Aemon took a deep breath, feeling despair consume him. His gaze shifted to Lyra, and he knew he couldn't let her die because of his indecision. He began to lower his sword slowly, his eyes fixed on the barbarian chief, but something within him prevented him from fully letting it go. The flames around him crackled like fiery serpents, casting distorted shadows on the stone walls nearby, and a smell of smoke and blood hung in the air, almost suffocating.

— Do you really believe that killing an undefended woman will make you a leader? — Aemon asked, his voice low but challenging. — If you kill her, you won't just be ending her life. You'll be sealing your own fate.

The barbarian chief hesitated for a moment, narrowing his eyes, the firelight reflecting in his hardened gaze.

— Do you think you can intimidate me, boy? — he asked, but his voice lacked the same certainty it had before.

The sorceress laughed again, but this time with a tone of impatience, her figure framed in the shadows seeming even more threatening.

— Oh, chief... don't be a fool. If he doesn't surrender, kill her and be done with it. And if he surrenders, well, you'll know he isn't worth anything. — She stepped closer to Aemon, her eyes shining with cold cruelty. — What will it be, prince? Her life or the weight of your sword?

The tension was palpable, the air thick with a darkness that seemed to suffocate everyone. Aemon knew that the decision he made in that moment would define not only his fate but the fate of all those around him. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to find the strength to do what was right. The flickering flames cast a tragic glow on Lyra's face, while the shadows around her twisted as if witnessing Aemon's internal struggle.

Then, with a swift motion, Aemon raised his sword again, pointing it directly at the barbarian chief.

— If you kill her, I swear this sword will be the last thing you see before you meet your end. — Aemon's voice was firm, unyielding. — You may try to intimidate me, but know this: no matter what happens, you will not leave this place alive.

The barbarian chief narrowed his eyes, uncertain for a brief moment, but before he could respond, the sorceress stepped forward, her patience clearly wearing thin, like a storm ready to break.

— Go on, do what you must. — she hissed, disdain evident in her voice. — Or do you, chief, fear a mere boy?

The provocation struck deep within the barbarian chief, his pride wounded. He roared in frustration, tightening his grip around Lyra's throat, who was now struggling to breathe. The cold wind cut through the battlefield, bringing a foreboding omen as the sky darkened with threatening clouds.

— So be it! — he shouted, raising his free hand to deliver the final blow, his voice echoing like thunder.

But before he could act, Aemon stepped forward, his eyes burning with fierce determination.

— Let her go now, or it will be the last thing you do in this world.

The barbarian chief hesitated, his eyes locked with Aemon's, trying to gauge the truth behind his words. The silent battle between them continued, as Lyra fought for each breath, her life slowly slipping away, surrounded by the darkness that seemed to feed off her suffering.

The sorceress, watching the scene with interest, finally approached the barbarian chief, placing a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that felt like death itself was claiming its dominion.

— Let him fight, chief. — she said softly, her voice a dangerous whisper, like the wind in dry leaves. — Let's see how far this prince's courage will go.

The barbarian chief, still holding Lyra, looked at the sorceress, then at Aemon, and finally let out a frustrated growl. He threw Lyra to the ground with force, making her fall, breathless, at Aemon's feet. The sound of the impact echoed through the shadows, like a lament lingering in the air.

— So be it, boy, — he said, his voice filled with contained rage. — But know this: your end is near. And I will be the executioner who sends you to hell.

Aemon quickly crouched down, helping Lyra to her feet, his heart still pounding furiously in his chest. He looked at the barbarian chief, knowing that the true battle was about to begin, while the darkness around them seemed to close in even more, transforming the battlefield into a nightmare scene.

The tension was unbearable, but Aemon knew he couldn't falter. The true struggle was just beginning, and he couldn't afford to lose. Not now. Not with so many lives at stake.

The darkness enveloped the battlefield like a heavy cloak, the silence broken only by the moans of the wounded and the crackling of the bonfires casting dancing shadows over the exhausted faces of the soldiers. Lyra was weak but still alive, tended to by some guards who carefully helped her up. Her face was pale, her eyes half-closed, but she managed to murmur a few words to Aemon.

— Don’t... leave... me... here...

Aemon knelt beside her, his eyes locked onto hers as he tried to stabilize her irregular breathing, the shadows surrounding them seeming to twist in anguish.

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— You will be safe now, Lyra. — Aemon's voice was firm but gentle. — They will accept you back. I will take care of the rest. Do not worry.

Lyra tried to protest, but the pain was too intense for her to form coherent words. Aemon signaled to the guards, and they began to move her away while the other soldiers looked at Aemon, waiting for orders, anxious under the weight of the fate that hung like a sword over them. The battlefield was ready for what was to come, and the crackling flames seemed to cast a dark warning to all: the true darkness was just beginning to unfold.

One of the guards, with a worried expression and eyes filled with uncertainty, approached him as the wind whispered among the fallen corpses.

