Umbren stood confronted by seven soldiers. Sweat dripped from his brow as he stood there in fear.

He didn't know what to do now. Honestly there was no avoiding it. He was probably going to die. There was no way to escape his fate, his death.

He looked towards the bodies that lay on the blood-soaked ground.

The body nearest to him had been slain by his hand. The luxcian soldier looked young. His star pupils looked up into the sky lifelessly. His life stolen from him by Umbren's knife. Though not that Umbren was thinking of that at the moment.

Master Miglo laid further away; his hands still bonded behind him. He had been slaughtered like he was some sort of livestock. His crescent pupils now contained no hint of life. The insane man who committed the act now approached Umbren on his winged beast whose black eyes were glued to him, acknowledging his master's prey.

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Umbren looked towards the outcome of the duel a short way away from himself. Master Yorburn laid in the hands of his killer, coughing up blood. The killer who had used such a dirty trick in the duel, now whispered a prayer into Yorburn's ear. As the life went out of the general's eyes, the opponent slowly closed them. Getting up he stared at Umbren with sword in hand, with a look of pity on his face.

He now faced these killers, with only a single throwing knife in hand.

Yes, he was going to die. There was no use fighting against it. To do so would be like trying to stop waves from coming down on you. If he was to run away now, arrows would rain down on his back. If by some miracle they didn't, he would face the consequences of being a coward and surely be hanged. He was going to die.

He cursed his own mistake. Even now he questioned how such a small mistake had led to the scene before him.

Umbren looked towards the tent that held the fallen. His comrades, slaughtered by the enemy in front of him. He was nauseated by even the slightest thought of the scene that would greet him if he entered. Not that he would even get the chance to, and for that he was grateful.

Their deaths may as well have been on his hands. He bit down on his tongue, drawing blood, and questioned how such a small miniscule action could result in this.