The battlefield was silent. Not because the war was over—but because there was no one left to scream. The war will never be over. Not for me. Maybe that’s why I’m here, standing on foreign soil, searching for an end that doesn’t exist. Save for the crackling of distant flames and the suffocating stench of blood and smoke, I’m alone. Again. I peer through the haze, scanning the shifting shadows. Is there another enemy lurking beyond the smoke? Hard to tell. Not that it matters. I should be used to this. The endless cycle of bloodshed, the weight of it pressing down upon me. But I’m tired. So damn tired. And yet… I rise. I keep going. Because at this point, I can’t tell if I fight to survive—or if I survive just to keep fighting.
I steady myself, forcing clarity back into my clouded mind. My convictions return, a familiar weight settling in my chest, reminding me why I’m here. With a slow drawn out breath, I wrench my blade free from the demon worshiper’s corpse. The long, edge glistens in the dim light, slick with fresh blood. "Azothane… my trusted companion." The words slip from my lips, quiet but firm, as I gaze down at the blade. My only friend. My only constant.
I cleaned her off with the torn rags of her most recent kill, the blood soaking into fabric that will never be worn again. This land was scarred the moment these demon worshipers set foot on them. Had they never come, perhaps there would still be something left to save. but they got here first. I cast a glance around the battlefield. Dozens of bodies lie strewn across the ground, twisted in death. The air is thick with the scent of iron and charred flesh. Embers from the twisted trees and ramshackle remains of buildings drift through the sky like dying fireflies, their glow casting long shadows over the carnage. It reminds me of home. Or at least, what was left of it after “they” came. A grim silence settles over me as I step forward. The dead linger in my mind, whispering doubts, questions I refuse to answer. Should I bury them? Do they deserve it?
No.
They earned this fate. I leave them to the vultures.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
A shadow moves through the carnage—I can barely make it out. Something human… or worse. I steady my grip on Azothane, ignoring the sharp ache of my recent wounds. Damn those worshipers and their infernal fire magic. The battlefield is thick with smoke, but a dim glow flickers in the distance. A moment later, I hear the rhythmic pounding of hooves against the blood-soaked earth. Then, she emerges.
A paladin of the Blessed Lady.
Great. Another fanatic! I exhale sharply, lowering my blade just enough to keep my stance loose—ready. She scans the ruin around us, her silhouette shifting through the haze. I can’t make out much through the gloom, but she’s shorter than me, clad in that damned gleaming plate—an insult to this forsaken place.
Then, our eyes meet. She turns her steed gracefully toward me, the canter shifts into a gallop. Fast. Direct. With no hesitation. Her shield is raised, guarding her left, while her sword arcs down over from the right in a practiced, merciless strike. I roll—just barely dodging the blow—then lash out horizontally, Azothane’s blade biting into the steed’s flank. A sharp, pained cry fills the air. The beast nearly bucks her off, kicking up dirt and blood as it rears back. She reins it in, but I can already see the decision in her eyes. With a swift motion, she dismounts.
This fight isn’t over.
Elara Ashford
This was supposed to be a routine patrol along the outskirts of the Tempered Vale. Nothing more. I never expected to ride into the aftermath of a massacre. As the unnatural mist clings to my skin, it was thick with the stench of blood and burning flesh. Tyros, my loyal steed shifted beneath me, his ears flicking, uneasy. We push forward, my grip tightening on the reins as my eyes scan the devastation. Then I saw him. A lone figure, standing at the center of it all.
His dark clothes, tall imposing figure, donning a hood concealing most of his face, wielding a long blade gripped tightly in his hand. His posture is steady, unfazed, as if he belongs in this decaying field. I have to act, I don’t know whose side this villainous looking figure is on but it matters not, he will answer for what has happened in our Lady's domain. We charged towards the lone figure as I readied my arms for the coming blows, I deftly swung my blade down at him narrowly missing his cowl. Then pain flares through Tyros—a long cut along his flank.
He dared!
Fury surges within me. I do not wish for Tyros to be injured further, it is already infuriating that someone would dare attack a Paladin of the Blessed Lady. Though his blade is twice as long I should have the advantage on foot. I ponder to myself.. With a bit of regret, if only I had brought my sacred lance. I dismount, boots hitting the blood-soaked ground. He hasn’t moved an inch.
Is he wounded? Or is he simply waiting for my next strike?