Thorne's glowing eyes fixed on the northern gate, his face impassive though his heart thudded painfully in his chest. The battle had raged with such ferocity that even from this distance, the chaos seemed to pulse through his veins.

The barracks, once a symbol of Alvar's steadfast city guard, were now overrun. Thornfield and Viremont banners pressed against the tide of Lockridge forces, but the fortified building had been breached.

Darius. He had no way of knowing if his friend had survived, but an image of him fighting to protect the city flashed in his mind. He had always admired Darius's unwavering loyalty and strength, and now, he whispered a prayer to the dead gods he no longer believed in. Just let him be okay.

A thunderous crack echoed beside him, pulling Thorne from his thoughts. Uncle's fist smashed into the stone wall with such force that small chips rained down to the floor. His face was a mask of fury, veins bulging at his temples as he growled through clenched teeth.

"Damn it!" Uncle roared, his voice shaking the air. "We were so close! So close!"

The words hung heavy in the air. Thorne glanced back at the battlefield. The Lockridge forces moved with brutal precision, flowing into the barracks like a black tide. The fortified structure that had been Alvar's bulwark now served as a foothold for their enemy.

"Uncle," Thorne said cautiously, his voice calm despite the unease coiling in his stomach. "We still have a chance. Viremont's forces are holding, and Thornfield's men are still pressing them back."

But as he spoke, he wasn't sure if the words were meant to reassure Uncle or himself.

Uncle's burning gaze didn't leave the scene below, his heavy breathing audible in the tense silence. His anger seemed to simmer into something more dangerous, a cold determination. "It's not just about holding," he muttered, almost to himself. "It's about crushing them. I won't lose this city. I won't."

Thorne's focus returned to the carnage below, his eyes darting over the battlefield. Lockridge soldiers poured into the barracks, the Thornfield and Viremont lines struggling to close the gap. He wanted to believe there was still a way to turn the tide, but the overwhelming presence of the Lockridge army felt like a shadow creeping over his resolve.

The faintest movement from Uncle caught Thorne's attention. His lips moved in a whisper, too low for Thorne to catch. Was it a prayer? A curse? Thorne didn't dare ask.

"We'll have to adapt," Uncle said at last, his voice sharp as a blade. His tone betrayed no doubt, only the iron will of a man who refused to accept failure.

Thorne nodded faintly, but his mind was elsewhere. The barracks were gone, the gate compromised, and his friend's fate unknown. As the Lockridge banner rose above the broken battlements, the glow of the city's flames reflected in his eyes.

The war for Alvar wasn't just about the city anymore. It was personal.

*

Darius staggered back, every muscle in his body screaming for relief as he fought to stay upright. The world around him was chaos. A cacophony of steel clashing against steel, the guttural cries of men and women locked in their final moments. The northern walls were overrun, and the few remaining city guards were pushed into a desperate retreat.

His grip tightened on his greatsword, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlet. His head snapped to the left as a motion caught his eye. A man, no, a titan, towering over the battlefield.

The man's armor gleamed even beneath the blood and grime, its intricate etchings glowing faintly with suppressed aether. A greatsword rested easily in his hands, its edge gleaming with deadly intent. Darius's stomach sank as he saw the devastation the man wrought. With every swing, soldiers fell, their weapons and shields useless against his unrelenting power.

Surrounding him were knights, lesser predators orbiting their apex hunter. They guarded his flanks, moving in perfect synchronization, dispatching any who dared approach. They weren't just his defense; they were an extension of him, ensuring his dominance on the field was absolute.

And then Darius saw her.

Lucia and her squad were directly in his path, their backs pressed against one another as they fended off the endless tide of Lockridge soldiers. She was a level below him, and though she fought with admirable grit, she was no match for the monster bearing down on her.

"Lucia!" he bellowed, his voice cracking as he tried to rise above the noise. His throat burned, but it was useless. She couldn't hear him.

Darius's leg trembled beneath him, the strain threatening to drop him where he stood. His vision blurred for a moment, but he shook it off, his heart pounding as he watched the horned helmet of the enemy commander turn toward her.

She's going to die.

