The battlefield was quieter now.
The last of the Titans had fallen. Soldiers moved through the carnage, finishing wounded Orcs, checking their own dead. The mages slumped against trees, utterly spent.
Mikhail walked back toward the diversion party's position, the captured Weapon Master bound and dragged behind him by two guards.
But something was wrong.
The cavalry that had charged—over two hundred strong—was smaller now. Horses wandered riderless. Bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth.
Mikhail's eyes swept the survivors, searching.
He didn't see Hilowat.
He didn't see Maximus either.
His chest tightened.
He grabbed the nearest Imperial Knight by the shoulder.
"Where is Hilowat?"
The knight's face went pale. He couldn't meet Mikhail's eyes.
"His horse... it was struck down during the barrage, my Lord."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Mikhail didn't wait for more. He turned, vaulted onto the nearest horse, and kicked it into a full gallop.
"MY LORD—" Miyako's voice cut through the air behind him, desperate.
He didn't stop.
He didn't look back.
Miyako grabbed another horse and spurred it after him, her heart pounding.
The landscape blurred past Mikhail. His hands gripped the reins white-knuckled, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Bodies littered the path—dead horses, fallen soldiers, the wreckage of the charge. He rode past them all without slowing.
Please. Please. Please.
The word repeated in his mind like a prayer, like a command, like a denial of reality itself.
Then he saw it.
A warhorse, massive and still, lying on its side. Dead.
And beside it—
No.
Mikhail didn't wait for the horse to stop. He threw himself from the saddle while it was still moving, hitting the ground hard, stumbling forward.
Hilowat lay in the dirt, his armor cracked and bloodied, a massive wound torn across his chest. His breathing was shallow, rattling.
Mikhail dropped to his knees beside him, hands immediately pressing down on the wound, trying to stem the bleeding even though he knew—he knew—
"No, no, no—Hilowat!" His voice cracked. "I told you not to die, you bastard—"
Hilowat's eyes fluttered open. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"My Lord..." His voice was barely a whisper. "Did... did we win?"
Mikhail nodded rapidly, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
"Yes. Yes, we won. But don't worry about that now—I'm taking you home. Back to the Empire. My father will reward you. You'll—you'll be a hero, Hilowat, you'll—"
Hilowat's hand—weak, trembling—found Mikhail's and held it.
"No, my Lord." A faint smile touched his bloodied lips. "I know... my time has come."
"Don't say that—"
"These hands..." Hilowat's fingers tightened slightly. "I still remember... when you were five years old. So small. I taught you... how to hold a blade."
Mikhail's vision blurred. He tried to smile, even as tears cut tracks down his face.
"You're talking like you're going to die, my friend."
Hilowat smiled back—soft, peaceful.
"I will, my Lord." His voice was fading. "I don't know... what happened to you. How you changed... so drastically. These past months..." He coughed, blood staining his lips. "But I request you, my Lord... please... don't change back. You are... the future of the Empire."
Mikhail's throat closed. He nodded, unable to speak, tears falling freely now.
"I will," he whispered. "I promise. I'll fulfill your request... friend."
Hilowat's smile widened, just for a moment. His eyes turned distant, looking past Mikhail, toward something only he could see.
"Oh... Emperor... Sir Commander..." His voice was barely audible. "I have... completed... my mission..."
His chest stopped moving.
His eyes stared blankly at the sky, seeing nothing.
Mikhail knelt there, frozen, staring at the man who had been at his side since childhood.
"Hilowat..." His voice broke. "Don't leave me like this, man. Don't..."
Slowly, gently, he reached out and closed Hilowat's eyes.
"Rest in peace, my friend."
A presence behind him. Miyako stood a respectful distance away, her face stricken, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
She said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
Movement caught Mikhail's eye.
A few feet away, another Imperial Knight lay in the dirt, barely breathing, his armor shattered.
Mikhail forced himself to stand. His legs felt like lead. He walked over, knelt beside the dying man.
The knight's eyes found his. A weak smile.
"My... Lord..." Each word was agony. "It's... an honor... to die... by your side."
Mikhail took the man's hand in both of his, holding it firmly.
"No, my friend." His voice was steady now, though tears still fell. "It's an honor to live by yours."
He stayed there, holding the knight's hand, until the man's breathing stopped.
"At ease, soldier."
Mikhail stood slowly.
In the distance, through the haze of smoke and death, he saw a figure kneeling beside a body.
Maximus.
The mercenary leader knelt over one of his own—a Golden Pike warrior, dead. Maximus's shoulders were hunched, his face turned down. Even from here, Mikhail could see the wetness on his cheeks.
Tears.
Mikhail stared at him, his expression cold, hollow.
The words came unbidden, bitter as poison:
You should have died instead of Hilowat.
The thought brought no satisfaction.
Only emptiness.