Amélia was lying on the ground, the weight of her imminent fate pressing down on her with an overwhelming intensity. The sounds of the battlefield around her seemed distant, muffled by her own thoughts. She felt the cold of the stone beneath her back, and the shadow of the enormous enemy soldier eclipsed her view. His blade descended slowly, as if time had stretched in the final moments of her life. Her eyes, closed, awaited the final blow.

Suddenly, a dry, wet sound echoed above her. Amélia opened her eyes, surprised to see the soldier writhing. A spear had pierced his neck, and blood gushed in a dark, pulsing flow. The soldier’s eyes met Amélia’s for a brief instant, reflecting disbelief and pain, before he fell heavily beside her, his life slipping away.

Behind the fallen, panting and sweating, was Miguel. He held the spear he had just driven into the soldier’s neck, his eyes shining with the intensity of battle. He pulled the spear back and took a deep breath, recovering after the precise strike.

Amélia, still stunned, looked at her brother. His expression was serious, but there was also a hint of relief in his eyes. Without saying a word, Miguel extended his hand to her. Amélia took his hand, feeling the strength and firmness of his grip as he pulled her back to her feet.

Once standing, she found herself face to face with Miguel, who merely nodded, as if to say that everything was okay. Amélia, recovering from the shock, murmured a sincere “thank you,” still processing the fact that she had narrowly escaped death.

Miguel, without responding, simply bent down and picked up the sword that had fallen from Amélia’s hands during the fight. He handed it back to her, his gaze determined and silent, ready to continue the battle. Amélia gripped the sword firmly and exchanged one last look with Miguel, grateful that he had arrived in time.

---

Augusto watched from a safe distance, a satisfied smile forming on his lips as he saw the main gate of the Drakmoor wall sway under the impact of the ram. The large wooden log, reinforced with metal at the ends, was lifted by dozens of muscular soldiers, their faces contorted in effort as they struck the gate repeatedly.

Each time the ram was swung against the gate, the sound was deafening. A deep, dull thud echoed across the surrounding fields, followed by the creaking and splintering of the reinforced wood. The soldiers, in formation, took turns to maintain the momentum, pushing with concentrated force and precision. Their boots sank into the earth as they leaned forward, using all their body weight to drive the destructive power of the siege weapon.

The gate, built to withstand attacks, began to show signs of wear. The wood, once solid and imposing, now creaked under the relentless pressure. Splinters flew with each impact, and small cracks appeared on the surface, growing with each blow. The sound of the wood giving way was almost as gratifying as the impact itself, like a victory melody unfolding for Augusto.

“One more time!” shouted the commander at the front of the soldiers, his voice hoarse with effort. And with one last coordinated effort, the soldiers pulled the ram back and launched it against the gate with all their remaining strength.

The final impact was devastating. The gate, no longer able to withstand the pressure, finally gave way with a loud, high-pitched crack. The metal bars reinforcing it were torn from their fittings, and the wood splintered into large chunks, opening a passage in the center. The gate swung open abruptly, its halves cracking and hanging from their hinges.

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The duchy’s soldiers shouted in triumph, ready to invade the city, while Augusto, with a wild gleam in his eyes, watched the breach they had finally created. The path to Drakmoor was open.

The duchy’s soldiers surged through the broken gate, rushing with desperate urgency, as if they believed the city was about to fall into their hands. The first to cross the entrance barely had time to register what was happening before a rain of arrows fell upon them. In an instant, the front-line soldiers were taken down, their bodies falling heavily to the ground, pierced by arrows shot with deadly accuracy.

Ricardo, strategically positioned a few meters from the gate, observed with a determined gaze. Beside him, Ruidahr, the imposing lion, held his massive axe firmly, ready for the approaching clash. His feline eyes gleamed with the anticipation of battle. John, the defense secretary, was right behind, giving orders with a cool calm that contrasted with the storm of emotions about to explode on the battlefield.