"No!" he snarled through gritted teeth, his body moving before his mind could protest. Vaulting over the parapet, his heavy frame slammed into the ground below. His armor rattled on impact, and his knees almost buckled from the strain, but he forced himself to stand.

Pain lanced through his body, but he ignored it.

Blood sprayed across his face as Trevin, one of the guards he had known for years, drove his spear through a knight's throat. The knight crumpled, but Trevin was immediately beset by another. Darius couldn't stop for him.

Lucia.

The towering man was closer now, a juggernaut of destruction. Darius watched in horror as his greatsword, pulsing faintly with aether, cleaved another city guard in two. The man's body crumpled like a rag doll, and the commander stepped over him without hesitation, his strides slow and methodical as if he already knew his victory was assured.

Lucia turned to parry a Lockridge soldier, her squad shrinking as more knights pressed in. She didn't see him coming.

Darius roared, shoving aside a knight who got in his way. His shoulder screamed in protest, but he didn't stop. The commander's greatsword rose, the air humming with the power behind it.

Time seemed to slow as the blade began its descent.

"Lucia!" he yelled, the sound ripping from his throat as he leaped forward, his own greatsword raised high.

The two swords met with a deafening crash.

The impact jarred him to his core, the force rattling his teeth and sending a shockwave through his arms. Aether sparked violently where the blades connected, and for a fleeting moment, the unstoppable force met the immovable object.

Darius felt his knees buckle beneath the strain, but he pushed back with everything he had. He wasn't going to let her die.

Not her too.

He had seen too many of his friends die that day.

Darius gritted his teeth as the enemy commander bore down on him, his greatsword pressing against Darius's in a test of sheer strength. The power behind the man's strikes was overwhelming, each blow threatening to drive him into the ground.

Sweat mingled with the blood trickling down his face, stinging his eyes. His muscles burned with the effort of keeping his weapon raised, and every bone in his body screamed at him to give in, to collapse under the weight of the fight.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

The commander stepped back, giving Darius a fleeting moment to adjust his grip. The reprieve was short-lived as the man surged forward again, his greatsword a blur of deadly steel. Darius parried the first strike, but the sheer force behind it jarred his weapon loose, nearly ripping it from his hands.

A second strike followed, and Darius twisted desperately, narrowly avoiding decapitation. The blade carved a deep gouge into the stone at his feet, sparks flying in its wake.

"Damn it!" Darius spat, launching a counterattack.

He swung his greatsword in a sweeping arc, aiming for the commander's side. But the man moved with inhuman speed, sidestepping the attack and retaliating with a brutal downward slash.

Darius barely had time to activate Iron Guard, bringing his blade up horizontally to block the strike. The force of the blow rattled his bones, his arms burning from the strain as sparks danced between their clashing weapons.

He caught a glimpse of the commander's face through the narrow slits of his horned helmet, a face far too young for the carnage he unleashed. The cold, confident eyes of someone barely out of boyhood met his for a brief moment before the commander pressed forward, driving Darius back step by step.

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The youth... He's barely a man, Darius thought in disbelief. How can he command this much power?

The commander feinted high before slamming the pommel of his greatsword into Darius's stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Darius staggered, gasping, as the commander advanced without mercy.

Darius gritted his teeth, activating Relentless Advance to push forward and meet the commander head-on. His next strike caught the edge of the commander's blade, and he twisted his wrists to lock their weapons together, sparks flying from the friction.

The commander's knights circled the duel like vultures, making sure no one interfered.

For a heartbeat, Darius thought he had the upper hand. Then the commander stepped into the shove, slamming his shoulder into Darius's chest and sending him sprawling to the ground.

The commander's blade came down in a brutal arc, but Darius rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. He lashed out with Cleave, the edge of his greatsword glowing faintly as it struck the commander's thigh. The impact drew a grunt from the man, but his armor absorbed most of the blow.

Darius rose unsteadily, blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow, blurring his vision. Around him, the chaos of battle raged, but all he could see was the commander bearing down on him again, his sword raised high.

"You're outmatched," the commander growled, his voice cold and arrogant.

Darius roared, swinging his blade in a wide arc, forcing the commander to step back. He used the momentary space to reposition himself, drawing deep, ragged breaths as he tried to anticipate the next attack.

