Chaos unfolded around Aemon like an uncontrollable storm. The battlefield was engulfed in screams, the clash of steel against steel, and the iron scent of blood permeating the air. The soldiers of Volcrist, though few in number, demonstrated unwavering loyalty. As soon as they saw the wounded prince, they reacted immediately, forming a defensive barrier around him, shields raised and swords ready to repel the next attack.

—Protect the prince! Don’t let them get close! —bellowed the old general, his deep voice cutting through the noise of the battle. Despite the command, there was a slight tremor in his words, a sign of the doubt he tried to conceal. Even a hardened veteran like him knew they were facing the inevitable.

Aemon, with his left arm rendered useless by the arrow lodged in it, struggled to maintain control of himself. His right hand still gripped his sword, but the weight of the blade felt heavier now, as if the force of his will was the only thing keeping him from dropping the weapon. He was hunched over, blood dripping from his wounded arm and pooling on the ground—a cruel reminder of his vulnerability.

The enemy soldiers advanced like an unstoppable tide. For every one that fell, two more took their place, and Volcrist's defensive line began to crumble. The young soldier whom Aemon had saved earlier was now at his side, clutching his shield with both hands, trembling but determined.

—Prince Aemon... —the young man said hesitantly. —We won’t leave you here. Even if it’s the last thing we do.

Aemon looked at him, his eyes burning with a mix of frustration and helplessness. He wanted to say something, some word of encouragement or gratitude, but the knot in his throat stopped him. He knew these men were sacrificing everything for him, and that tormented him more than the physical pain of his wound.

In the distance, Dravenmoor’s loud and mocking laughter echoed like cruel thunder. He watched the massacre like a spectator at a grotesque spectacle, his hands resting on the hilt of his gigantic sword as his body vibrated with the sound of his amusement.

—Is this all Volcrist has to offer? A wounded prince and a handful of pathetic soldiers? —he shouted, his voice dripping with disdain. —You’re nothing but a joke to me!

The words pierced Aemon’s pride like invisible arrows. He knew Dravenmoor was partly right. He was skilled, but that wasn’t enough—not against such overwhelming numbers, not against a man like that. His mind raced, desperately searching for a way out, a solution, but everything seemed futile.

As the siege continued, something began to bubble within Aemon. A burning and overwhelming rage grew in his chest, but there was something deeper beyond it: a crushing sense of responsibility. These men were fighting and dying for him, not for the power he had already demonstrated, but for what he represented—a hope.

The memory of his old friend Greta’s words echoed in his mind. "True power, Aemon, doesn’t come from selfish desire. It is born from necessity, from the instinct to protect something greater than yourself."

He tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, even as his right arm began to ache from the constant effort. He knew there was something inside him, a latent power that had yet to awaken. But to reach it, he needed more than skill or training. He needed something that only despair could offer: the absolute need to prevail.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

As Dravenmoor continued to laugh and mock, Aemon raised his gaze, his eyes locked on the man in dark armor. He no longer felt fear or insecurity, only unshakable determination. He realized he wasn’t ready yet, but he also knew he couldn’t afford to fail.

—This battle... isn’t over yet. —Aemon murmured, more to himself than to anyone else.

But the words carried weight, and the general beside him, despite his doubts, felt a spark of inspiration at the prince’s voice. He shouted to the soldiers around them:

—Hold the line! For Volcrist! For our prince!

Aemon knew he needed something more, that this moment was a test. But the power he sought would not come from an empty desire. It would come from a true need, from a silent vow he made in that very moment: to never let his men fight in vain again. He only needed to find the key to unlock what lay dormant within him.

The shrill laughter of Dravenmoor echoed across the battlefield but was abruptly silenced by a sudden impact. The steel of a thrown sword ricocheted off his dark armor, producing a metallic clang that resonated like a grim bell. He froze for a moment, his eyes scanning the chaos with disbelief until his instincts screamed at him—something was amiss.

He looked around, trying to pinpoint the culprit, and then he realized—the soldiers of Volcrist were retreating, moving toward the gates as if the battle had already been lost. Disorder reigned among their ranks, and Dravenmoor sneered.

—Cowards... already giving up? —he muttered to himself.

But something made him pause. There was a heavy absence on the battlefield, like the missing piece of a crucial puzzle. His narrowed eyes scoured the scene until he felt it. It wasn’t just the absence of soldiers defending the prince... it was the absence of Aemon himself.

A subtle movement in the shadows caught his attention. Slowly, a silhouette emerged, walking with cold purpose. It was him, Aemon. His body still bore the clear signs of his injury—his wounded arm hung limp at his side, blood still trickling down—but his eyes... his eyes burned with an almost inhuman determination, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him.

—You’ve got guts, boy, —Dravenmoor growled, tightening his grip on the hilt of his massive sword. —But guts won’t save you.

Aemon said nothing. He walked slowly, ignoring the throbbing pain that wracked his body. The prince didn’t need words; his stance spoke for him. He was there as a sacrifice, a delay to ensure his men could escape and retrieve whatever it was they needed to turn the tide.

Meanwhile, the soldiers of Volcrist ran with all their might toward the gates. The old general led the group, his experience guiding the way. Even with short breaths, he barked orders, his voice firm, like an anchor holding the men together.

—Faster, men! Don’t stop for anything! What we’re going for... —he paused to catch his breath, his eyes fixed on the horizon. —...will change the rhythm of this battle!

The young soldier beside the general, the same one Aemon had saved earlier, looked at him wide-eyed, panting heavily.

—General, what are we going to retrieve?

The old warrior gave him a resolute look, his lips curling into a grim smile.

—Something that can bring hope... or doom us entirely.

Back on the field, Aemon and Dravenmoor stood face-to-face. Dravenmoor twirled his sword lazily, mocking the prince.

—You stayed behind, alone. What were you expecting, exactly? Redemption? A legend written in your name?

Aemon remained silent, his feet firmly planted in the blood-soaked, muddy ground. He knew this wasn’t the time for bravado. It wasn’t about winning in that moment. It was about enduring, about holding the enemy’s attention long enough for his men to succeed in their mission.

Dravenmoor took a step forward, a malicious grin spreading across his face.

—Very well, prince. Show me if you’re worthy of all this sacrifice.

The fight was inevitable. Aemon knew he was at the edge of his strength, but within him, there was a spark. He had to endure. Not for himself, but for those who believed in him.

And so, the shadows became the stage, as the battle between the wounded prince and the relentless leader began, each strike carrying the weight of a war that would decide Volcrist’s future.