25. Twenty-Two

I stood atop the castle wall, the bitter wind whipping at my hair and stinging my eyes. Ruith looked every inch the warrior king astride his midnight charger, ready to face the enemy.

Beside him, Daraith sat on his mount to command the undead at his back. The undead horde shambled restlessly behind them, the sound of bones clattering against metal echoing up from the battlefield.

The sharp clang of steel rang out as Klaus Wolfheart readied his men for the charge, his harsh voice carrying across the barren field. I could almost feel the thundering of hoofbeats in my bones as the Wolfheart cavalry assembled with their swords at the ready. Behind them were thousands of Wolfhearts on foot with swords and shields, and thousands more mages, each one trained to fight since birth.

The Wolfheart cavalry surged forward in a thunderous charge, the ground shaking beneath the pounding of hooves. The undead vanguard braced to receive them, skeletal hands tightening on rusted weapons.

The two forces clashed with a deafening impact, the sickening crunch of bone and sinew mingling with the screams of men and horses. The Wolfheart riders plowed through the first line of undead, swords hewing through dead flesh and yellowed bone. But the dead did not fall easily. They clawed at the living, dragging men from their saddles and ripping them apart limb from limb.

Katyr's voice rose as he came up on the wall and ordered our mages to erect a shimmering barrier between our forces and the enemy. The air crackled with magic and a translucent wall shimmered into place that would shield us from any magic or arrows.

But Vinolia was holding her mages back, just out of range of our spells. A cold knot of dread formed in my gut. They were biding their time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. When they did, it would be devastating.

Niro led the Broken Blades in a daring charge forward. They slammed into the Wolfheart flank, lances and swords flashing in the grey light. The enemy line buckled under the onslaught, men crying out as they fell beneath hooves, swords, and spells.

Beside me, the archers nocked their arrows, bowstrings drawn taut. At a barked command from their captain, they loosed a volley, the shafts hissing through the air. I tracked their flight, watching as they found their marks, punching through armor and felling Wolfheart riders.

But the Wolfhearts rallied swiftly, their discipline and training evident as they regrouped and pressed forward, undaunted. The Broken Blades wheeled around for another pass, hooves churning up clods of muddy earth, but the enemy was ready for them this time. They met the charge head-on, swords clashing and horses screaming.

I gripped the ramparts until my knuckles whitened, heart pounding as I watched the chaos unfold below. The undead vanguard was starting to crumble under the relentless onslaught of the Wolfheart cavalry. Skeletal warriors fell by the dozen, crushed beneath hooves or hewn apart by blades.

Ruith was in the thick of the fray, cutting through the enemy ranks. Dark blood splattered his skin and matted his raven hair, but he fought on with a savage grace, seemingly unaware that the line was buckling next to him.

My breath caught in my throat as I watched the undead line crumble beneath the relentless onslaught of the Wolfheart cavalry. Ruith fought on, but even his prowess could not stem the tide alone.

The elven army surged forward to meet the enemy. The air rang with the crash of swords and the cries of the fallen as the two forces met in a brutal clash.

Beyond, the Runecleaver mages finally stirred. The air crackled with energy as they unleashed their first volley of spells. The air shimmered with heat as great gouts of flame spewed forth, searing flesh from bone and reducing men to ash where they stood. Jagged spears of ice materialized out of the air and pierced through armor as if it were paper.

I watched in horror as the elven line buckled under the onslaught of Runecleaver magic. Soldiers screamed as they burned alive inside their armor, flesh sloughing from blackened bones. Others shattered like glass, impaled by jagged spears of ice. The acrid stench of charred meat and the coppery tang of blood choked the air.

Ruith's forces fell back in disarray, retreating behind the shimmering barrier Katyr's mages had erected. The Wolfhearts and Runecleavers surged after them, triumph etched on every face. They thought it was a full retreat, that victory was within their grasp.

But I knew better. This was a feint, a calculated gambit to draw the enemy in. The trap was set, and they were blundering right into it.

The Broken Blades continued their daring strikes against the flanks, harrying the enemy and keeping them off balance. Niro led the charge, his sword flashing as he cut a swath through the Wolfheart ranks. But even their valor could not compensate for the sheer numbers arrayed against us.

