Some ran on foot while others rode horseback, all hurtling toward the nearest river. Behind them, the forest fire roared like a living beast, faster and more relentless than any enemy. Flames licked at trees, devouring bark and branch with furious hunger. Human shrieks pierced the air—raw, desperate cries from those caught in the blaze, their flesh seared and blistering.
"Ride with haste, or the flames shall claim us all!" bellowed a man clad in hardened steel, his warhorse pounding the earth beneath them. His figure blurred, half-obscured by smoke and speed.
Fwoooosh—thunk.
Fwooshh—thunk.
Fwoooosh. Thunk.
From within the inferno, figures emerged—burning silhouettes of men and beasts. Some still rode, though their horses staggered beneath scorched flesh. Others moved on foot, their armor aglow with embers. Behind them, the remainder of the cavalry loosed arrows into the trees.
"To the rear—shadows move! The enemy presses!" one shouted, eyes wide at the shapes materializing from flame and shadow.
"Disregard them! Fall back at once!" the youngest general ordered, his voice sharp but strained.
He blinked rapidly, his vision unfocused, swaying with his horse's stride. His mind slipped into a memory he couldn't shake.
"…Corvus… Lord of Thrasocorvus…"
Around them, the chaos thickened. Trees collapsed, one after another, with groaning snaps that shook the earth. Horses reared and neighed, skittish from the crashing timber and choking heat.
"Flaming wretch—summon your gods and act!" one soldier yelled, wrestling with his mount. His voice cracked as his horse bucked violently beneath him. He fought the reins, leaning forward with white-knuckled desperation.
Fwip! An arrow found its mark.
It struck his back—missing his heart, but not his fate. His body lurched forward, slipping from the saddle.
"Julius!" a comrade cried out, horror seizing his voice.
"ANDRAAAS!" Julius shouted with the last of his breath as he tumbled, crumpling into the ash-stained earth, blood blooming through his tunic.
There was a strange pause, as if even the fire held its breath.
Then—the flames shifted.
The wildfire coiled like a serpent, spiraling inward, no longer pursuing the retreating Nicolaean war front. Instead, it turned on what remained of the Milladorii assault, surging forward in a merciless wave.
Andras raised his hands, each motion precise—guiding the untamed blaze as if sculpting fire itself. His hair shimmered with the hues of open flame, and his eyes gleamed like faceted embers, alive with power.
To the eyes of ordinary men—untrained and unaware—he looked like a madman, flailing in a fevered trance. But in truth, circles of varying sizes hovered in the air, shifting and spinning like the intricate cogs of a grand arcane mechanism.
At the river's edge, soldiers staggered to a halt, some dismounting, others collapsing outright. One dropped to his knees in prayer. Another vomited. Smoke painted the sky in thick streaks of gray and ochre. Water sloshed under boots, the river a cold salvation.
Far behind them, amidst the smoke and ruin, a lone figure stood still—his silhouette framed by fire.
His blood-red hair shimmered like burning coals, alive with an unnatural glow. In that moment, he seemed neither man nor mortal—something stranger still. Perhaps a jester, cloaked in flame and madness.
"Cum sanguine meorum atque hostium..." he whispered, "...te posco: carnem devora eorum quos non novi."
His voice was low, carried by the wind like a forbidden prayer—answered not by gods, but by fire itself.
He forced himself to listen—to truly listen—to the shrieks of his enemies, even as the forest around them crackled in ruin. The flames danced like possessed spirits upon bark and branch, turning nature itself into a pyre. Andras tore his gaze from the burning trees to his comrades.
The fire surged forward like a cresting wave before halting at the edge of the last tree, forming a wall of flame that loomed—tall, unmoving, alive.
His men were haggard. Black ash clung to their skin like rot, their armor scratched by the gnarled claws of the forest. Their chests heaved in painful rhythm. Only a few horses remained, trembling and exhausted, too frightened to make a sound. No one could fire a signal shot—there were no arrows left. The birds they carried for urgent dispatch had long since flown, panicked or lost.
The silence between the men was heavy, a silence born not from peace but from the weight of survival.
Andras inhaled deeply. The smoke scorched his lungs. He moved—slowly, deliberately—toward Julius, whose blood seeped into the blackened earth faster than the flames could consume the forest.
Most of the remaining generals had gathered nearby. Some sat on the ground, helmets removed and gloves discarded, their swords stabbed into the dirt beside them like gravestones. Others stared at the river, watching it flow—still and indifferent to the war, to the death.
No one cried. They knew. Julius would die, and sooner than they were ready to accept.
"Wipe that mournful look from your noble face, lad. You'll shame the sun if you keep it," Julius rasped, his lips twisting into a lopsided grin. Sweat drenched his face as if he'd bathed in it, and yet the blood—gods, the blood—still stained his tunic in streaks that almost looked ceremonial.
Andras stood inches away, unmoving. Like a statue of the God of War carved from grief.
He lowered his voice. "…Forgive me."
Julius shook his head weakly, eyes closed. "A soldier's fate comes swifter than a farmer's harvest. That is a truth carved in every shield."
A gust swept through the battlefield from the east, carrying with it the scent of coming rain. The sky began to shift—storm clouds gathering like vultures above. Andras clenched his jaw. The wind, the smell, the dying man—it all reminded him too much of a time before. One he had not yet healed from. He could have saved more, if not for that moment of hesitation.
"But damn you… reminiscing while steel still sang? Foolish, even for you." Julius coughed, specks of blood flying from his mouth as his chest shuddered with every breath. The cloth pressed against his wound was soaked through, useless now.
He gave a breathless laugh. "We all saw the storm in your eyes. The guilt is not yours alone to carry."
The others said nothing. But their silence was no longer empty—it was reverent. They listened as the man they had fought beside for years now tried to make peace with death in his own way.
"Look at that… the river still runs beautiful, even as we die," Julius murmured, his eyes unfocused. "When the tide of war is done, see that I'm buried beneath the sky. Nothing grand. Just peace."
There was a pause. A pause that felt like it held the weight of the world.
"Ah... Cleo. My darling Cleo..." Julius's voice cracked. "Oh, Cleo..."
His trembling hand moved beneath his tunic, fingers brushing his clavicle where a necklace rested. With one final surge of strength, he tore it free and held it up. The chain was thin, but the pendant—no, the ring—gleamed even through the soot and blood.
"Give this to her… and say these words for me…" he whispered, "... tell her… there's no need to wait any longer."
Andras took the necklace from him, fingers brushing his. He knelt, one knee to the ash-covered earth, and bowed his head. His grip tightened—not on the necklace, but on Julius's cold hand.
Julius's breath hitched. His eyelids fluttered like torn banners in the wind. Tears, unbidden, traced lines down his cheeks—cleansing none of the blood. Then came a single, heavy exhale.
His body stilled.
His eyes remained half-lidded, as though he was still watching the sky, unwilling to close completely. As though he wished the world to remember: his death came too soon.