The battlefield stretched far beyond what my eyes could see. The enemy's banners waved against the morning sky, their soldiers moving in disciplined formations, prepared to claim what was ours. Hedar had thrown everything into this final assault. If we lost today, Azov's borders would crumble.
I gripped the hilt of my sword tighter. My body already burned from the fever creeping through me—the price of leading under the scorching sun. The curse pulsed beneath my skin, coiling around my ribs like a serpent, whispering warnings of my impending collapse. But I would not fall. Not today.
"Hold the line!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the thunder of marching feet. The soldiers beside me braced their shields, the front ranks locking into formation. I rode past them, scanning for weaknesses in our formation, for wavering hearts. But they stood firm. They trusted me.
King Cyrus had placed this battle in my hands. And I would not fail him.