The battlefield stretched as far as the eye could see a sea of banners, steel, and monstrous mounts.
Armies thundered across the plains, their ranks bristling with creatures bred for war:
praying mantises with blades sharper than scythes, tiger beetles armored in chitin, and other horrors that clawed and hissed beneath their riders.
At the forefront stood one man.
Kael.
His armor was scarred but gleaming, his blade etched with runes of victories past. Beside him towered Tharos, no longer the wild beast of his youth but a creature of legend , its eyes burning like twin suns, its roar shaking the earth itself.
The enemy surged forward, a legion vast enough to blot out the horizon. Yet Kael did not falter. He raised his sword, and Tharos pawed the ground, muscles coiled with fury.
"Courage," Kael whispered, the word that had bound them since the beginning. "Fire that never dies." Then they charged.
Tharos tore through the enemy lines, scattering mantis riders like leaves in a storm. Kael's blade flashed, cutting down beetle‑mounted warriors with precision born of years of struggle.
Together, man and beast moved as one through a storm of steel and flame, a single army against thousands.
The enemy broke. What had seemed an unstoppable tide crumbled before the fury of Kael and Tharos. Soldiers fled, mounts shrieked, banners fell.
When the dust settled, the battlefield lay silent.
Kael stood alone at the forefront, Tharos at his side, their shadows cast long across the ruined plain. They were no longer recruit and beast, no longer mocked as peasant and monster. They were legend of the one‑man army who had shattered legions.
And as the wind carried the whispers of their victory, one truth echoed across the land:
The fire of Tharos, the courage of Kael, would never die.