I gripped the ramparts until my fingers ached, my heart a lead weight in my chest as I watched Ruith's forces losing ground. The shimmering barrier wavered under the relentless barrage of enemy spells, the mages straining to maintain it.

"Hold," Katyr called. "Not yet. Hold steady! Now!"

At Katyr's command, our mages unleashed their power. Brilliant bolts of lightning arced from their outstretched hands, searing through the enemy ranks. The smell of ozone mingled with the stench of charred flesh as Wolfheart and Runecleaver mages alike convulsed and fell, their bodies blackened and smoking.

Fireballs streaked across the battlefield, exploding amidst the enemy host in searing blossoms of flame. Men screamed as they burned, flailing wildly before crumpling to the blood-soaked earth. The barrage of destruction carved paths through the enemy lines, scattering their formation like chaff before the wind.

I watched in grim satisfaction as the tide began to turn, our mages' power evening the odds. Katyr stood tall beside me, his flawless features set in concentration as he directed the magical onslaught with deft precision.

Ruith and the elven army rallied in the face of this newfound advantage, surging forward to clash once more with the enemy. I caught flashes of Ruith in the chaotic melee, a streak of black on black cutting down foe after foe.

Ruith led the charge, his blade flashing in deadly arcs. The Wolfheart forces fell back under the renewed attack, their line buckling and breaking. The Runecleaver mages redoubled their efforts, unleashing spell after devastating spell. Fire and lightning ripped through the elven ranks, the screams of the dying filling the air. But Katyr and our mages met them blow for blow, the two sides locked in a deadly duel of arcane might.

I gripped the ramparts, my knuckles white as I watched the tide of battle seesaw back and forth. One moment it seemed Ruith would break through, the next the enemy surged forward, forcing him back. My heart hammered against my ribs, every fiber of my being screaming that I should be down there with him, fighting beside him.

But I had made a promise. And so I remained on the wall, muttering a silent prayer to my gods and his that we would prevail.

A flicker of movement on the far horizon caught my eye. I squinted into the distance. At first, I thought it was merely a trick of the light, a heat haze shimmering above the blood-soaked earth. But as I watched, the mirage resolved into a line of riders, their forms growing clearer with each passing moment.

I called to one of the spotters on the wall and took his spyglass from him, peering through the lens at the approaching riders in the distance. "Do you recognize those sigils?" I asked, handing the spyglass back to him.

He took the glass and pressed it to his eye. "No, sir.

Katyr took the glass from him. "Wait…That's Lord Kudai's sigil. They're Yeutlanders. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands."

Hope and dread raced through me in equal measure. Ruith had been expecting Kudai to send an answer once he found out we had his niece, but he seemed to be expecting a few emissaries, not an entire army.

I didn't know much of the Yeutlands elves, but for what Ruith and Ieduin had told me. Just that they were a fearsome people, hailing from the frozen wastes of the far north. Fierce warriors and skilled horsemen, Ruith had said one Yeutlander counted for ten southerners in a battle. They had been at war with the southern elves for a generation, fighting for their freedom, and now they were here on our doorstep.

The line of Yeutlander riders crested the rise and poured onto the battlefield like an avalanche of steel and flesh. Their mounts were massive, shaggy beasts, more like bears than horses, their hooves churning the blood-soaked earth to a froth as they charged forward. The riders sat tall in their saddles, bows singing and arrows flying.

A cry went up from the enemy ranks as they caught sight of the new threat bearing down upon them. I saw fear flash across their faces, the sudden realization that they were now caught between two foes, their forces divided and vulnerable. Some broke ranks immediately, dropping their weapons and fleeing in terror before the thundering charge of the Yeutlander cavalry.

But most held their ground, turning to face this new enemy. They hastily reformed their lines, shields locking together, spears bristling outward like the quills of a porcupine. Mages took up positions behind the ranks, their hands already weaving the first glowing sigils of their spells.

The Yeutlanders crashed into their lines like a tidal wave slamming against a breakwater. The impact was tremendous, a bone-jarring collision of flesh and steel that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. Horses reared and screamed, lashing out with iron-shod hooves.

