Dravenmoor halted for a moment, the weight of the situation finally striking him. He felt Cerys's presence before he saw her. The magic emanating from her was heavy in the air, like a storm about to break. The old warrior, with his keen sight, glanced over his shoulder, observing the woman's figure emerging menacingly. Cerys's eyes were fixed, her face impassive, but a gleam of determination in her gaze betrayed her true intention.

Aemon was weak, but he still had enough energy for one last insult. He whispered, his voice hoarse and weary, but laced with contempt.

— Traitor... — It was all he could muster before Cerys, with a swift motion, raised her arm and pushed him upright, as if his weight meant nothing.

— Shut up and kill the monster in front of you. — Cerys snapped, her voice sharp, with no patience for more words. She turned to Dravenmoor with a threatening coldness, her lips curling into an almost imperceptible smile.

Dravenmoor straightened, feeling his body tense with the challenge. A surge of fury welled inside him. Cerys wanted him to fall. She wanted him to be the next to join the pile of bodies from his defeated army. He observed Volcrist's forces dwindling, his own men significantly reduced by Lilith's attacks and the unexpected resistance he had not anticipated.

He smiled to himself, an expression heavy with arrogance. — You think you can defeat me, Cerys? — Dravenmoor's voice echoed with power, defiant and menacing. He knew the battle wasn’t over, but now the fight was personal.

Volcrist's army was nearly extinct. Lilith, her spells now weaker and soldiers disintegrating one by one, no longer had the strength to hold them back. What remained was Cerys's decision. She knew her only chance of victory lay in defeating Dravenmoor.

The battle was about to shift.

Cerys advanced, the air around her seeming to distort with the force of the magic she channeled. Dravenmoor watched closely, now aware that she wasn’t coming with a simple trick. He gripped his sword tighter, feeling the adrenaline quicken his heart. He knew it would be a tough fight, but he feared no one.

Cerys's magic enveloped Aemon like an invisible cloak, a faint glow emerging around his body. His broken, exhausted form now seemed to respond to a new power, something beyond what he imagined possible. The weight of his sword, once immense, now felt lighter, and his brittle bones felt sturdier.

Cerys looked at him, her expression serious, almost distant, as her magic began to falter. She knew time was short. — You have five minutes, young prince. — Her voice was cold, but there was a hint of urgency in her words. — Five minutes to defeat him. That’s all I can give.

Aemon's face hardened. He knew this was his chance, his last. He had nothing left to lose. This moment, this confrontation, would measure his fate. He couldn’t fail.

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With a swift motion, he raised his sword, feeling the energy flow through his body. The strength felt new, as if forged from the very winds of war. The pain in his bones lingered, but his mind was clearer. His gaze fixed on Dravenmoor, standing before him, arrogantly believing Aemon was still just an inexperienced boy.

— You're still standing? — Dravenmoor mocked, watching the prince rise with more strength than before. He didn’t believe Aemon capable of facing someone like him.

Aemon didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His sword lifted, and with a quick movement, he advanced. The ground was stained with blood and dust, but his focus was on Dravenmoor. He knew he couldn’t fail.

Dravenmoor reacted instantly, raising his sword in defense, but Aemon was faster. Aemon’s first blade met Dravenmoor’s with a crash. The sound of steel against steel reverberated through the field, but Aemon didn’t waver. He spun, using the strength Cerys had given him, and delivered a lateral strike. Dravenmoor barely managed to deflect it, the impact forcing him back a few steps.

— Is that all you’ve got, boy? — Dravenmoor growled, his fury mounting. He felt the threat creeping closer, and with each of Aemon’s movements, the pressure increased.

But Aemon didn’t hesitate. He felt his speed surge, his agility sharpened by magic. He moved like a shadow, attacking with quick, precise strikes. Each movement now reflected training he never had, but that, for the first time, seemed to come naturally. He felt the heat of battle, but Cerys's magic made everything feel possible. Five minutes. Aemon knew time was against him.

Dravenmoor, however, was relentless. His battle experience gave him the upper hand in power and strength. He wielded his sword with precision, each move calculated to bring Aemon down. The battle seemed balanced for a moment, each blow landing with a crash against the ground or the metal of the sword. But Aemon wouldn’t give up.

With a guttural roar, Dravenmoor struck with all his might, aiming to crush Aemon with a devastating blow. But Aemon, with renewed strength, leapt aside, dodging with a movement that seemed impossible for an ordinary prince. He seized the opening, spinning his sword in a wide arc and striking the side of Dravenmoor’s armor. The sound of steel scraping against metal was loud, but there was no time to pause.

Dravenmoor roared in rage. He swung his sword again, trying to strike him with fury, but Aemon was faster. He dodged and, with a cry of effort, delivered a quick blow to Dravenmoor’s chest. The impact was enough to make the warrior stagger, suppressing his arrogance with a flicker of surprise.

O poder de Aemon estava aumentando agora. A magia de Cerys começou a diminuir, mas o príncipe não deixaria que isso o parasse. Ele respirava pesadamente, mas com determinação renovada. A cada movimento, ele sentia sua resistência e força crescerem. Cada golpe parecia mais preciso, mais firme. Aemon não era mais um príncipe frágil. Ele era um guerreiro e, agora, lutava por algo muito maior.

Dravenmoor, por outro lado, estava visivelmente enfurecido, seu corpo suando, músculos tensos e olhos brilhando de fúria. Ele sabia que o tempo estava se esgotando. O príncipe não era mais um alvo fácil. Ele agora era uma ameaça, e isso o enfurecia ainda mais.

A luta continuou, um jogo mortal entre dois titãs. O campo de batalha estava cheio de sombras e fumaça, mas o que permaneceu claro para Aemon era seu único objetivo: derrotar Dravenmoor. Ele sabia que Cerys não poderia mantê-lo de pé para sempre. O tempo estava se esgotando.

Cinco minutos.

Aemon tinha apenas aquele tempo para vencer. E ele venceria.