The ground beneath me trembled as hooves thundered in the distance. I turned my gaze to see what had everyone’s eyes drawn wide—fifty heavily armored Valandian cavalrymen breaking from their unit with terrifying purpose, their lances glinting in the unforgiving desert sun. Their path was unmistakable; they were aiming directly for Sultan Unquid. The realization struck hard, and panic rippled through the ranks of the Aserai elite.
I saw the Sultan himself, still atop his imposing horse, stiffen as the incoming cavalry charged with lethal intent. His personal retinue the part which was with him quickly tightened their formation, shields locking, ready to absorb the blow. But the ferocity of the approaching knights was palpable, a wave of iron and death that would not be so easily stopped. Unquid’s eyes darted from the advancing cavalry to his troops scattered across the battlefield. I could see the weight of the decision he had to make. And then he chose.
“Fall back! Protect the Sultan!” One of his senior guards barked the order as Unquid wheeled his horse around, turning away from the center of the conflict. His elite troops formed a protective wedge around him as they moved, shields braced and spears angled defensively. The sand kicked up in clouds beneath their feet as they began their retreat, creating a screen of dust that obscured their movements. Unquid’s gaze flickered back once—just once—before he disappeared behind the protective barrier of his men, his expression betraying a mix of rage and resignation.
The sight of their leader’s retreat sent shockwaves through the Aserai ranks. Mercenaries who had fought with grim determination suddenly hesitated, glancing nervously at one another. The bond between mercenary and employer is one built on trust, profit, and reputation. Seeing their employer abandon the field shook that fragile bond. Whispers of doubt spread like wildfire. Men began to weigh the value of their lives against the coins they were promised. Many chose life.
It started slowly at first—an Imperial mercenary here, a Valandian crossbowman there, edging back step by step. Then the retreat gained momentum. Whole units began to break formation, dropping any pretense of coordination. Their withdrawal was a chaotic scatter, a desperate scramble to escape the reach of Valandian spears and bolts. Men threw down their shields, casting aside any weight that would slow their flight. Their faces, once set with resolve, now reflected only fear.
I felt a pang of despair as I watched. The battle was unraveling before my eyes.
On the right flank, where Khuzait mercenaries and Jawwal riders had thus far harried the Valandian cavalry with relentless hit-and-run tactics, the situation took a sharp turn. The Khuzait mercenaries, seeing an opportunity for personal gain, abandoned their posts entirely. They broke off from the battle and raced toward the Valandian camp, a glint of greed in their eyes. Their movement was unmistakable—a full-on rush to loot. Without their support, the Jawwal riders, skilled at evasion but not prolonged engagement, found themselves dangerously exposed. The realization hit them quickly, and like leaves before a desert wind, they scattered, retreating toward the safety of the nearby castle.
In the center, our forces pressed on, unaware that the battle was slipping from our grasp. Aserai and Imperial mercenaries fought side by side, driving forward with a desperate energy. The Valandian infantry, their formation thinning but not yet breaking, stood resilient. Insults and curses flew between the lines, and I could hear Valandian soldiers sneering at their countrymen among our ranks, calling them traitors and worse.
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The tide of battle shifted again when the Golden Boar mercenaries, who had drifted slightly to the right flank, suddenly found themselves vulnerable. Dhiyul, the son of the Sultan, saw the opening. Leading what remained of his contingent with ferocious determination, he struck hard at the Valandian cavalry’s weakened right flank. The clash was thunderous. Swords rang against shields, and lances splintered upon impact. Dhiyul’s men, exhausted from the march and the fighting, fought with the desperation of cornered beasts. Blood sprayed as steel met flesh, and for a moment, it seemed as though Dhiyul’s gamble might pay off.
The Valandian knights, the pride of their force, were now caught between Dhiyul’s relentless assault and the Aserai infantry holding the center. Their formation buckled, and the once-disciplined cavalry found itself on the defensive. I saw Dhiyul himself, clad in intricate armor that glimmered despite the blood and grime, cut through enemy ranks with a ferocity that left no doubt of his lineage. His sword rose and fell, a blur of motion, as he barked orders to his men. Slowly, inexorably, the Valandian right flank began to crumble.
In the midst of this newfound hope, disaster struck. The fifty cavalrymen who had broken off to pursue the Sultan were recalled. Valandian trumpets blared, signaling their retreat from their pursuit. As they wheeled around, their momentum shifted, and they galloped back toward the battle. The ground trembled with their approach, and Dhiyul’s weary troops, already fighting on the brink, could see their doom hurtling toward them.
“Retreat!” Dhiyul’s voice rang out, heavy with regret. He knew that to stay would be to court annihilation. He signaled his men to pull back toward the castle, their withdrawal covered by a rear guard that fought with the tenacity of those who knew they were buying precious moments for their comrades’ escape.
The Valandians, meanwhile, had problems of their own. The Khuzait mercenaries had reached their camp and were tearing through supplies, setting tents alight and seizing whatever they could carry. Smoke billowed into the sky, a cruel banner marking the cost of distraction. Seeing this, many Valandian soldiers broke off from the main fight, rushing back to defend their camp and reclaim their precious supplies. The battlefield, once a place of coordinated strategy, devolved into chaos and disarray.
As I fought in the center, surrounded by the cacophony of battle, I felt the momentum slip. Our numbers were dwindling, and the mercenary groups, seeing no profit in a lost cause, were making their exits. I caught a glimpse of Leon, his face streaked with sweat and blood, rallying what remained of our forces. Silvana’s crossbowmen were still perched on their vantage point, loosing bolts with practiced precision. But even their efforts couldn’t turn the tide forever.
Valandian and Aserai bodies littered the ground, a grim testament to the ferocity of the battle. Some mercenaries, seeing that the conflict was all but over, began to scour the field, looting the dead to cover their expenses. The clinking of coins and the ripping of armor straps became the new soundtrack to the battlefield, a harsh reminder of the mercenary’s code: survival and profit above all.
The battle was done. There was no victor here, only survivors. The sand drank deeply of blood, and the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows over a field that had known too much death. I stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily, my heart heavy with the weight of what had transpired. We had come so close to victory, only to see it slip through our fingers.
But this was not the end. Not yet. I turned my gaze toward the horizon, where the castle walls offered the promise of sanctuary, and resolved to fight another day.