With my Achilles split, my return to the war camp was less than dignified. For the last stretch of the journey, I practically had to crawl my way back. All the while, I was still clutching onto Edwards' head. Foot soldiers streamed past me as they stormed the city. Only one person stopped to help me after noticing me crawling on the ground. The stranger bent down and asked. "Are you okay?" He offered me his hand. Only when looking up did I recognize him. He was the same swordsman I had faced in the trials to enter the 1st legion. Accepting his hand, I thanked him for the assistance. He was kind enough to take me all the way back to the camp.
He gave me a strange look when he saw me clutching on to a decapitated head. Medics rushed towards me. The swordsmen left me in their care before rushing back to the battlefield. A single glance back showed me that we had already breached the wall. From this far away, it looked like a horde of ants streaming from a nest.
The medics wasted no time. Rough hands pulled me onto a stretcher, their movements efficient but far from gentle. I gritted my teeth as they examined the wound in my leg. One of them let out a low whistle when he saw the damage. "Wait!" Grabbing the shirt of one of the medics. "Take this to the colonel, tell him the king has fallen." The medic looked at the severed head with disgust, but took it anyway.
The head healer stepped forward and began his examination. "The Achilles is nearly severed," he muttered to the others. "He shouldn't even be conscious."
I did not respond. I only grit my teeth as they began to poke and prod my wound.
"Set it," another ordered.
Pain exploded after his command. It went through my leg as they forced the torn muscle back into place. My vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edge of my sight as a strained breath tore from my lungs. Even then, I refused to drop unconscious.
"Stubborn bastard," one of them muttered, though there was a hint of respect in his tone.
A thick, pungent salve was applied to the wound before a mage stepped forward, his hands glowing faintly with restorative magic. The sensation that followed was far from pleasant. It felt as though something was crawling beneath my skin, stitching together what had been torn apart. I welcomed it regardless. Only when they were done did I allow myself to lean back.
The battlefield stretched out before me. What had once been a city now resembled a carcass being picked apart. Flames licked at the edges of buildings, black smoke rising into the sky in thick columns. The sound of battle had not ceased. If anything, it had intensified. Screams echoed faintly in the distance, blending with the clash of steel and the thunder of siege engines.
"Captain."
I turned my head slightly.
Magnus stood a short distance away, his armor stained with blood that was not his own. His expression was as composed as ever, though there was something sharper in his eyes now. Something calculating "So, you succeeded."
"Of course," I replied flatly. "Did you ever doubt that I could?"
His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, as though searching for something beneath the surface. Whatever he was looking for, he did not comment on it.
"The city is collapsing faster than expected," he said instead. "With the king dead, their command structure fractured almost immediately. Resistance is scattered. Disorganized."
"That does not mean it is over," I said.
"No," Magnus agreed. "It does not."
For a brief moment, neither of us spoke. Then his gaze shifted past me, toward the burning city. "There is something wrong," he said quietly.
That caught my attention. "In what way?"
He did not answer immediately. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly, as though focusing on something far beyond what I could see from here.
"They are not retreating properly," he finally said. "No regrouping. No fallback positions. It is as if…" He paused.
"As if they have already accepted death?" I answered for him. "What do you think happens to a group of people who have been oppressed to the point of rebellion? They would rather die than be forced under someone's thumb again…"
The silence after my statement was broken when Alexander joined the conversation. "Rebellion? This is a holy crusade; they should be thankful we came to cleanse this filth." There was a madness in his eyes hidden so deep that I doubted even seeing it.
"There is nothing holy in invading their home and killing their sons and fathers. No, this is a war like any other." Alexander narrowed his eyes, watching me.
"From where I am standing, that sounds like blasphemy, brother." There was a challenge in his voice, one that I was not afraid to meet.
"And what if it is? I serve the kingdom and its people. Not some lofty gods." Offended by my words, Alexander chose to leave.
After he disappeared from view, Magnus spoke up. "Do you think it is wise to antagonize him like that?"
"Let me tell you a secret, Magnus. I just don't care. He could have been the king himself, and I would have done the same. There is no glorifying war with pretty words. There is no such thing as good and evil. Just two sides fighting for differing beliefs."
—
Bjorn stepped to the side, avoiding the sword that was aimed at his shoulder. A mace covered in frost struck the Yemeni soldier who had attacked him as Jurgen intervened. The blow caved in his skull, as it exploded in blood, bone, and brain matter. Bjorn took a moment to catch his breath. "Thanks," he said to his companion.
All around him, soldiers fought in skirmishes. The streets were covered in blood and bodies. Of soldiers and civilians alike. It was a chaotic mess. As a boy, he always dreamed of being a soldier. The bards that occasionally visited the village made it seem so magical. But there was nothing magical about what he was seeing now. Two enemies charged at him with polearms. Instead of wasting time with a pointless fight, he brought his warhammer down and cracked the cobbled stone floor underneath their feet. encasing them in a tomb of stone.
The battle had hardly begun, but it was already taking a toll on Bjorn's mind. He just hoped he had the strength to go on.
—
Colonel Bargrave was in his tent celebrating with a glass of expensive scotch. He had finally done it. His heart nearly skipped a beat when he saw Drakkus escape the city. But a sigh of relief escaped his lips when he saw an arrow strike the boy, causing him to fall down. Taking another sip of his drink, he reclined in his chair when a voice spoke in his head. "You have failed me for the final time."
The colonel's blood ran cold when he heard those words. "No, no, but I succeeded. The boy is dead damnit! I saw him go down with my own eyes!" He pleaded to the voice in his head. While shivers went down his spine. "Then do yourself a favor and look outside."
With no hope of refusing, he followed the instruction. Opening his tent flap, he saw the head of King Beltimore lying in the dirt in front of his tent. Laughter reverberated in his mind as his soul was sucked into his soulscape. Leaving him face-to-face with his tormentor. The silhouette of a man stood in front of him. He looked like a shadow with lightning crackling around him. The last thing Colonel Bargrave heard was laughter before his soul was devoured and replaced with something ancient and far crueler.