The commander came at him with a brutal overhead swing, and Darius braced himself, channeling Fortified Stance to withstand the blow. The ground beneath him cracked from the impact, but he held firm, shoving the commander back with sheer force.

They traded blows relentlessly, steel clashing with steel, the sound deafening. Darius's muscles screamed in protest, his movements slowing as exhaustion set in. His armor was dented and bloodied, and his vision swam with each swing of his sword.

The commander, by contrast, moved with unnerving precision, his strikes as powerful as they were methodical. Every swing seemed designed to exploit Darius's weakening defenses.

A sharp pain lanced through his side as the commander's blade found its mark, cutting through his armor like butter. Darius staggered, blood dripping onto the ground beneath him.

I can't keep this up, he thought, despair creeping into his mind.

His grip tightened on his greatsword, his knuckles white. The commander raised his weapon for the killing blow, and for a fleeting moment, Darius's mind was consumed with regret.

And in that moment, something inside Darius snapped.

No.

A surge of energy coursed through him, raw and unyielding. He felt the aether within him respond, burning bright like a star on the verge of collapse.

Skill Unlocked: Rending Strike!

A sudden surge of clarity flooded Darius's mind, his body moving almost instinctively. His greatsword began to vibrate faintly, the edge illuminated by a faint blue glow that pulsed with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

The Lockridge commander raised his weapon for the final strike, his movements deliberate and merciless. Darius tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles aching, and planted his feet firmly.

This is it.

With a guttural roar, Darius lunged forward, his body a blur of motion as he channeled every ounce of strength into his blade. The glow along the greatsword's edge intensified, crackling with concentrated aether.

The commander's greatsword came crashing down, but Darius sidestepped at the last moment, his instincts sharper than ever. Pivoting on his heel, he brought his glowing blade upward in a precise arc, aiming directly for the weak point he'd spotted in the commander's armor.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

The tip of Darius's sword struck true, the blue light flaring brilliantly as it pierced the commander's chest plate. A sharp, cracking sound reverberated across the battlements as the armor split apart under the sheer force of the blow.

The commander staggered, his weapon slipping from his fingers. The shockwave from the strike rippled outward, scattering loose stones and creating a momentary stillness in the chaos around them.

Darius stepped back, his chest heaving, as the commander fell to his knees. For a moment, their eyes met through the broken helmet. The youthful face now pale, his expression a mixture of disbelief and pain.

With a final, shuddering breath, the Lockridge commander collapsed, his lifeless body crumpling to the bloodied ground.

The battle around them paused as Lockridge soldiers turned toward the sound of their leader's fall. For a fleeting moment, Darius stood alone, illuminated by the faint blue glow still lingering on his blade.

Then reality crashed back.

The clang of weapons and the roar of battle faded into the background as the Lockridge commander's lifeless body slumped to the bloodied ground. Darius stood frozen, his chest heaving, his grip slackening on his greatsword.

A guttural scream pierced the air.

"Lord Lockridge!"

The words hit Darius like a physical blow. His mind stuttered, struggling to process what he had just done. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes flicked to the fallen form before him. This wasn't just any commander, this was the heir of House Lockridge.

I killed a noble.

The world around him seemed to still. Lockridge soldiers halted mid-strike, their focus snapping toward their fallen leader. The once-organized chaos dissolved into confusion as the knights who had surrounded the young lord rushed to his side.

All but one.

One knight remained rooted in place, his blade lowered as his helmeted head turned toward Darius. Even through the visor, the seething hatred and fury in the man's gaze were palpable, radiating like a physical force.

Darius didn't have time to react.

The knight surged forward, his polished armor catching the light of the fires burning across the battlements. His movements were fast, too fast for Darius's battered body to keep up. Before he could raise his sword or take a step back, he felt it. A sharp, searing pain that lanced through his abdomen.

He looked down in disbelief to see the knight's blade protruding from his stomach, the cold steel slick with his blood.

"No..." he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rising wails of the Lockridge soldiers. Blood bubbled at his lips, spilling down his chin as his legs buckled beneath him. His greatsword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.

