Her words echoed across the battlefield, filling the soldiers with a fleeting moment of hope—a flickering candle in the midst of a storm. But that frailty was swiftly crushed when the barbarian chief, a monstrous figure of unfathomable size and strength, lunged forward with a terrifying ferocity, grasping Lyra by the neck in a brutal motion that seemed to suck the air from the very space around them. His grip was merciless, like a vise made of pure cruelty, his fingers clenching around Lyra's throat like iron shackles. Her feet barely touched the ground as she struggled to breathe, her wide, terror-filled eyes reflecting the eternal darkness of a tragic fate.

One of the soldiers, in a final flicker of bravery, stepped forward to aid her. But before he could take another step, a black flame engulfed him, as though the very darkness had manifested to consume him. The fire, fueled by some unspeakable magic, devoured his flesh and his hopes, his screams of agony lost in the air like the lament of damned souls. All the combatants froze, stunned, staring at the source of the attack. From it emerged a sinister figure— a woman cloaked in black, a garment spun from shadows, her eyes glowing with a malevolent red light—a spark of a roiling hell within her.

— Pathetic! — Her voice sliced through the air like a sharp blade, laden with disdain and pleasure, an echo of cruel laughter. — You really think you can win? These incompetent barbarians wouldn’t even need my help to crush you.

The woman, a powerful sorceress from an unknown domain, raised her hand, and a dancing black flame flickered to life at her fingertips, illuminating her face with a demonically cruel glow. The smile on her lips morphed into a bestial grin, as if every drop of blood shed around her was wine that intoxicated her.

Aemon, amidst the throng of pale, terrified faces, glanced around and saw the imposing figure of the barbarian chief holding Lyra, about to tear her head from her shoulders with the claws of a ravenous predator. The sight filled his heart with a wave of despair and rage, like a tumultuous sea swallowing a fragile vessel. Everything seemed to move in slow motion; Lyra's screams and the sorceress's cruel laughter echoed in his ears as he struggled against the last three remaining barbarians, a battle in vain, desperately trying to reach her.

The darkness of night, illuminated only by the fires of battle and the sorceress’s magic, became a suffocating shroud, as if the very night were conspiring to swallow them whole. Each dancing flame cast grotesque shadows that writhed and laughed, as though fueled by the pain and despair surrounding them. The air was thick with a terror that grew almost palpable, as if hope itself was being strangled along with Lyra, each second dragging on as if time were slowly devoured by horror.

— This will be the last time I attack, — she said with a tone of contempt, her words piercing the space like poisoned arrows. The echo of her proclamation reverberated in every heart present, like a curse uttered, foretelling the imminent annihilation. The battlefield shifted into the realm of the bleak, where life and death danced a macabre ballet, and Lyra, in her agony, became a symbol of all those who had lost the war before it had even begun.

— I want to see more swords clash, I want to see blood spilled in a primal way. Before the barbarians could react, an archer, belonging to the flanking group Lyra had strategically deployed earlier, unleashed a precise shot. The arrow sliced through the air, striking a barbarian in the head, causing him to drop dead instantly. Shock spread among the barbarians, giving Aemon the chance to swiftly finish off one of the enemies before him, now facing just one opponent in a fair and balanced duel, while the rest of the soldiers surged forth, consumed by renewed fury.

Yet, as the battle escalated, the barbarian chief remained impassive, still gripping Lyra by the neck. He surveyed the chaotic scene, recognizing that the tide was turning against them. The barbarians were being cornered, and the effectiveness of the sorceress was coming into question. Realizing he could not rely on her assistance to secure his victory, he unleashed a powerful roar that reverberated across the blood-soaked battlefield:

— Stop attacking now, or I will kill her! His voice carried a chilling threat that froze the soldiers in their tracks.

Lyra, even as the deadly grip tightened around her throat, managed to whisper with surprising defiance:

— No... Keep fighting...

But her words were promptly interrupted by an even crueler squeeze. Her agonized screams echoed across the field, a haunting sound that pierced the hearts of the soldiers, forcing them to halt in place, paralyzed, unable to advance. The sorceress, observing the unfolding chaos, let out a cold laugh, reveling in the terror reflected in the eyes of all.

Aemon, still fighting fiercely, suddenly heard Lyra’s desperate cry. The sound sliced through his soul like a razor-sharp blade. Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprinted toward where the guards had stopped, running with every ounce of speed he could muster. Upon arrival, he was met with a sight that stole the breath from his lungs: Lyra was in the clutches of the barbarian chief, her life hanging by a fragile thread while the sorceress laughed, relishing the suffering that surrounded her, accompanied by the cruel jeers of the barbarians.

