The night was thick with tension. The rebels had struck, dismantling the enemy's supply lines before the noose could tighten, but their victory was fleeting. Now, with more soldiers approaching, they had mere moments to decide their next move. Arkanis felt the relic's pulse quicken—whether in warning or anticipation, he could not tell. He exhaled slowly, steadying his grip on his blade, knowing that whatever came next would be another test of his resolve.
"We need to move," Zyre muttered, his voice low but urgent. He scanned the terrain, noting possible escape routes. "If they trap us here, we won't last."
Elara wiped blood from her daggers, her breath measured. "Then we don't give them time to."
Arkanis nodded. "We fight through. Fast and hard."
The enemy forces emerged through the trees, their torches casting eerie light upon their advancing figures. The Raven's soldiers did not come in reckless waves but in disciplined formation, their movements precise, tactical. They had studied the rebels, learned from previous skirmishes, and were now executing a response that left no room for error.
A horn blew from the distance—one sharp note cutting through the silence.
Arkanis raised his sword. "On my signal."
The rebels crouched, their muscles coiled with anticipation. They had only seconds before the clash.
Then—
"Now!"
The rebels exploded from the shadows, steel flashing, the night erupting into chaos.
Arkanis moved like a storm, his blade slicing through the first wave with relentless force. The relic surged beneath his grip, feeding his movements with an almost unnatural precision. He refused to let it consume him, but he could not deny the power it lent him. His strikes landed harder, his reaction time sharper, his endurance boundless.
Elara twisted through the fray, her movements as fluid as water, evading attacks with ease and dispatching foes with lethal efficiency.
Zyre fought with calculated precision, striking only when necessary, ensuring every wound counted.
The battle raged on, but the enemy did not falter. They fought without fear, without hesitation, adjusting seamlessly to the rebels' aggression. It was not just a test of strength—it was a test of patience, endurance, and control.
Arkanis felt it growing inside him—the temptation of the relic's power, the whisper that urged him to let go, to unleash everything. He gritted his teeth, shoving the voice aside. He would win on his own terms.
Then, a presence.
A cold, calculated presence that sent a ripple through the battlefield.
The Raven.
He stepped forward, his armor reflecting the dim torchlight, his sword gleaming with anticipation. The chaos seemed to part around him, as if the battle itself recognized his command.
Arkanis met his gaze, and in that moment, nothing else existed.
The duel began.
Their swords met in a thunderous collision, a clash of sheer force and unyielding will. The world around them blurred, the battlefield vanishing into the background. There was only movement—strike, parry, dodge, counter. They fought as warriors forged from war itself, each blow testing the limits of their endurance.
The relic burned against Arkanis's chest, begging for release.
He resisted.
The Raven saw the struggle—the hesitation—and pressed harder, his strikes growing more ruthless. "You fight against yourself," he murmured between clashes. "That is why you will lose."
Arkanis didn't respond. He only fought harder.
But the Raven was relentless.
A sudden shift—an opening too small for most to notice, but the Raven saw it.
He struck.
Arkanis stumbled, the blade cutting into his side. Pain bloomed, sharp and unforgiving. He gritted his teeth, refusing to fall.
Elara saw him stagger, her breath hitching in her throat. She moved instinctively, cutting through enemy lines, but Zyre caught her arm before she could intervene.
"He has to do this alone," Zyre said firmly.
Elara hesitated, but she knew he was right.
Arkanis steadied himself, ignoring the pain, focusing only on his opponent. He exhaled slowly, feeling the relic respond.
Balance.
He had been resisting it. Fighting against it. But that was not the way.
He needed to wield it—not as a weapon, but as an extension of himself.
The relic pulsed, not in overwhelming fire, but in unity with him.
The Raven struck again.
Arkanis moved—not with brute strength, but with controlled precision.
Steel met steel, sparks igniting between them.
This time, the tide shifted.
Arkanis pressed forward, his movements sharper, his strikes calculated, no longer fueled by desperation, but by purpose.
The Raven sensed it—the shift, the change—and for the first time, hesitation flickered in his stance.
Arkanis seized it.
A final, powerful blow—his sword crashing against the Raven's guard, forcing him back. The impact sent the enemy commander staggering, his footing briefly lost.
The rebels saw it—the moment their leader gained control—and their battle cries rose in unison.
The Raven exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulder as he steadied himself. His cold eyes met Arkanis's once more.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured.
Then, with sharp precision, he signaled his retreat.
His forces withdrew, disappearing into the mist.
The battlefield remained still, the rebels standing in quiet victory.
Elara reached Arkanis's side, gripping his arm. "You did it," she whispered.
Zyre approached, watching the retreating enemy. "For now."
Arkanis exhaled, his body aching, his mind sharp.
The Raven would return.
But next time, Arkanis would be ready.