The battlefield trembled under the weight of war. Smoke curled from burning wreckage, twisting upward like prayers sent to forgotten gods. The rebels held their ground, their backs pressed against the valley ridges, blades glinting under the filtered sunlight. Their ambush had worked, striking at the Raven's forces before they could fully organize. Yet now, the tide of battle was shifting again. The Raven's forces were not merely soldiers—they were disciplined, unwavering, forged in the crucible of conquest. And worse, they fought under the eye of their master.
Arkanis stood at the front lines, his breath steady, his grip firm. His sword dripped with the sweat and blood of combat, its edge dulled by the sheer weight of the fight. But still, he pressed on, refusing to falter. The relic burned against his chest, pulsing in rhythm with his heart—a constant reminder of both his strength and his temptation.
Across the battlefield, the Raven watched. He did not rush into the chaos as lesser commanders would have. He studied, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His forces were shifting, adapting, moving with surgical precision. Even in retreat, they were orchestrating a counteroffensive that could turn this fight to their favor.
Arkanis knew it. He could feel it.
The rebels had the advantage of surprise, but only briefly. If they didn't act soon, if they allowed the Raven to dictate the rhythm of war, their efforts would crumble into dust.
Elara fought beside him, her twin daggers striking out like vipers, twisting between armor and finding flesh. Her movements were swift, her breath measured. Yet even she felt the tightening noose of the Raven's strategy.
"They're changing formation!" she shouted over the din, barely dodging a strike that would have ended her. "They're reorganizing faster than we anticipated!"
Zyre, positioned on the high ground, saw it too. His orders rang across the battlefield, sharp and decisive. "Shift left! Cut off their retreat before they consolidate!"
But even as the rebels adjusted, the Raven finally moved.
He descended from his vantage point, his sword in hand, his presence magnetic and terrifying all at once.
Arkanis met his gaze from across the battlefield, and in that instant, the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them.
The duel was coming.
And this time, there would be no retreat.
The Raven moved first.
Arkanis barely had time to adjust as the dark-cloaked warrior closed the distance in a heartbeat. Their blades collided in a violent clash, sending sparks flying between them. The sheer force of the strike jolted Arkanis's bones, but he held firm, his stance unwavering.
The world around them blurred. The battle continued, but for Arkanis and the Raven, nothing else existed.
Their blades sang through the air, each strike faster than the last. Arkanis fought with everything—the relic's power, his years of training, his sheer will to survive. But the Raven… he fought with precision, patience, as if every movement was a calculated play in a deadly game.
Arkanis struck hard, aiming to unbalance his opponent. The Raven countered effortlessly, twisting out of reach and retaliating with a blow that nearly tore through Arkanis's guard.
The relic flared.
For a brief moment, power surged through Arkanis like wildfire.
He nearly lost himself.
Nearly.
Gritting his teeth, he forced the energy back under control.
He would not give in. Not here. Not now.
The Raven saw the hesitation. A small smirk flickered across his lips.
"You fear your own strength," he murmured, stepping forward with slow, deliberate intent.
Arkanis tightened his grip, his breathing harsh. "I control it."
The Raven's blade struck out—fast, brutal, merciless.
Arkanis barely deflected.
The duel intensified. Every movement, every step, every strike carried the weight of two warriors battling for more than just victory.
They fought for control.
For dominance.
For fate itself.
Elara saw the struggle unfolding and moved instinctively. She darted through the battlefield, cutting down anything that stood between her and Arkanis.
Zyre repositioned rebel archers, directing their fire toward the Raven's flanking soldiers, ensuring the battlefield did not turn against them.
But Arkanis… he was alone in the fight.
The relic pulsed wildly, feeding him strength, demanding he use it fully.
He refused.
He would win on his own terms.
The Raven struck—one final, brutal arc of his blade aimed to end it.
Arkanis pivoted.
Steel met steel.
And for a brief, flickering moment… everything stopped.
The battlefield held its breath.
The Raven stumbled back, his blade dipping ever so slightly.
Arkanis stood, his body aching, his breath ragged—but victorious.
The Raven exhaled slowly, studying him anew.
Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he withdrew.
His forces followed.
The rebels, battered yet unbroken, stood in silence as the enemy retreated into the mist.
Elara reached Arkanis's side, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "You controlled it," she whispered, relief in her voice.
Zyre approached, scanning the horizon where the Raven had disappeared. "He'll be back."
Arkanis nodded.
"Yes."
And next time, he would be ready.