The battlefield was a nightmare of screams and steel.
Mud clung to Valen's boots like rot, thick and red with blood. The stench of death hung in the air, iron, sweat, shit, and burning flesh, a scent that clawed its way down his throat and would never leave him. His sword had shattered hours ago, broken clean through after blocking a jagged axe swing. Now he fought with a bloodied spear he had torn from a corpse, the haft still slick with the last man's life.
He was numb. His arms burned from overuse. His vision blurred from the smoke. His ears rang with a hollow echo, the world reduced to a low hum beneath the chorus of agony.
Bodies littered the earth like broken dolls—men who had names, who had dreams. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, eyes wide in shock, mouths open mid-scream, their stories unfinished.
Valen stumbled over a corpse,.his own boot catching on a snapped spine, and dropped to one knee. He barely felt the pain in his ribs anymore, though he knew he had been cut. Blood soaked his tunic, sticky and warm. His hand gripped the spear tighter.
"VALEN!" a voice cried.
He turned instinctively. For a moment, hope flared in his chest, Dorin?
But it was not his friend. It was Kael.
Kael's face was smeared with soot and blood. He ran toward him, ducking under an arrow, his once calm expression twisted in terror.
"They're falling back!" Kael shouted, breathless. "We have to—!"
The sound came from nowhere. A crack like the world splitting open.
An explosion. Fire erupted behind Kael—then silence, a heartbeat.
Then Kael was gone.
No scream. No final word. Just blood and smoke and a piece of his arm still twitching in the mud.
Valen couldn't move.
Kael, who had spoken of gods and the soul. Kael, who had smiled softly in that rickety cart and promised a greater world beyond pain.
Gone.
Burned away like paper.
"Kael?" Valen whispered, breath catching in his throat. "Kael—?"
He staggered forward, fell to his knees where Kael had stood, digging through the dirt with shaking hands. Nothing left. Just torn fabric. Flesh. Ash.
"No... no... not like this…"
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Valen, we have to move!"
Tolan.
But Valen barely recognized him. The older man's face was half-burned, one eye swollen shut, a gaping wound across his thigh. He was limping, dragging another wounded soldier across the field. Blood streamed from his arm, painting the dirt beneath him with every step.
"We can't stay here!" Tolan barked. "The line's broken, they're surrounding us!"
Valen stared at him, wide-eyed, hollow.
Tolan's face hardened. "You *listen* to me, boy. You can mourn later. Right now, you fight."
Valen clenched the spear, nodding.
Then came the scream,.high, shrill, broken. Tolan's head snapped toward the sound.
An arrow punched through his throat. His eyes widened. A choking gasp, blood bubbling between his lips.
He fell.
Valen caught him, trembling.
"No... no, no—Tolan—!"
Tolan's mouth moved. A whisper, barely heard.
"Make it matter."
Then he was gone.
Valen screamed.
The sound tore from his chest, raw and animal and full of all the pain he'd held inside. Kael. Tolan. Gone within minutes. Dorin, where was Dorin? He'd lost sight of him hours ago in the chaos. Was he alive? Was he one of the countless corpses lying forgotten beneath the smoke?
Valen stood slowly, spear in hand, heart shattered.
His world was death. Fire. Screams. Blood.
He should have died. He *wanted* to die,. but their voices echoed in him.
Tolan's strength. Kael's belief. Dorin's laughter.
He couldn't die yet.
Not until it mattered.
Not until someone *remembered*.
So he kept walking.
Through the fire. Through the dying.
Alone.