“Remember what I said. Stay in the back. You’re not yet ready to fight the Paresh,” Atlas said, his voice a strained whisper beneath the weight of his helm. He handed Gabriel a sword. “In case you need it. Only in case you need it.”

Gabriel looked at Atlas and nodded. Though the sword was shorter than the standard army blade, it felt massive in his untested hands. Its hilt was substantial, wide enough to grasp with both palms.

The army buzzed with frenetic energy, a choking mist of fear and molten anger. Gabriel’s eyes flickered over the surrounding faces; eyes narrowed not just in fear but also in anticipation, teeth clenched in a primal thirst for vengeance. Revenge. The word vibrated in Gabriel’s veins like a war drum.

Soldiers fussed over their armor, tightening straps and checking buckles. Whispers of prayers to Victra surrounded him, a collective plea for divine intervention. Fingers clasped around trinkets from loved ones; lips brushed them in fleeting kisses as if each touch could summon protection.

Gabriel was no exception. He reached beneath his undershirt to extract his necklace, holding it to his forehead. He rested the metal pendant there for a moment as if transferring some ineffable strength directly into himself.

The grim procession marched for hours, stretching under a overcast sky with clouds the color of soot. Even Avis had gone quiet, his jovial spirit crushed under the weight of what was to come. Gabriel wondered, had Olof once been as talkative as Avis? Had the battlefields stolen his voice? Will the same happen to me?

Then the trumpets sounded their notes, a fanfare for the heroes and the damned alike. The drums followed, their rhythm pulsing through Gabriel like a second heartbeat, instilling a resolve that felt like armor against his fears.

Gabriel squinted at the Paresh lines atop the opposing hill, attempting to discern any weakness, any hesitation. The enemy forces seemed scant, numbering around five hundred by his estimation. By contrast, his side fielded twice that number. The numbers are on our side, he thought, clinging to this small comfort as a sailor might clutch a raft in a stormy sea.

A strong wind blew over Gabriel, who stood at the back of the hill. It made the banners flap and the leaders' cloaks flutter. It was as if the gods themselves were fanning the flames of war.

A tumult of emotions raged within him. A voice, not unlike that of Atlas, reverberated in his mind: You’ll only get in the way. Yet another voice, raw and unfiltered, broke through: I have to help. They need to pay for what they did. No more running.

Suddenly, the music ceased. The ensuing silence was eerie, a momentary void quickly filled by the commander’s cry.

Dressed in full armor that caught the somber light, the commander raised his sword. “For Balatia!” The drums burst to life again. A thousand men, Gabriel among them, marched, descending from their hill like an avalanche of steel and fury.

Their forces were impeccably organized into ten units of a hundred men each. Three infantry battalions formed a wedge at the center to pierce through the enemy's heart. Two more infantry units were on either side, poised to envelop the Paresh. The two cavalry units waited in reserve. Archers lined up behind the infantry, longbows in hand, a counterpoint to the shorter-ranged recurve bows of the Paresh.

At the blare of a trumpet, the Balatian forces came to a coordinated stop between two hills. Archers moved with practiced ease, weaving seamlessly through the ranks of crouching infantry.

"Nock," came the first command, and the archers positioned their arrows on the strings.

"Draw," and they pulled back their arrows against the taut strings.

"Fire," and the archers unleashed a torrential volley of arrows. The air reverberated with the harmonic twang of bowstrings. A deadly rain of arrows soared in a graceful arc across the field. The display of skill and unity was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

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The descending arrows covered a wide area, their impact points dictating the fate of those below. Gabriel saw some of the Paresh fall, but to his dismay, far too many remained standing. How is that possible? he wondered.

The Paresh retaliated with a volley of their own, but the wind turned against them. Despite their elevated position on the hill, their recursive bows lacked the range of the Balatian longbows. Their arrows fell disappointingly short, never even reaching the Balatian ranks. At that moment, Gabriel recognized the brilliance of their commander's tactics; the wind had been strategically harnessed as an invisible ally.