The clash of the Yeutlander cavalry against the enemy lines was like the crack of thunder, a percussion I could feel in my bones even from atop the walls. Through the spyglass, I watched in awe as the northern warriors carved a path of destruction through the heart of the opposing forces, their blades flashing crimson and their mounts trampling the fallen beneath their hooves.

The Yeutlanders fought with a wild, ruthless grace unlike anything I had ever witnessed. They moved as one organism, fluid and fast, striking like vipers and wheeling away before the enemy could retaliate. The staccato twang of bowstrings filled the air as they loosed volleys of arrows from horseback with uncanny accuracy, felling scores of soldiers with each deadly rain.

The loyalist army tried to retaliate, rallying their mages to send volleys of magic raining down on the Yeutlanders, but interspersed in the Yeutlander lines were massive painted flags that flared and rippled, drawing the spells to them like magnets and sending them rippling back at the enemy.

A triumphant cry rose from our forces as the Wolfhearts and Runecleavers broke rank and fled, the sudden arrival of the Yeutlanders shattering their resolve. I watched in amazement as the enemy lines crumbled, proud elven warriors scattering like frightened rabbits before the implacable onslaught of the northern cavalry.

Ruith's army surged forward in their wake, cutting down the stragglers and routing the remnants of the once-mighty host. The Yeutlanders wheeled and charged again and again, harrying the retreating foe, their ululating war cries echoing across the battlefield. It was a rout, a stunning reversal of fortune, that left me feeling light-headed and giddy with relief.

We had done it. Against all odds, we had emerged victorious.

I turned to Katyr, a wild grin splitting my face. "We did it! Ruith did it!"

Katyr smiled back. "So it seems."

I rushed down from the castle wall, my heart pounding. Now that the battle was over, I wanted to be with Ruith in this moment of triumph, to share in the glory of our hard-fought victory.

As I emerged through the front gate, the remnants of the battle still smoldered. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the coppery tang of blood. Corpses littered the ground, twisted and broken, their sightless eyes staring up at the leaden sky. I picked my way through the carnage, my boots squelching in the mud and gore.

As I neared the spot where I had last seen Ruith, a figure stepped out from behind a column of smoke, blocking my path. I skidded to a halt, my hand flying to the hilt of my sword. But as the figure resolved itself in the hazy light, a chill ran down my spine.

Senna.

The old overseer looked haggard and worn, his thin face gray with exhaustion and streaked with soot. His hair hung in lank tangles around his gaunt features, and his eyes glittered with a feverish light. Had he been absent from the battle? Or had he fought on the side of the Runecleavers and Wolfhearts?

"Senna," I said warily, my grip tightening on my sword. "What are you doing here?"

Senna's lips curled into a sneer as he took a step towards me. "What am I doing here? I'm witnessing the end of everything I've built, everything I've worked for, all thanks to you and that traitor, Ruith."

I stood my ground even as a tendril of unease coiled in my gut.

"You've ruined everything," Senna hissed, his voice low and seething. "The natural order, the way things were meant to be. Elves ruling, humans serving. Raids in the summer, rest in the winter. War in the north and peace in the south. That's how it's always been, how it should be. But you and Ruith… You couldn't be satisfied with the way things are. You had to go and throw the whole world into chaos. And for what? So a bunch of human chattel can play at being free? So you can live out some twisted fantasy of being Ruith's little prince?" He spat on the ground. "You're not free. You've just chosen to serve a new master."

Senna's words hit me like a physical blow, a vicious backhand that rocked me to my core. I stared at him, my mouth going dry as a bitter, acrid taste flooded my tongue. He was wrong. What Ruith and I had was real, a bond forged in blood and hardship, not some twisted master-slave dynamic.

But a small, insidious part of me couldn't help but wonder... was there a kernel of truth in Senna's poisonous words? After all, I was still a human in a world ruled by elves. No matter how much Ruith loved me, no matter how fiercely he fought for our cause, could we ever truly be equals?

I shook my head sharply, banishing the traitorous thought. No. I refused to let Senna's lies take hold.

