The Battlefield at Dawn

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a cold, gray light across the field separating Aropia and Drakonia.

The flatlands were barren and harsh, covered in frost that glistened under the growing sun. On the Aropian side, the human army was arrayed in tight formations, their breath rising in white puffs against the chilly air.

Ogren, grim-faced and battle-hardened, stood at the forefront, his armor cold steel against his skin. In his eyes, the weight of what was at stake gleamed—this war , it was about survival, a chance to break free from the centuries of dominance the Beastfolk had held over humankind.

The Drakonians, their powerful forms bristling with strength and fury, stood across the field, ready to crush the Aropians. Their war drums boomed like thunder, and their eyes glowed with the confidence of certain victory. This would be another conquest to add to their long history of supremacy.

Prince Crimson, however, was nowhere to be seen, and his absence hung like a shadow over the battlefield. It was Beastfolk custom for their supreme leader to lead every march to war.

The first clash came suddenly—horns sounded from both sides, and the Beastfolk surged forward, a wave of muscle, claws, and teeth. Their mages guarded their sides , attacking with fire magic from time to time.

The humans braced, their spears and shields forming a solid wall.

The two forces collided with a deafening roar, the sound of metal on bone and the cries of the wounded filling the air.

Ogren, a beast in his own right, roared commands, rallying his soldiers even as the Drakonians began to press them back with sheer, overwhelming force.

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For hours, the Aropians held the line, retreating slowly, inch by bloody inch.

They fell back into the territory of Aropia, allowing the Beastfolk to believe they were winning. The terrain was to the humans' advantage—jagged rocks, narrow ravines, and dense forests funneled the attackers, slowing the Drakonian advance.

Yet, it was clear the Beastfolk were stronger, their massive forms able to smash through any defensive stand the humans attempted.

Each time Ogren barked an order to retreat, his voice grew hoarser, and his heart sank. The Aropians were losing soldiers, their strength waning, and the cold, relentless march of the Drakonians was becoming unstoppable.

At one point, Ogren found himself face-to-face with a massive Drakonian warrior.

He barely blocked the blow aimed at his skull, feeling the shock of impact rattle down his arm. He ducked and slashed, barely managing to hold his own, feeling the pressure increase with each strike.

Blood streaked his face, his muscles ached, and he knew—everyone knew—that they were on the edge of collapse.

The Beastfolk’s war cries grew louder, more triumphant, as they pushed deeper into Aropian territory. It was then that Ogren noticed something in their eyes—a hint of arrogance, the kind that comes when an enemy is convinced of their own victory.

He ordered his forces to retreat one final time, pulling back through a narrow, steep-sided pass that led deeper into Aropia’s lands.

The Drakonians, sensing the kill, followed without hesitation. They poured into the pass like a flood, their numbers seeming endless, their morale high. Behind the Aropian forces, the rocky ground gave way to open fields, wide and flat—ideal ground for a final stand.

Ogren’s voice was raw as he shouted the order for his troops to halt.

“Hold the line!” he bellowed, his sword raised high, every muscle tensed for what he knew was to come. The humans, exhausted and outmatched, braced themselves for the inevitable clash.

And then it happened. The Aropians began to break. A few men, panic rising in their eyes, turned and ran. The Drakonians, seeing this, surged forward, howling with triumph.

The Aropian line began to waver, buckling under the sheer weight of the assault. Ogren felt his heart lurch. They were about to be overrun.

The line shattered. The Drakonians burst through, the Aropians scattering like leaves before a storm.

The Beastfolk roared in victory, their warriors tearing through the fleeing humans with savage joy. For a moment, it seemed like all was lost—that Aropia had gambled everything, and lost.