The cries of Dravenmoor's soldiers echoed through the night, forming an almost tribal rhythm, like a war drum resonating in the soul of those who heard it. Swords clashed against shields in a synchronized beat, the steel ringing like thunder in the darkness. It was an intimidating spectacle, designed to break the enemy's morale and elevate their own troops into a frenzy of courage and savagery.
In the distance, the old general of Volcrist ran with all the strength his body still allowed. His boots hit the uneven ground firmly as he passed through the gates of Volcrist village, guiding the soldiers who had retreated. The sound from the battlefield was deafening, and each scream made his heart race. He knew this was more than a battle cry; it was a prelude to blood.
—Hold on, boy. For the love of the gods, hold on... —he murmured, almost as a prayer.
As he advanced, the general struggled to keep his worry from taking over his mind. He was a veteran of many wars, but the thought of losing the prince there, in that uneven battle, haunted him. He could imagine young Aemon facing the imposing Dravenmoor, the unequal fight weighing heavily on the prince, both physically and mentally.
Beside him, one of the exhausted soldiers asked, his voice trembling:
—General, do you think he's still... still alive?
The old man shot a quick, severe glance, but his eyes didn't hide his worry.
—The prince is strong. Stronger than all of you combined. And he's stubborn enough to hold this fight until we get there. Now move! We don't have time for doubts!
The soldiers following him quickened their pace, the general's words fueling the little hope they still carried. But even he knew the situation was critical. The sound of steel clashing, of war cries, seemed closer now. Volcrist village began to disappear behind them, but the weight of the battle still pulled them forward like an invisible chain.
As the general moved on, he could only pray that Aemon kept fighting, even injured, even exhausted. Every step was a silent prayer, a promise that, when they finally arrived, they'd do whatever was necessary to turn the tide of that night, which seemed destined for tragedy.
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Dravenmoor advanced like a storm, a brute force shaped by experience and the hunger for victory. For an old man, clad in heavy armor covering every part of his body and wielding a massive sword, his speed was almost supernatural.
Dravenmoor's sword was like thunder, falling repeatedly with a precision and force that defied logic. Each strike seemed destined to split Aemon in half, and the prince barely managed to raise his blade in time to block the blows. Sparks exploded in the air as the steel met, briefly illuminating Aemon's exhausted face and Dravenmoor's cruel eyes.
The young prince's heart beat in a frantic rhythm. He had faced monsters before, creatures driven solely by instinct. Against them, his strength and skill had been enough. But Dravenmoor was something else. He was not an irrational monster — he was a warrior with decades of experience, a predator who knew every weakness of his opponent and knew exactly how to exploit it.
Aemon recoiled with each strike, his feet sinking into the bloodied earth as he desperately tried to avoid the inevitable. Dravenmoor's sword sliced through the air with a hissing sound, a promise of death that seemed closer with each passing moment.
—You fight like a boy pretending to be a man, prince —Dravenmoor growled, his voice deep and filled with contempt. He spun his blade in a devastating arc, forcing Aemon to throw himself backward to escape. —Where is the warrior Volcrist sent to die for your banner?
Sweat poured down Aemon's face, mixing with the blood already staining his armor. His arms were tired, his reflexes slowing. He tried to find a gap in Dravenmoor's attacks, but the man offered none. Every movement was calculated, each strike a lesson in lethal precision.
At one point, Dravenmoor raised his sword in a vertical strike so fast that Aemon barely had time to block. The force of the impact made his knees buckle, and he felt as though the weight of the world was upon him. Dravenmoor's sword pressed against his own, and the prince could see the cold, satisfied smile on the man's face.
—You’re not ready for this, boy —Dravenmoor whispered, pushing his sword even further.
Aemon knew he was right. This wasn’t like fighting monsters or inexperienced soldiers. This was different. It was a battle against someone who knew exactly how to kill and wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Every movement from Dravenmoor was a brutal reminder that skill alone wasn’t enough. He needed something more, something he hadn’t yet found within himself.
But Aemon couldn’t give up. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the fatigue and pain. His eyes, burning with sweat, locked onto Dravenmoor's, searching for a way to turn the tide. Even though he wasn’t ready, he knew he couldn’t lose there, not that night. If Volcrist had any chance, it depended on him surviving.