“Archers, fall back!” Ricardo commanded, his voice firm and unwavering. The archers, lined up a few meters from where the duchy’s soldiers were falling, obeyed immediately. With swift, calculated steps, they retreated to the rear, repositioning to shoot again without becoming easy targets. The transition was made with impressive discipline, the result of weeks of intensive training.

The duchy’s soldiers, undeterred, continued advancing, forming a human tide that seemed poised to engulf everything in its path. Clad in shining chain mail, with helmets protecting their heads and reinforced wooden shields with metal, they wielded swords and spears with determination. Their war cries resonated through the air, a mixture of rage and bloodlust echoing in the ears of all present.

At the front, the duchy’s soldiers raised their shields, forming an almost impenetrable wall as they advanced. Their boots pounded heavily against the ground, each step taken in perfect synchronization, a testament to their rigorous training and combat experience. The swords gleamed in the morning light, while the spears were held firmly ahead, ready to pierce the flesh of their enemies.

“Prepare yourselves!” John shouted, adjusting his stance and holding his sword more firmly. The Drakmoor soldiers formed a line, shields raised and swords drawn, ready to meet the impact. Ricardo and Ruidahr, positioned in the center of the line, were imposing figures, instilling courage in the men around them.

And then, like two giant waves crashing together, the armies clashed violently. The sound of metal against metal filled the air, mixed with cries of pain and fury. Duchy and Drakmoor soldiers fought with animalistic ferocity, each determined to prevail over the other. Swords cut through the air, spears pierced armor, and the ground soon began to stain red with the blood of the combatants.

Ruidahr, with a deafening roar, swung his axe with force, taking down two enemy soldiers at once. Beside him, Ricardo fought with the skill of a seasoned warrior, his sword finding its mark with deadly precision. John, although more reserved, was also engaged in the fight, each of his blows meticulously calculated.

The battlefield in front of the Drakmoor gate was total chaos, a true carnage where the line between life and death was thin and unstable. And amid all this, the fate of the Drakmoor kingdom was being decided.

---

Miguel and Amélia fought intensely at the top of the wall, their swords slicing through the air and taking down the enemies daring to climb. Miguel, focused on the enemies in front of him, noticed an unusual pause in the flow of enemy soldiers trying to scale the wall. His hands still tightly gripping the sword, he looked down, his heart racing.

The main gate was open.

His stomach churned as he saw the enemy troops invading the city below them. The sound of iron clashing against iron and the screams of pain from the men reverberated in his ears. The gate was completely compromised, allowing the tide of duchy soldiers to penetrate the city's defenses. A sense of despair began to spread through his body, but Miguel quickly suppressed it.

Amélia, beside him, noticed the same thing. “Miguel, we need to get out of here now!” she shouted, her voice filled with urgency. “If we stay, we’ll be surrounded!”

Miguel wanted to fight to the end on the wall, to defend it as the city’s first line of defense. However, he knew Amélia was right. With the gate open, holding the wall was nearly impossible. The top of the wall was now becoming a disadvantage, with enemy soldiers beginning to climb up the wall’s stairs.

He looked around and saw the panic on the faces of his soldiers as the enemies continued to climb. There was no time to waste. “Everyone, fall back!” Miguel ordered with a firm voice, cutting through the chaos of battle. “Run to the west gate and use the stairs there to descend!”

The soldiers, promptly obeying, began to run toward the west gate, leaving behind the wall they had so bravely defended. Miguel and Amélia led the retreat, running with their men. The sound of feet pounding against the stone echoed as they ran along the wall, trying to distance themselves from the relentless advance of the enemy.

Miguel looked over his shoulder, seeing dozens of enemy soldiers climbing the wall’s stairs. He knew they couldn’t allow the enemies to catch them at the top, or they would all be slaughtered. Amélia, with a serious expression, followed beside Miguel, her sword still in hand as they ran toward the relative safety of the west gate.

Miguel felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, knowing that every decision he made could determine the fate of his men and the city. And, at that moment, the only sensible choice was to retreat, regroup, and fight from a more defensible position. But the fight was far from over, and the fate of the Drakmoor kingdom was still at stake.