watching the war as if it did not concern her.
At last, after what seemed like a recurring event on the battlefield, the male commander — the one closest to the prince, and who appeared to be the highest among them by his stature and garments — raised his voice above the chaos, directing his words to the prince:
"I think it is best we retreat, Philine. The war is lost. There is no need for a futile endeavor."
The young prince, at first feigning his focus on the battle as the woman did, finally nodded in frustration and tiredness. He turned his horse to retreat. Immediately, the fearsome female warrior moved with him, her every step sharp and protective.
The male commander did not follow, instead allowing the prince and the woman to retreat in order, unlike the fleeing soldiers. With the two other male commanders, he increased the intensity of their strikes, cutting down their own retreating men to keep discipline. Their aim was clear — to buy the prince time to successfully withdraw.
Together, the three ensured the scattered retreating soldiers did not cause more commotion now that the prince was retreating, making it appear the battle was still ongoing, so the victors and their commanders would not yet realize the prince's retreat.
But as soon as the prince and the female warrior had almost left the battlefield, danger struck.
An arrow flew — unnoticed by the three commanders still slaying soldiers. The victorious enemy, having realized their prince and one of their commanders had retreated, shifted their aim and focus, pushing forward to reach him. The arrow, swift and deadly, would have struck the prince had it not been intercepted.
The female warrior, sharp and skillful, was ready. She shifted her position and that of her horse, deflecting the arrow with her war hammer before it could reach its mark.
The enemy soldiers, urged on by their lower generals, pressed harder. Their highest general, seeing the arrow fail, pushed his men forward to rush at the prince, joining them himself with his personal elite troop. But they found their way blocked — the prince's three commanders stalled their advance with unmatched prowess, axes and hammers swinging with desperate vigor.
As the retreat succeeded, new danger appeared. Elephants, once the pride of a part of the prince's army who had been slightly routed and pursued earlier, had turned into a disaster. Towering beasts, armored at their flanks and tusks capped with iron, they had trampled friend and foe alike when routed and pursued. The disciplined enemy legions — part of the enemy's army — had split and broken their formation, surrounding them with volleys of javelins in a hit-and-run tactic as they pursued and contained them until the beasts panicked and were successfully routed. The elephants and their riders now lay dead or scattered, and it was this rout that allowed the enemy's chariots to return and destroy them as they circled back to the battlefield.
The chariots, thought to have left the field earlier, now returned. Their wheels thundered, drawn by lean, armored horses. Blades jutted from their hubs, slicing down any who strayed near. Archers rode on their backs, loosing shafts even as the chariots raced forward earlier while they faced the elephants. At their head was a sharp-minded general, not grand like the crested generals, but cunning — the kind who won small battles inside the greater one. He saw the prince retreating, and with a raised spear and a shout, he reorganized and drove his men and his chariots straight toward him.
The female warrior saw this and acted. Without hesitation, she left the prince's side. To charge was nothing short of suicide — but she rode forth with her same calm, nonchalant attitude, cloak flaring, eyes unshaken.