The air between them grew colder, the battlefield deathly silent as the soldiers of both sides watched with bated breath. Dravenmoor’s voice cut through the tension like the edge of his blade, commanding all attention.

— You will not interfere! — he ordered, his hand raised with an authority that brooked no argument. — Stay where you are and watch! Do not avert your eyes, no matter what happens.

Even his most seasoned men, hardened by years of war, felt a chill run down their spines. Dravenmoor’s tone carried more than command—it carried a promise, almost prophetic in its weight.

He turned back to Aemon, who stood silently, battered and bloodied, yet unyielding. The young prince’s pain was evident in the way he held himself, but there was no trace of hesitation in his gaze. Dravenmoor’s lips curled into a small smile—not of mockery, but of something almost akin to respect, a twisted admiration for Aemon’s defiance.

— You speak as though you’ve already won, — said Aemon, his voice steady despite the fatigue that wracked his body.

Dravenmoor chuckled, a deep and resonant sound that felt out of place amidst the chaos of the battlefield.

— Win or lose, it matters little, prince. What matters is that tonight, beneath this pale moon, we write the next chapter of Volcrist’s history. Let’s see if your blood is worthy of staining these pages.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, some confused, others tense, but none dared question their leader. When Dravenmoor spoke with such gravity, it meant something unforgettable was about to unfold.

Aemon raised his chin, his eyes unwavering as they met Dravenmoor’s. He didn’t need speeches or declarations to understand the gravity of this moment. He knew Dravenmoor saw him as more than just an opponent. He saw him as a symbol, a key piece in the larger game being played this night.

— Your words are grand, but let’s see if your blade speaks louder, — Aemon said, his grip tightening around his sword.

Dravenmoor’s smile widened.

— Ah, there it is—that fire. You remind me of myself when I was your age. Full of defiance, eager to carve my name into the bones of history. But tell me, prince… — his eyes darkened. — How far are you willing to go? Will you break yourself into pieces for them?

He gestured toward the forces of Volcrist retreating to the fortress.

Aemon didn’t answer with words. Instead, he stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into the blood-soaked earth. His silence was answer enough. Dravenmoor nodded, satisfied.

— Very well. Let us begin.

The silence that followed was deafening. Soldiers on both sides held their breath as the two warriors sized each other up. Dravenmoor’s massive sword glinted under the pale moonlight, while Aemon’s smaller, worn blade remained steady in his hands, despite the slight tremor in his arms.

Dravenmoor struck first, his blade descending with devastating force, aiming to cleave Aemon in two. The clash of steel echoed through the field as Aemon narrowly deflected the blow, redirecting it with the flat of his blade. The impact reverberated through his body, but he held his ground, pivoting to strike at Dravenmoor’s flank.

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The older warrior moved with a speed that belied his size, dodging out of range with unsettling ease.

— Not bad, — he said, almost amused. — But it’s not enough.

Another swing came, this time horizontal. Aemon ducked just in time, the blade slicing through the air above him. He retaliated with a quick thrust toward Dravenmoor’s chest, but his opponent deflected it effortlessly, the sheer force of the parry sending Aemon stumbling back.

The murmurs among the soldiers grew louder, a mix of confusion and unease. It was clear Aemon was outmatched in strength, but his resilience was undeniable. For every powerful strike Dravenmoor delivered, Aemon found a way to evade or block, though each effort drained him further.

— You’re only delaying the inevitable, — Dravenmoor taunted, his voice carrying over the battlefield. — Do you really think your sacrifice will mean anything? That they’ll remember your name?

Aemon wiped the blood from his split lip, his breathing labored but unwavering. He straightened his posture, his eyes locking with Dravenmoor’s.

— I don’t care if they remember me, — he said. — As long as they remember what I stood for.

The words hit Dravenmoor harder than any blade, and for a moment, he faltered. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a more solemn expression. His grip on his sword tightened.

— Then show me.

With those words, the fight resumed, fiercer than before.

That night, more than just the fate of a Dominion hung in the balance. Beneath the weight of stars and the clash of steel on the battlefield, an invisible scale wavered, dictating the future not only of Volcrist but of the precarious equilibrium among the Dominions. Victory or defeat in those early hours would not belong solely to Dravenmoor or Aemon—it would become a declaration that would echo across the realms.

In the shadows, however, a pair of keen eyes watched everything unfold. A spy, sent by the Kingdom of Thorneveil, lay hidden among the ruins and debris of battle. His silhouette melted seamlessly into the environment, nearly imperceptible even to the most trained senses. He was a master of disguise and patience, his only companions a parchment for scribbling notes and a quill that moved with the urgency of someone who understood that every detail could determine the future balance of power among the realms.

The spy observed not just the movements on the field but the subtle nuances in Dravenmoor’s and Aemon’s actions. He noticed the unshakable confidence in Dravenmoor’s command that no one interfere, his stance exuding the air of a sovereign who believed himself in absolute control. But he also caught the fierce determination in Aemon—a fire that burned even through his battered and bloodied state, a trait that could not be overlooked.

— Interesting, — the spy muttered to himself, his gaze shifting to the mass of soldiers waiting on either side. He knew the outcome of this duel would not end here; it was the beginning of something far greater.

His duty was clear: observe, record, and return to Thorneveil before dawn. The King of Thorneveil cared little for the battle itself—it was the implications that mattered. Who displayed weaknesses? Who posed the greatest potential as an ally—or a threat?

As the spy continued his meticulous work, the clash of swords resumed between Dravenmoor and Aemon. The cries of soldiers and the ringing of steel reverberated into the night, but he remained steadfast in his position, his notes growing increasingly detailed. Every movement, every strike, every word exchanged between the two combatants was inscribed with precision.

He understood the gravity of this night—Thorneveil’s next move would depend entirely on the report he delivered.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, a realization solidified: the balance of power among the Dominions would never be the same again.