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Aemon felt a tempest of rage and despair swell within him. What could he do? Each passing second felt like an eternity as he watched Lyra struggle for her life. The tension was unbearable, a palpable weight that pressed down on his chest, suffocating him. He knew he had to act quickly, or it would all be too late.

The spiraling chaos of the battlefield faded into a muted roar around him, the sounds of swords clashing and the cries of battle drowned out by the deafening pulse of his heart. Every instinct screamed at him to help her, but the paralyzing threat hung heavy in the air, a dark cloud overshadowing the embers of hope still flickering in Aemon's chest.

— You won't take her from me! — his mind screamed, but his body felt rooted to the ground, caught in a web of fear and uncertainty. The barbarian chief’s smirk deepened, a grotesque grin that promised pain and loss, reveling in the very act of holding life and death in his hands, while the shadows of despair inched closer around them all.

Lyra’s gaze met his, a mixture of desperation and defiance, urging him on. But with each second, hope flickered weaker, the darkness closing in from all sides—he had to make a choice. Would he risk everything to save her or remain paralyzed by the dread that threatened to consume them both?

— Look, boy, how pathetic your impotence is, — the barbarian chief taunted, tightening his grip around Lyra's throat. — Every move you make, every decision you ponder, only brings her closer to death. Don’t you dare challenge me, or I’ll take great pleasure in ending her life right before your eyes.

Aemon fought hard to maintain his composure, but despair wrapped around him like a heavy shroud, suffocating and dark. His gaze met Lyra’s, and despite her pain, she struggled to communicate something— a silent plea for him not to give up. Yet her words were merely whispers now, almost inaudible, lost in the oppressive darkness encroaching around them.

— Aemon... — Lyra managed to murmur, her voice fragile, yet laced with determination. — Don’t... give up... please... they... just want to... destroy us...

The barbarian chief erupted with a grotesque laugh, the sound slicing through the chaos of the battlefield, making Aemon’s skin crawl.

— Shut your mouth, woman! — he roared, shaking her violently. — Do you think your sacrifice will mean anything? These weaklings are too scared to make a move! They fear us! His gaze swept over the soldiers, returning to Aemon with a fierce intensity. — Drop your weapon now! Or watch her life slip away before your eyes!

Aemon’s fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, his entire body trembling with a potent mix of rage and terror. But before he could decide his course, the icy voice of the sorceress cut through the thick tension.

— Ah, the drama... — she drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she savored the unfolding spectacle. — How I love watching a good show. But, chief, if you don’t mind, it would be much more entertaining to see how this "prince" handles his dilemma. She floated toward Aemon, her steps so light they barely brushed the ground, as if she were gliding on a tide of shadows. — Your life... or the glory of battle? What matters more to you, boy?

Aemon stared at the sorceress, his eyes burning with hatred, yet laced with a creeping doubt. He knew that at any moment, the barbarian chief could fulfill his dreadful threat. The weight of the choice pressed down on him, an unbearable burden tightening like a noose around his neck. If he surrendered his sword, perhaps he could save Lyra, but in doing so, he might condemn countless others. The very thought of witnessing her life extinguished by that brute's hands was a torment too cruel to bear.

The barbarian chief, sensing Aemon's hesitation, tightened his grip even further. Lyra gasped, a pained scream escaping her lips, a haunting sound that echoed through the battlefield, sending chills down Aemon's spine. The forest surrounding them felt alive, shadows slinking through the trees, the crackling flames from the fight casting lurid shapes that danced grotesquely in the gathering darkness.

The cold night air hung thick with dread, the fading scent of blood mixing with the cloying smoke rising from the remnants of battle. The distant cries of the wounded melded into a symphony of despair, each note a reminder of the fragility of life. Aemon felt the claustrophobic pressure of the encroaching darkness, each heartbeat reverberating louder, drowning out the cries of chaos around him.

He was lost in a storm of conflicting emotions, each thought clashing like swords against his resolve. What should he choose? Lyra’s life dangled from a thread of raw terror, the very future forged in the flames of combat, and Aemon knew that the path he would take would forever alter the fates of them all.

The barbarian chief leaned closer, the shadows constricting around them like the tendrils of a living nightmare, his cruel smile dripping with malice.

— Make your decision, boy. Time is running out, and your precious Lyra is fading...

With those words, the battlefield dissolved into silence. The air thickened, each glance exchanged between the soldiers a silent testament to the fear and uncertainty binding them. Aemon could feel the suffocating weight of inevitability closing in, a precipice upon which he stood, teetering on the brink of irrevocable loss. The only sound left was the ragged whimper of Lyra’s breath struggling for life, a sound that pierced through the darkness, a desperate call for salvation amidst the encroaching doom.