The battlefield roared to life in a storm of steel.
The clang of blades, the thundering of hooves, and the screams of men bled into one another until sound itself became a single, deafening tide.
Crimson banners and sapphire ones rippled in the morning wind as the Eastern and Ro armies crashed together with all the weight of history behind them.
Blood sprayed across trampled earth.
Shields splintered.
Horses screamed.
Men shouted oaths and curses as they fought shoulder to shoulder, every strike carrying the desperation of home and the burden of their nations' futures.
At the very center of the storm rode Hiral, black and crimson armor catching the light like a shard of midnight fire.
Across the chaos, Alexis stood in dark blue and gold, a beacon to his soldiers, his sword already dripping red.
Their gazes locked once, brief but searing, across the gulf of men and carnage between them.
Yet the clash had not begun as it should have.
****
Moments earlier—before the first blood, before the two forces truly collided—Hiral had guided his horse forward, raising his hand.
Alexis mirrored him, the air heavy with the possibility of words before blades.
Even amidst the chants of soldiers eager for glory, there was room for a fragile parley, a breath where fate might bend another way.
Yet fate had a different plan.
An overeager young noble from Ro's side, flushed with ambition and desperate to prove his loyalty to Alexis—the man already whispered to be the next king—nocked an arrow without command.
His lips curled with the hunger of recognition as he drew, aiming not at the faceless horde but at Hiral himself.
The string twanged.
The arrow flew straight for Hiral's heart.
But Seran was faster.
In a blur, his blade flashed, cleaving the shaft midair. Splinters rained harmlessly against Hiral's armor.
The Eastern ranks roared with fury at the treachery, and Seran's face twisted with pure outrage.
"Cowards!" Seran bellowed, voice booming over the stunned silence. With a savage cry, he spurred his horse forward, sword raised high.
"If this is how you wage war, then let's drown your honor in your own blood!"
The Eastern vanguard surged with him, fury ignited like oil on fire.
Hiral pressed his lips into a hard line, his jaw clenched.
This wasn't the way it was meant to begin—yet there was no pulling Seran back now.
He urged his horse forward, crimson cloak billowing, his eyes fixed on Alexis.
Across the field, Alexis's expression crumpled into something caught between rage and grief.
He hadn't given the order—he would never give such an order.
But now, with Seran's charge cutting down his men and the Eastern banners crashing forward, choice was ripped from him once again.
He drew his blade with a sharp, echoing ring, sorrow weighing heavy on his shoulders even as he raised it high to rally his forces.
And with that, the two armies collided.
The battlefield became a living storm.
Steel clashed, shields shattered, and men cried out their last breath before sinking beneath the weight of comrades and enemies alike.
Dust rose in choking clouds, mixing with the copper sting of blood until the very air became war itself.
Through the chaos, Alexis and Hiral held their ground—two pillars around which the tides of battle broke.
Both men watched their soldiers fall, but neither flinched. Their eyes, hard and unyielding, burned with the same truth: if this war must be fought, then it would be fought with dignity, with the full measure of honor demanded by those who trusted them.
The chants of Ro's soldiers shook the air.
"Alexis! Alexis!"
Each cry carried with it a fervor that bolstered weary limbs, drove spears deeper, steadied shaking shields.
The name of their commander became a weapon, a promise that they would endure no matter how fierce the storm.
Across from them, the Eastern army did not shout, did not raise slogans or boast.
Instead, they fought with the discipline born of Hiral's hand—silent ranks wheeling and pressing with precision, striking like waves guided by unseen currents.
Their honor was not in their voices but in the sharp execution of every maneuver, every strike that reflected their general's will.
Hiral's gaze cut through the haze just in time to see Seran—his crimson cloak streaked dark with blood—cut down the very young noble who had loosed the cursed arrow.
The boy's scream was brief, silenced in one decisive strike.
Eastern soldiers pressed around Seran, their formation knitting tightly to protect him, lifting him as the sharp edge of their momentum.
But Alexis saw it too. His mind, honed to battlefield instinct, recognized the truth instantly: that man—so fiercely guarded, so relentless in his fury—was no common soldier. If he fell, the heart of the Eastern charge would falter. The morale of their army could crack.
Take him, and the war might end here.
Spurring his horse, Alexis surged forward, his sword catching the morning light as he cut a path toward Seran.
His men saw his intent and followed, the chant of his name rising into a frenzied roar.
Hiral's heart lurched.
His pulse thundered as he realized Alexis's aim was Seran.
There was no time for thought, only for movement.
He spurred his horse, black and crimson flashing as he cut across the field.
His blade swept aside an enemy spear, his cloak whipping behind him as he forced a gap wide enough to wedge himself between Alexis and Seran.
Steel rang out as Alexis's charge met his.
The two generals, each bearing the weight of nations and futures, collided in the heart of the carnage.
Steel clanged like thunder as Hiral and Alexis met, both still astride their steeds.
Their swords blurred, parrying and striking in perfect rhythm, each counter as precise as the other's attack.
Around them, soldiers carved space with their lives, forming a desperate ring to keep their generals unimpeded, each man determined to give his leader every possible advantage.
Horses screamed, hooves tore at the mud, and still the two clashed.
Alexis feinted low, then twisted upward in a trick cut, his blade sliding beneath Hiral's guard to strike not at Hiral's flesh but at the mount.
The crimson stallion let out a strangled cry as Alexis's steel carved into its flank, forcing Hiral to leap free as it collapsed beneath him.
But Hiral did not falter.
Rolling into the churned earth, he rose in one fluid motion, eyes narrowing.
He darted back into striking distance before Alexis could press the advantage.
One slash, swift and precise, found its mark—not at Alexis himself but at the tendons of his charger's knee.
With a shrill scream, the golden warhorse buckled, crashing down and throwing its rider into the fray.
Now both men stood on foot, surrounded by the clash of armies.
The ring of soldiers pressed harder, Ro's men roaring Alexis's name, Eastern warriors closing ranks with grim silence.
Blades met again, this time without restraint.
Alexis's strikes were sharp, honed for fatality—neck, heart, ribs, the swiftest kills. Hiral's ripostes mirrored the same deadly intent, each slash angled for vital arteries, each thrust aiming at the thin gaps in armor.
Sparks leapt between them, each collision a heartbeat from death.
And yet—beneath the ferocity, their eyes betrayed another truth.
Not hatred, not bloodlust, but something heavier.
Regret.
Longing.
The grief of inevitability.
In each other's gaze they saw not just an enemy general, but the shadow of a man who could have stood beside them instead of against them.
The world roared, drenched in blood and fire, but between their locked blades and searing eyes, it was as though the battlefield had narrowed to two men bound by duty and fate—forced into enmity when neither truly wished it so.