The battle was about to reach its climax, the inevitable conclusion drawing near. The battlefield, now consumed by a dense fog of smoke, was merely a reflection of everything that had transpired there. Blades still clashed, but their strength was waning, as if the universe itself knew that these two warriors had already reached their limits.

Aemon and Dravenmoor stepped back simultaneously, both gasping for breath, their bodies bloodied, their armor shattered. The sound of swords falling to the ground was the only thing that broke the silence, a silence heavy as a stormcloud. The smoke surrounding Aemon was thicker than ever, his body—not just wounded—seemed to be collapsing, as if flesh and bone were disintegrating before everyone’s eyes.

— You’ve reached your limit, Dravenmoor.

Aemon’s voice was hoarse and heavy, burdened with exhaustion that went far beyond the physical. His eyes burned, but the fire that had once ignited within him now seemed to waver. His body was cut, barely able to stand, and the armor that had once protected him lay in ruins, as if consumed by the very fire now coursing through his veins. Every breath was a struggle, every movement a searing pain.

Dravenmoor looked at him, his eyes burning with an uncontrollable fervor, but also with the acceptance that the end was near.

— You’re done, Aemon. Your flesh barely holds together. What’s left of you is nothing but a shadow of what you once were.

His voice was cold, but there was an unspoken respect, as if, in some way, he admired the prince’s resilience. Yet, deep down, he knew their fight was reaching its final moments.

Aemon closed his eyes, his breathing short and ragged, as if silently pleading for something—anything—to keep him standing just a little longer, to see the battle through to the very end. He knew his body wouldn’t last much longer, but his mind... his mind remained, unwavering, indomitable.

He opened his eyes, now filled with renewed determination, and with colossal effort, he spoke—his voice echoing through every corner of the battlefield.

— Do you know what this means?

Dravenmoor did not respond immediately, but his eyes gleamed with a dark understanding. He knew what was about to happen. He knew what that look meant. Aemon was beyond the point of return. Both of them were.

— I do.

Dravenmoor smiled—not a smile of victory, but of recognition.

— This is the end.

And in that moment, the battlefield grew even quieter. The smoke thickened, and darkness began to swallow everything around them. Aemon, Dravenmoor, their bodies on the verge of collapse... Yet both were ready for whatever came next. The end was inevitable, and neither of them feared it. They had reached something far beyond victory or defeat.

All that remained was the inevitable.

The battle was reaching its peak, a clash that would echo through the ages, a fight between two titans where the only remaining factor was sacrifice. Aemon was the first to lunge toward Dravenmoor, his body burning, wounds open, and a spirit that, though shattered, refused to yield. He advanced with the fury of a man who had touched the depths of darkness and refused to surrender.

Dravenmoor, in turn, watched the prince with eyes gleaming with a mix of respect and euphoria. He knew that, at last, someone truly worthy had stood before him. Someone who would not falter, someone who would do the impossible to prevail. And the challenge was set.

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When their blades clashed, a thunderous sound of metal shattered the night’s silence, reverberating through the field like a primal scream from the earth itself. The impact was so fierce that the torch flames flickered, and the cold night breeze seemed to vanish. The battle of forces was underway, their swords colliding, but this was more than just metal against metal. It was a clash of souls, a fight where determination mattered more than sheer strength.

Aemon, his muscles nearly torn apart, felt the unbearable pressure of Dravenmoor’s blade pushing him back. The warrior’s strength was overwhelming, yet the prince did not yield. Both were at their limits, fighting not just for victory, but for the acknowledgment of their ability to sacrifice everything.

— Come on, Aemon! — Dravenmoor roared, his voice vibrating with adrenaline. — Don’t stop now! Surpass your limits!

His gaze held something indescribable, a mix of desire and respect. He knew this moment was definitive, and he would give everything he had. In the end, the battle wouldn’t be won by the strongest, but by the one most willing to sacrifice it all.

And in that instant, fate decided which warrior would be the last one standing.

With a wild roar, Dravenmoor unleashed his full force. Aemon, already exhausted, barely reacted in time. Dravenmoor’s sword shattered the prince’s resistance, forcing him backward, and the impact was enough to break his defense. Aemon saw his own blade being knocked aside, and the cost was high. In a move of sheer survival, he stepped away from Dravenmoor’s sword, but he couldn’t avoid the final strike.

Aemon’s arm was severed with immense brutality. The sound of the cut was muffled by the sheer force of the impact. His arm was flung away, vanishing into the darkness, as if a piece of his humanity had been torn away forever. The battlefield seemed to freeze for a second, all eyes, including Lilith’s, fixed on the horror before them.

Lilith shut her eyes, unable to witness Aemon’s suffering. The soldiers, in synchronized motion, turned their faces, unable to endure the sight of such carnage. And then, as if the world itself was unraveling, Thorne collapsed to his knees, unable to bear witness to what he knew was the destruction of everything he had sworn to protect.

Fianna, her gaze cold, looked at Aemon, but what she felt was not compassion—it was something far darker.

— This... this is brutality. — She whispered, a cruel smile forming on her lips, almost admiring the scene, but in a disturbingly artistic way.

But amidst the chaos, only one voice recognized the magnitude of the moment. Cerys, watching from a distance, spoke with a serenity that contrasted with the despair around her.

— In the end, you won.

Aemon, his body already in ruins, knew the fight wasn’t over. The last breath of his humanity still resisted, and in the final milliseconds he had left, he gathered all the remaining energy within him. His muscles screamed in pain, his hands were drenched in blood, but he knew what he had to do.

He closed his eyes, not in surrender, but in a silent plea for something only he could summon now: one last chance. And then, in a move that seemed to defy death itself, Aemon gathered what little strength remained and, in one final, desperate strike, drove his fist into Dravenmoor’s heart.

The force was so immense that the impact hurled Dravenmoor backward, crashing with such pure violence that it penetrated flesh and bone, striking the warrior’s heart. The sound of the blow was muted, but the consequence was fatal. Dravenmoor, the titan, the hero, the unbeatable adversary, fell.

The battlefield trembled, as if the world itself was reacting to the death of a giant. The air grew heavy, the torch flames flickered, and the night seemed endless.

In the end, Aemon’s sacrifice had shattered the boundaries of the impossible. He, who had lost so much, who had nearly been destroyed by his own strength, had given everything to surpass that moment. Aemon, the prince, the warrior, the son, was now beyond man, beyond death, beyond all that could be imagined.

And so, on that battlefield, beneath flickering torches and disbelieving eyes, two warriors had fought until their last breath, until the final drop of blood. And the outcome would be something the world would never forget.