The enemy screamed curses as they fought, voices raw with hate as they called on powers that smelled of rot and old graves—spells that promised to drag our souls into endless night.
The first line buckled. Men went down, torn by iron and flame. Shouts braided with the wet slap of flesh. Smoke and the bite of metal filled my nostrils. I could taste the metallic flavor of other men’s blood on the wind.
We pressed ahead anyway—because there was no other road. Because Amara waited. Because a promise kept you moving even when the world tried to bury you.
The enemy shrieked curses, calling down their grave-gods, words reeking of rot and old bones—oaths to drag our souls into endless night.
We answered with fury. Axes rose and fell in brutal rhythm, each blow splitting the air like thunder, each fall dropping another body into the mud.
Maces pulped skulls with sickening crunches.
Shields splintered—bronze and bone scattering like shrapnel.
Around me, the world was a storm of blood.
A soldier beside me bellowed and brought his bronze edge down. It split a raider’s skull open, the face collapsing in on itself like clay pressed by a god’s thumb. Blood sprayed hot, steaming as it hit the cold dawn. The stink filled my nose—iron, smoke, piss, shit. Breathing was a wound.
We weren’t fighting for glory anymore. That dream had died with the first thousand corpses.
Now we fought to live.
To be remembered.
To claw our way back to something that wasn’t death.
To Amara.
Then came the scream.
“LOOK!”
I turned. My gut dropped.
Salvatore’s ten thousand had broken formation. They weren’t a line anymore. They were a wildfire. Charging too fast, too loose, too hungry. Discipline burned away like dry grass.
“Stop!” I roared, but the chaos drowned out my voice.
The charge hit like a landslide. For a heartbeat, they carved deep, smashing the enemy line apart, the crowd of raiders folding under their weight. But cracks opened in their flanks—gaps any enemy could bleed through.
A flash of bronze. Instinct dragged me down. The blade hissed over my head, close enough to shear the air.
I rolled, came up fast—face-to-face with a raider. His skin was painted black, his mouth crusted in dried blood, his teeth filed to points. He looked like something pulled out of the underworld.
He swung.
I caught the blow on my edge—my wrist screamed with the impact. I shoved in close and rammed my sword into his throat. He folded without sound.
No time to breathe.
My men held. Tight. Disciplined. Shields locked, sandals planted in blood-slick earth. They fought like men with something to protect.
Salvatore’s did not.
They fought like men desperate to be remembered in one scream. Wild. Furious. Burning ground as quickly as they seized it.
And Salvatore, was at their front. His voice was fire, his eyes fever-bright. Every swing was a vow to be feared. Every strike a dare to the world—Look at me now.
His soldiers—our soldiers—were being butchered. Cut down in waves. Screams rose like choking smoke. His recklessness had driven them into the reaper’s mouth. They fell by the dozens, then the hundreds. Some tried to retreat. Others planted their feet and died where they stood.