— What do we do now, prince? — the soldier asked, his voice trembling, almost lost in the haunting echoes of battle. — We are at a disadvantage, and these barbarians are brutal. We cannot risk more lives.

Aemon took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the battlefield where the fallen and wounded bodies told the story of a bitter struggle, a story marked by pain and defeat. He knew he needed to make a quick and decisive choice, and the darkness of the night seemed to swallow his hopes.

— I have a plan — he finally said, his voice resolute, though a slight tremor in his hand betrayed the pressure he felt. — But I need you to take the hostages and the wounded to a safe place. I don’t want anyone else to be harmed because of me.

The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances, but there was undeniable respect in their eyes. Even injured, even facing such powerful enemies, Aemon refused to give in to the despair that threatened to envelop him like a dense fog.

— But, my lord, what about you? — another soldier asked, clearly concerned, his gaze fixed on Aemon's wounds. — We cannot leave you here alone.

Aemon shook his head, determination gleaming in his eyes, though a shadow of doubt crossed his mind.

— Do as I say. Take the hostages and the wounded to safety. There’s no time to waste.

Before the soldiers could protest, the cold, cutting voice of the mage echoed across the battlefield, slicing through the silence like a sharp blade.

— And what exactly do you intend to do, prince? — The question was filled with malicious curiosity, as if she already knew the answer and was merely enjoying the unfolding anguish.

Aemon looked at her, his eyes hardening amid the pain and anger. Without answering directly, he walked slowly to where Lyra's sword had fallen, still stained with the blood of battle and the cruelty of the defeated. He crouched down, picked up the sword, and raised it, the metal reflecting the flickering light of the surrounding fire, a glimmer dancing like the last breaths of hope. When he lifted his head, his eyes were fixed on the barbarian chief, who watched him with a look of distrust and rage.

— You and me, chief — Aemon said, his voice carrying a challenge, but also a hint of desperation. — One against one. None of your men, none of mine. Just the two of us.

The barbarian chief laughed, a rough, disdainful sound echoing in the darkness like a foreboding omen of death.

— A duel? Do you truly believe you stand a chance against me, boy? — He looked at the sword in Aemon’s hands, and his smile widened, like a predator before its prey. — You're desperate. That's obvious.

Aemon did not flinch. He kept his eyes fixed on the barbarian, ignoring the venomous words as if they were merely the breath of the night wind.

— If you are so confident in your victory, then accept the challenge. — Aemon took a step forward, his words carrying a fierce determination, but a shadow of doubt almost made him hesitate. — But I demand that the hostages and wounded be taken to safety. I do not wish for more innocents to be harmed this night.

The mage observed the exchange with renewed interest, her eyes shining with the prospect of further bloodshed, like a child entranced by a macabre spectacle. She approached the barbarian chief, her movements graceful but with a dangerous aura that made Aemon’s heart race.

— And what are the terms? — she asked, her voice full of sarcasm and curiosity, as sharp as the blade before her. — What do you gain if, by some miracle, you win?

Aemon ignored her, keeping his gaze on the barbarian chief, while the tension in the air became palpable, almost suffocating.

— There are no terms apart from the duel. — Aemon replied, his voice firm, but with an underlying tremor. — One against one. If I win, your men will leave us in peace, and the hostages can depart safely. If you win... — He paused for a moment, then continued, his voice dark as the closing night. — Then you will have what you want.

The barbarian chief looked at Aemon for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, evaluating the prince, like a hunter savoring the emotional struggle of his prey.

— And why should I trust you? — he finally asked, his voice filled with suspicion, as if knowing a prince was willing to sacrifice his life brought a bitter satisfaction.

Aemon gave a somber smile, a reflection of the duality within him.

— You don’t need to trust me. But if you refuse, your men will see you as a coward. And they will know you fear facing a single man.

Aemon's words struck the barbarian chief like a blow, penetrating the armor of his arrogance. He clenched his fists, rage shining in his eyes like the gleam of blades poised for war. But before he could respond, the mage intervened, her voice soft and dangerous, resonating like a siren's song that lured the unwary to death.

— Accept the duel, chief. — She whispered, a cruel smile forming on her lips, as if she could already see the end before it unfolded. — It will be a worthy spectacle, and I would love to see how it concludes.

The barbarian chief hesitated for a moment, the weight of the decision carrying immense gravity, but then he nodded, his eyes locked on Aemon, now more deeply immersed in darkness.

— Very well, boy. One against one. But know this: your death will be slow and painful. And I will make you suffer for every second you dared to challenge me.

Aemon did not back down. He stepped forward, keeping his gaze steady on the barbarian and the shadows of an uncertain future.

— Let the hostages and the wounded go. — He said calmly, as if making a final request on a night of despair. — Then we will settle this as warriors.

The barbarian chief signaled his men, who began to pull away, allowing the guards to take the hostages and wounded to safety. With each step they took, the silence over the battlefield grew heavier, the tension mounting until it became almost palpable, a storm about to unleash upon them, as death and destiny approached them slowly.