The battle boiled like a cauldron in full eruption. The sound of clashing steel, screams, and the crackling of fire mixed with the roar of war. Dravenmoor, visibly irritated, no longer saw himself as merely defending his position. The pressure of the attacks, the mage's fire, and the boldness of Volcrist's soldiers—already tired and outnumbered—were testing his limits. But instead of retreating, he felt an uncontrollable wave of fury growing within him.

With a savage roar, he swung his sword with surprising speed, an extension of his raw strength. The steel sliced through the air and struck two Volcrist soldiers standing before him. The sound of blades cutting flesh and the men's screams were muffled by the force of the impact. He moved even faster, spinning again, and the sword found another soldier, throwing him to the ground like a ragdoll. There was no mercy. Dravenmoor was no longer fighting. He was exacting vengeance on the resistance.

Those who survived his fury were forced to retreat, their faces disfigured by fear, their trembling hands gripping swords that seemed so small against the enemy's might. Volcrist's defensive line was collapsing.

Lilith, from a distance, watched with anger and frustration. The fire that once seemed inexhaustible was now fading, the flames weak and faint. Her mana was depleting, the weight of battle on her body and mind becoming unbearable. She felt the emptiness inside, the exhaustion, the end of her magical energy. Each spell cast cost her more than the last.

She still raised a hand, trying to focus her last strength into a beam of fire. But the burst of heat she generated seemed almost insignificant against Dravenmoor's fury. He advanced, disregarding the threat. His steps were heavy and relentless. He knew time was on his side.

— This won't last long, mage. — He growled, his words laced with disdain as he advanced toward her, his sword raised for another strike.

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The remaining soldiers of Volcrist were in panic. Some fought desperately, others tried to retreat, but Dravenmoor's encirclement closed in with deadly precision. They were being pushed toward certain death.

With each step Dravenmoor took, the pressure on the survivors increased. They were consumed by fear. The battlefield felt like a nightmare with no escape. The general of Volcrist, his eyes fixed on the fight, felt a tightness in his chest. He knew that unless something changed quickly, all was lost. But, powerless, he was miles away, unable to intervene.

Lilith, realizing she was running out of options, retreated to the remaining group of Volcrist soldiers. Her hand, now trembling, still extended to try and summon more magic, but exhaustion was turning her body into a prison. Her eyes gleamed with silent rage; she knew if she didn't do something drastic, they would all be killed there.

— Come on, hold the line! — She shouted, but her voice was weak, her energy dwindling.

Dravenmoor, closer with each second, paused for a moment, observing his prey with a satisfied look. He knew he had finished what he started, but before delivering the final blow, he wanted to see more. He wanted to completely break Volcrist's resistance.

With a fluid motion, he advanced again. His trusted soldiers were surrounding the remaining Volcrist soldiers, pushing them into the corner of the square where Volcrist's walls confined them. Lilith was now cornered, her power reduced to almost nothing. She looked at the soldiers around her, some with panicked eyes, others still trying to raise their swords, but all knowing they had no strength left.

Dravenmoor smiled, the smile of a predator. His sword rose as a final threat, reflecting the light of the flames and destruction. He was about to eliminate the last resistance. The end was near.

But before he could deliver the decisive blow, he felt a slight pressure in the air. Something was about to change, but the sense of helplessness he felt seeing Lilith and her men cornered was palpable. He knew this fight would be the hardest of all, not just because the enemies were nearly defeated, but because, somehow, he knew something more was at stake. And as he looked at the scene he had created, the battle no longer seemed to be just about victory. It was beginning to be about something deeper.

But what?

The weight of suspense bore down on him as he prepared for the final charge.