Dravenmoor roared like thunder, his voice reverberating across the battlefield and silencing the war cries around them. His eyes glowed like embers in the dim light, and his movements were inhumanly powerful, as if he were a force of nature incarnate. Aemon, still struggling to stay on his feet, felt his wounded arm throb unbearably, each pulse a cruel distraction that eroded his focus. Blood trickled slowly down the sleeve of his armor, each drop splattering onto the blood-soaked earth beneath him.

Dravenmoor did not hesitate. His strikes became more brutal, each one a testament to the gulf of strength that separated the two warriors. When his blade cut through the air, the sound was akin to thunder rending the skies. He seemed like a monster in human form, relentless, invincible.

Aemon tried to defend himself, but his reflexes were no longer fast enough. He felt each blow reverberate through his bones, his sword trembling in his hands with each poorly executed block. The prince’s eyes desperately sought an opportunity to counterattack, but there were no openings. It was like fighting against a moving wall, a force that crushed everything in its path.

Dravenmoor, seeing the hesitant and weakened prince, laughed loudly, a deep, mocking sound that echoed through the devastated square. He raised his massive sword above his head, the muscles in his arms tightening like ropes about to snap.

—Is this how it ends, boy? —he shouted, his teeth bared in a predatory grin. —Cerys promised me a challenge, but all I see is a spoiled heir, playing at being a warrior.

Dravenmoor then put an immense force into his next strike, and the result was terrifying. With the impact of his brutal movements, the upper part of his armor cracked and gave way, chunks of metal falling to the ground with muffled crashes. His muscles were exposed, grotesquely defined, each vein seeming to pulse with the weight of his fury. He was a terrifying sight, a true monster.

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Aemon felt the pressure in the air change. It was as if the very space around them had become denser, each breath requiring tremendous effort. The prince tried to react, but his body couldn’t keep up with his determination. Before he could move, Dravenmoor was already upon him.

The massive blade came down with the force of a cataclysm, and Aemon, instinctively, raised his sword to block. But the impact was overwhelming. His feet slipped in the mud, and he was thrown backward like a leaf in the wind. The next strike came too quickly. Dravenmoor spun his sword with impressive dexterity for someone so large, striking Aemon squarely in the torso. The force of the blow not only lifted him off the ground but hurled him toward a nearby house.

Aemon’s body crashed through the wooden wall with a deafening roar, debris flying in all directions. He felt the world spin as his body collided with furniture, beams, and the hard floor of the house. The entire structure groaned under the impact, and the remaining walls trembled, as if they were about to collapse.

Lying in the wreckage, Aemon could barely breathe. Each breath was a torturous effort, his lungs seeming to burn. His vision was blurred, dark spots dancing in his line of sight. He tasted blood in his mouth, mixed with the dust filling the air. His ears rang, drowning out the sounds of the battle outside.

For a moment, he couldn’t move, only feel the crushing pain in every part of his body. His wounded arm felt useless, hanging limp at his side. He tried to force his mind to clear, to focus, but it was like trying to swim in deep, dark waters, with the weight of the world pulling him down.

Dravenmoor, standing outside, watched the destruction with a satisfied smile, his sword resting casually on his shoulder. He raised his voice, a thunderclap slicing through the night.

—Is this it, prince? Is this all you’ve got? —He took a step forward, crushing a wooden plank beneath his weight. —Get up, or do I have to bring this whole place down to finish the job?

Inside the wreckage, Aemon gritted his teeth, ignoring the searing pain that shot through his body. He knew he couldn’t give in, not while his men still believed in him, not while Volcrist still depended on his strength. He tried to push himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement, but the determination in his eyes began to shine again, even amid the chaos.