Aemon struggled to rise, his body swaying as if every part of him had been crushed under the weight of his own will. His arm hung limply by his side, useless, and each breath felt like an agonizing stab to his chest. Dravenmoor’s gaze was a mix of dark satisfaction and wildness, as if watching the prince’s attempt to rise was both amusing and pathetic.

— Yes... Dravenmoor muttered, almost to himself. — Show me what you're made of, boy.

But after only three staggering steps, Aemon fell again. His body, so young and once filled with promise, had reached its breaking point. The sound of his body hitting the ground was like a thunderous symbol of defeat. Bones protested with every movement, and the cold, sucking mud seemed to swallow him whole, as if it wanted to drag him into oblivion.

Dravenmoor halted, his eyes shifting from fascination to contempt as he looked at the fallen prince. His grip on his sword tightened, veins bulging like snakes ready to strike. Suddenly, he roared with fury, a deep, guttural sound that made the very earth tremble beneath his feet.

— Ceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerys! he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the shattered village. — You promised me a warrior! The son of Corvinus! Not a boy holding a sword!

His words echoed across the battlefield, blending with the distant screams of soldiers still fighting and the crackling of flames consuming the remnants of the village. Dravenmoor paced back and forth, like a beast in a cage, while his men watched him with a mixture of fear and awe.

At the top of the Volcrist castle, Lady Cerys stood at her war room window, gazing into the distance as the battle unfolded below. The moonlight glinted off her jewels, but her eyes were focused on the horizon. When she heard the distant echo of Dravenmoor's shout, she smiled faintly—not out of joy, but of something far more bitter.

— As if a warrior within Volcrist’s Dominion could ever hope to stop you, Dravenmoor, much less Corvinus... she murmured, her voice low, tinged with resignation.

She knew exactly what she had set into motion. Dravenmoor wasn’t just a man; he was a living legend, a destructive force no ordinary warrior could defeat. There was no illusion in her mind that Aemon would win, but she also knew that every moment he remained alive was a small victory for her plans.

Back on the battlefield, Aemon remained motionless in the rubble. His mind was a blur, torn between pain and the desperate need to rise again. He heard Dravenmoor’s words, his name spat like an insult, and something deep within him, though fragile, began to ignite.

The battle was far from over, but for Aemon, the fight was now against himself, against the limits his body and soul could endure. And above all, against the looming shadow of Dravenmoor, who seemed to consume everything in his path.

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Dravenmoor’s massive, calloused hand seized Aemon by the throat, lifting him from the ground as if he were a mere ragdoll. The crushing force of his grip was suffocating, his iron fingers digging into the prince’s flesh. Aemon fought for breath, his weak arms flailing, trying in vain to loosen the deadly hold.

Dravenmoor stared down at the young prince with eyes that held the weight of years of war, scars, and dark memories. His voice was deep and bitter, like the rumble of thunder.

— You’re as weak as I thought, boy. There’s nothing of Corvinus in you. Your father... now, he was a worthy adversary. Not like you.

With every word, he tightened his grip around Aemon’s neck, the prince choking as his vision blurred.

— I fought Corvinus in battles that turned kingdoms to ash. He could have finished me off any of those times, but it wasn’t enough to take my pride. And look how he died... Dravenmoor chuckled, a bitter laugh full of disdain. — Poisoned. Not by steel, but by cowardice.

He raised his sword with his free hand, preparing to deliver the final blow, a death sentence for the son of his former foe. The blade gleamed in the moonlight as Dravenmoor spoke, almost as if sealing the prince’s fate.

— Don’t worry, prince. You’ll join him soon.

Before the strike could fall, a surge of heat exploded around them. A torrent of fire descended like a furious storm, engulfing both Aemon and Dravenmoor. The force of the flames was so intense that even the soldiers around them recoiled, shielding their faces from the searing heat. The ground burned, dust and smoke billowing into the air, swallowing the scene in an infernal blaze.

As the smoke began to clear, Dravenmoor stood unscathed. His body, blackened with soot and ash, remained unyielding. He still held Aemon by the throat like a trophy, a defiant glare in his eyes as he gazed into the horizon. His chest heaved, but he grinned, a cruel smile cutting through the haze of battle.

— Is that all you’ve got, weak mage? Dravenmoor shouted, his voice echoing like the roar of a beast.

From afar, Lilith emerged, walking through the smoke with her eyes blazing with fury. Her fingers trembled, not from fear, but from restrained rage. The flame she had summoned earlier still danced in her hands, like hungry serpents waiting to strike once more.

— Weak? she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm and venom. — You don’t know what strength is, old fool. But you’ll learn before this night ends.

Behind her, reinforcements had finally arrived. Volcrist soldiers, led by the eldest general, sprinted toward the battlefield, shouting in unison as they raised their weapons. The sound of swords clashing against shields and the roar of voices reverberated through the air, like a war symphony.

Lilith glanced at Aemon, dangling like a broken puppet in Dravenmoor’s grip. Despite the anger of being sidelined, a flicker of something deeper crossed her gaze—he was her weapon, her key, her most valuable piece on the board. And she had nearly lost him.

— I told you not to underestimate the world outside your history books, prince... Now look at the price you’ve paid.

Without waiting for a response, she charged forward, her soldiers close behind, ready to turn the tide of the battle. Dravenmoor, though surrounded, remained unfazed. He simply grinned, a smile filled with threat and confidence, as he tightened his hold on Aemon.

— Come then. Show me what Volcrist really has. Or are you all as pathetic as this boy?

The tension was palpable, like the calm before a storm. The balance of the battle was about to shift, and everyone knew that this moment would decide more than just Aemon’s fate. The fate of Volcrist and all the Dominions hung on the outcome of that fiery night.