I met Senna's hate-filled gaze with a defiant glare of my own, my hand tightening on the hilt of my sword until my knuckles whitened. "You're wrong."

Senna's face contorted into a mask of pure, seething hatred. "We'll see about that."

He moved then, a blur of sudden motion. There was a flash of dull metal, and a searing pain exploded in my gut. I looked down in shock to see a crude blade protruding from my stomach, Senna's gnarled hand wrapped around the hilt. He had concealed it in his sleeve, I realized, waiting for this moment.

The pain was indescribable, a white-hot agony that radiated out from the wound, setting every nerve ending alight. I staggered back, my hands coming up to clutch at the handle. I stared at the blade protruding from my gut, my mind reeling with shock and disbelief.

Senna's face loomed before me, twisted into a grimace. "You brought this on yourself. The primarch sends his regards."

He yanked the knife free with a vicious twist. I crumpled to my knees, hands pressed against the gushing wound, hot blood spilling between my fingers. The world swam in and out of focus, the edges of my vision darkening.

But even as I teetered on the brink of oblivion, some stubborn, defiant part of me refused to yield. With the last of my strength, I surged to my feet, drawing my sword in one smooth motion. The blade felt impossibly heavy in my hand, as if it were forged of lead instead of steel, but I gripped it tight and lunged at him.

Senna's eyes widened in shock as my blade slipped between his ribs, finding the black heart that beat within his chest. He stared at me, mouth agape, as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his lips.

"You..." he gasped, voice thick and wet. "You'll never..."

But whatever final curse he meant to utter died on his lips as I twisted the blade viciously, tearing through flesh and bone. Senna convulsed, a horrid gurgling sound rising from his throat, and then he went limp, sliding off my sword to crumple in a heap at my feet.

I stared down at his corpse, chest heaving, a strange sense of numbness stealing over me. It was done. Senna, the cruel overseer who had tormented me and so many others, who had sought to destroy everything Ruith and I had built, was dead by my hand. I had thought I would feel triumph in this moment, or at least grim satisfaction. But I felt only a yawning hollowness, a void where my heart should be.

And beneath that... pain. Searing, breathtaking pain radiating out from the wound in my gut. The rush of battle had allowed me to push it aside, but now it came roaring back with a vengeance. I pressed a shaking hand to my stomach, and it came away red and wet. Shit, I need to find a healer, and fast.

I staggered forward, each step an agony as fresh waves of pain radiated out from the wound in my gut. My hand pressed against my stomach, slick with blood that seeped between my fingers in a steady flow. The world swam before my eyes, the battlefield blurring into a hazy smear of mud and gore.

Pride swelled in my chest, momentarily eclipsing the pain. We had done it. Against all odds, we had emerged victorious. Ruith's vision, his unwavering belief in a world where all were free and equal, had carried us through.

I stumbled suddenly and couldn't rise. A cold realization settled in my gut. Senna's blade had done its work too well, and I was too far from any healer. The wound would claim me and there was little I could do about it, if anything.

I lay there on the blood-soaked earth, blood seeping out between my fingers with each labored breath. The sky above swirled in a dizzying kaleidoscope of gray and white, the snowflakes drifting down to melt on my cooling skin like icy kisses. A strange weariness stole over me, a creeping numbness that started in my extremities and slowly spread inward.

So this is what it feels like to die , I mused distantly, with a detached sort of fascination. There was surprisingly little pain now, the searing agony of Senna's treacherous blade fading to a dull, throbbing ache as my body began to shut down. The frantic rhythm of my heartbeat slowed and stuttered in my chest.

Tears blurred my vision, hot and stinging against my chilled cheeks. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not now, with victory so close at hand. Not when Ruith and I had endured so much, fought so hard for a future where we could be together without fear or shame. A future that now seemed to be slipping away like wisps of smoke on the icy wind.

If only I could see him one last time. There was so much left unsaid. So many things I should've done.

Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, the world around me fading into shadow. The din of the battlefield, the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded, seemed to recede into the distance, growing ever fainter. Even the pain was fading now, my body growing numb and leaden.

It wouldn't be long now.

I turned my eyes to the sky, watching tiny tufts of snow dance against the twilight sky. Even death could be beautiful in its own way.