He collapsed to his knees, his vision swimming as the pain consumed him. The knight ripped his blade free, the motion sending a fresh wave of agony through Darius's body.

The world tilted, the sounds of the battle growing distant and hollow. As he crumpled to the ground, his blood pooling around him, his thoughts raced.

Was this it?

His chest heaved as his fingers clawed at the bloodied stone beneath him, fighting to hold on to the last remnants of his strength. He couldn't die here. Not like this.

But the darkness was closing in, and the battlefield began to fade from view.

*

It began as a ripple, barely noticeable amid the chaos.

Thorne's gaze narrowed, his glowing eyes catching a subtle shift on the right flank of the battlefield below. A surge of motion, but not the coordinated advance of soldiers, it was disorder. Fractured ranks.

The Lockridge soldiers stationed at the right tower of the barracks were scattering.

At first, Thorne thought it was a strategic withdrawal, but then he saw it, panic. Knights, their silvered armor smeared with blood and soot, were retreating in disarray.

Thorne's breath caught. What happened?

The fleeing soldiers moved as one, abandoning their positions around the right tower. More than retreat, this was desperation. Something broke them.

The right flank of the Lockridge forces, once a solid wall of discipline, had begun to falter. Soldiers were breaking formation. What had been a defensive line holding strong against the Thornfield and Viremont advance now seemed... brittle.

At first, he thought it was a feint, some clever maneuver, but then the disarray spread.

The rigid shield wall cracked, a section peeling away from the barracks tower as figures stumbled back, colliding with their comrades. It was disorder, not strategy. They're falling apart.

"Uncle," Thorne said quietly, watching the ripple of panic spread outward.

No response.

A Thornfield horn blasted across the field, a sharp clarion call that echoed off the stone walls of the northern gate. The soldiers pressing the gate heard it, and so did their commanders.

The Thornfield ranks surged forward like a green tide, spears lowered, blades gleaming in the dying light. They struck the weakened right flank with brutal precision.

And the Lockridge forces buckled.

The Thornfield soldiers cut into the retreating knights like a hammer driving through fractured stone, widening the gap. The Viremont troops followed in perfect formation, their heavy spears and disciplined strikes tearing into the crumbling defense.

Thorne saw the left side of the Lockridge forces shift, as if unsure whether to reinforce the collapse or hold their position.

"Uncle," he said again, louder this time.

Uncle continued sipping his wine, gaze fixed blankly on the horizon as if he'd already resigned himself to failure.

Thorne felt the heat rising in his chest.

"UNCLE!"

The goblet trembled in his hand. His bloodshot eyes snapped toward Thorne, irritated, until he saw it too.

The ripple had become a flood.

The Lockridge line was folding inward. The disciplined formation that had held for so long was shattering like glass.

Uncle staggered to the window, pushing aside a servant who tried to refill his cup.

The Lockridge soldiers were no longer holding, they were retreating. Staggering back from the gates in disarray. Some still fought, but it was panicked, desperate. The Thornfield and Viremont soldiers were pressing hard now, cutting down the disorganized knights and pouring through the breach, spreading out into the courtyard beyond.

The northern gate, once a choke point of death, was now wide open.

Uncle's breathing slowed. His grip tightened on the window ledge, nails digging into the stone as if bracing himself.

"They're breaking," Thorne whispered, unable to mask his surprise.

For the first time in hours, the tide of the battle was shifting in their favor.

The Lockridge defenders were now outflanked on both sides, unable to hold the barracks. The once-narrow battle had spilled out, and with the northern gate fully open, more Thornfield and Viremont soldiers flooded into the city.

The Lockridge knights, so close to overwhelming the city guard, were now being forced back, their front stretched too thin to hold.

Uncle exhaled, a sound so quiet Thorne almost missed it.

The shock in his face melted into something else.

Triumph.

The wine-stained edges of his mouth curled into a disbelieving smile as he watched the Thornfield banners rise higher, the green and gold gaining ground.

"The dead gods have not forsaken us after all," Uncle whispered, his voice thick with awe.

But Thorne's eyes lingered on the battlefield, his fingers curling around the window's edge.

What just happened down there?

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