The Balatian commands were repeated, and the archers unleashed another volley. This time, even fewer Paresh soldiers were struck, as they had raised their shields in anticipation. Nevertheless, each successive salvo continued to whittle away at their numbers. Gabriel felt the gradual yet inexorable shift in momentum, sensing that the tide was turning in their favor.

Then, the Paresh charged with a cry that resounded through the valley. Another trumpet call sounded, its notes distinct and urgent. The archers switched gears; synchronization gave way to speed. Arrows flew continuously as the archers picked their targets and let loose.

The archers retreated as the enemy reached a hundred yards of the front line, allowing the infantry to come to the fore.

Behind the first line of swordsmen, the second infantry line drove wooden stakes into the ground, angling them forward. The Paresh slammed into this deadly array. Some were impaled; others used their shields to deflect the stakes but found themselves off balance, easy prey for the Balatian swords.

But the Paresh had the advantage of the incline, and soon, the Balatian first line began to falter. Another trumpet sounded, and the infantry started to get closer together in the center to provide a more remarkable ability to hold back the Paresh charge.

In the rear, the archers focused their arrows on the enemy's flanks, whittling them down so the flanking soldiers would not bear the brunt of the reduced support.

At a single, protracted trumpet call, the Balatian infantry parted like a sea in the center, creating a pathway. The cavalry, stationed in reserve behind them, sensed their moment had arrived. With a guttural shout, they spurred their horses into a gallop, hooves thundering, pounding the earth into submission as they ascended upon the enemy ranks.

The sheer momentum of the charge broke through the Paresh frontline, creating a corridor of destruction. Paresh were swept aside like leaves in a torrential river as they galloped through the enemy ranks. It wasn't just the swords; it was the war-horses’ massive, imposing bodies— their sheer force was enough to break bones and crush armor.

Yet, their charge was not without its losses. In a display of near-suicidal bravery, Paresh soldiers tried to take down the cavalry by any means possible. They swung their axes at the galloping horses. The the air filled with sickening thuds and the screams of dying animals. Some riders were thrown from their saddles; others managed to roll away to relative safety. Some weren’t so lucky, crushed beneath hooves.

Having successfully penetrated the enemy lines, the cavalry unit veered toward the right, aiming to join forces with their infantry attempting to flank the enemy. Just as victory seemed imminent, an unexpected terror befell them. From the back of the Paresh lines, a radiant ball of fire soared into the air. It twisted and contorted as if alive, seeking its target, before detonating upon the Balatian cavalry.

The resulting explosion was catastrophic. The flames swallowed both men and horses, and their armor melted. The surviving horses stumbled, dazed and burned, as their riders screamed in anguish.

The firestorm also caught a few of the Paresh, and although they screamed, they threw themselves at the Balatians in an unsettling show of fanaticism.

Gabriel's eyes widened in disbelief. A tall figure stood at the center of the Paresh army, his fingers crackling with energy. Wisps of color solidified into an orange orb before him. What is this strange sorcery? With a flick of his wrist, another sphere of fire shot through the air, landing amid the Balatian infantry this time. More cries and death followed. Damn, Ash. Damn the Paresh and damn this forsaken sorcerer.

Amidst the ensuing chaos, he spotted Atlas, Avis, and Olof leading an infantry charge, their eyes fixed on the sorcerer. Their progress was painfully slow, each footfall a pyrrhic victory as more Balatians fell around them.

Gabriel couldn’t bear to be a spectator any longer. A torrent of emotions flooded him—fear, anger, despair—but overpowering them all was a new, fierce tenacity. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

No more watching, no more running. He sprinted, charging down the hill, his armor clinking like a forlorn bell tolling for the brave and the damned. Today, he would join the fray, facing whatever god or monsters stood in his way. He would either find victory or meet his fate, but he would do so standing with his comrades, sword in hand. For Balatia. For us all.