The battlefield was drowning in chaos. The clash of steel, the cries of warriors, the thunderous roar of battle—it was a symphony of destruction that echoed through the valley, drowning out all else. Dust and smoke mingled in the air, curling like specters between the warring soldiers. The rebels had struck first, catching the Raven's forces off guard, but now the enemy was regaining momentum, driving them into a relentless, calculated counterattack.
Arkanis surged through the ranks, his blade carving through enemy lines with a ferocity that rivaled the storm itself. The relic pulsed against his chest, surging in rhythm with his heartbeat, feeding his movements with raw energy. He welcomed the power, but he did not let it consume him. He was the wielder, not the weapon. That control—the delicate balance he had learned from the sanctum—was his greatest strength now.
Elara fought beside him, her daggers flashing in the dim light, moving with lethal precision. Every strike was intentional, every movement graceful, like a dancer in the chaos of war. She saw the battle not just through the lens of survival, but through the weight of every life around her—those she had sworn to protect, those she could not save. Yet, she did not falter.
Zyre, stationed at the high ground, commanded the battlefield with sharp, rapid orders. His mind worked faster than the enemy could counter, adjusting rebel formations in real time, shifting strategies with ruthless efficiency. His gaze flickered between different units, ensuring that their ambush did not spiral into disorder. "Hold formation!" he bellowed. "Do not break the line!"
But even with his careful planning, the enemy was adapting. The Raven's forces, despite being blindsided, moved with chilling coordination. This was not a battle of brute force—it was a war of wills. And the Raven was playing his pieces with devastating precision.
Then, through the smoke, Arkanis saw him.
The Raven stood on the eastern ridge, watching, waiting. His armor, dark as midnight, gleamed under the bloodied sun. He did not move—not yet—but Arkanis could feel the weight of his gaze, the silent challenge. This was no ordinary leader. The Raven was a tactician, a predator, and Arkanis knew that their fight would not be decided by mere numbers.
Their eyes met.
The air between them seemed to tighten, every breath heavy with inevitability.
The duel had not begun.
But it was coming.
And the world would tremble when it did.