The battlefield stretched out before Lance like a graveyard of dreams and oaths. The rising sun, low in the sky, painted the land with a golden hue, but the light could not wash away the blood that soaked the soil. It glistened on shattered blades and the broken bodies of brave men, their armor dented, their hands frozen in the final grasp of defiance. Smoke lingered like a ghost across the hills, swirling above the dead in slow, mourning spirals. Crows already circled overhead, and the wind carried the bitter scent of ash, blood, and sweat.
Lance rode silently through the field, his horse stepping carefully over bodies, as if even the beast understood the weight of the moment. His eyes scanned the fallen. Most wore the cloaks of Alexander's host—men who had fought valiantly, if wrongly. But scattered among them were his own—his friends, his countrymen, warriors who had followed him into the jaws of death. He knew some by name. Others only by face. A few, not at all. Yet each one cut at his heart.
He dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the muddied earth. He knelt beside a young man whose helm had fallen off in death. The soldier's eyes were open, staring skyward with the frozen calm of one who would never see home again.
"I'm sorry," Lance whispered, voice thick with grief. "You shouldn't have had to die like this."
A sharp voice broke the silence.
"Found one!"
Lance turned. Axel stood a few paces away, dragging a struggling figure by the collar. He slammed the man into the ground, drawing his massive sword and pressing it against the man's chest.
"I'll kill him right here!" Axel barked. "Filthy snake. He's one of them."
Lance strode over quickly, raising a hand. "Enough!"
The man on the ground groaned, wincing as he propped himself up slightly. He was clearly Zul Kifar—shaved head, skin bronzed from the marshland, and lean muscles under light armor. A black cloak hung from his shoulders like a shadow. A crossbow lay nearby, but he made no effort to reach it.
His accent came out in broken consonants and long vowels, sliding through his words like silk. "I… I don' wanna fight no more. No more killin'."
Lance crouched down, eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"
"I said…" the man breathed heavily, looking from Lance to Axel's blade, still hovering inches from his chest, "…I wanna join ya. I ain't one o' them no more."
Axel scoffed, stepping forward again. "Like hell. We caint trust him! Could be a spy. Or worse. Let me end it here, quick and clean."
"No!" the man shouted, fear tightening in his voice. "Please! I ain't lyin'. My warlord—Ai'lar—he's gone mad. Used to fight fair. But now? He laughs while men burn. He's a monster. And Alexander… he's no better. You… you fight different. You show mercy."
Lance was silent for a long moment, his eyes locked with the man's. He saw the pain there. The desperation. The same look many of his own soldiers had before they joined him—not out of glory, but out of belief. Out of need for a future.
"What's your name?" Lance finally asked.
The Zul Kifar took a moment, his voice soft. "Bai'lork."
Axel growled. "This is a terrible idea, Lance. He's Zul Kifar. Their kind don't change."
Lance stood slowly and looked Axel in the eyes. His tone was calm, but firm. "Sometimes, the hardest decisions are the ones worth making. You don't think I know that?"
Axel didn't respond at first, his jaw clenched tight.
"My kingdom ain't like Alexander's," Lance said. "We believe in second chances. That's what makes us different. That's what makes us better."
He turned back to Bai'lork and offered a hand. The man hesitated, then took it.
"Mount up. We've got to catch the civilians ahead. Alexander's army will be on our heels before long."
Axel shook his head as he watched Bai'lork rise. "I hope you're right, Lance. But if he turns, it's on you."
Lance didn't answer. He swung up into his saddle and rode on.
---
A little farther along, Eryc stood alone among the bodies. His sword was buried halfway in the ground beside him. His head was low, hair falling in front of his face. Before him lay the body of a fallen enemy, barely older than himself. The soldier's face was peaceful, like he had died in a dream.
Lance slowed as he approached, his horse snorting softly. He dismounted and walked over quietly, standing beside Eryc.
"Did you kill him?" Lance asked gently.
Eryc nodded slowly. "He was charging at me… I… I didn't think, I just reacted." He swallowed hard, his voice raw. "You think… you think God can forgive me for this?"
Lance looked down at the soldier's body, then at Eryc.
"You protected yourself," he said softly. "He would've done the same. He was trying to kill you."
"But… I still ended a life," Eryc muttered. "How do I live with that?"
Lance placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You live with it by not forgetting it. You carry it—not as shame, but as reminder. A reminder that you're human. And being a knight doesn't mean being without guilt. It means fighting for something despite the guilt."
Eryc looked at him, eyes filled with questions too big for answers.
"You'll never be your father, Eryc," Lance continued. "And you shouldn't try to be. He had his path. You'll walk your own. Just keep walking. Don't stop here. Don't let this moment define you."
Eryc took a deep breath and nodded, wiping at his eyes with the back of his glove. He retrieved his sword and followed Lance as he remounted.
Lance rode forward, raising his voice. "We move now! The battle is over—but the war is not. Let's find our people and get out of these hills!"
The remaining warriors rallied around him, the sound of hooves and boots filling the morning air.
Eryc glanced back once more at the field, then pressed his horse forward, Lance's words still echoing in his heart.
---
The sun had long passed its peak, now casting a dim, tired light across the blood-soaked grasslands. The sky was still, almost too still, as if the land itself was holding its breath. Bodies lay strewn across the battlefield like discarded dolls — some mutilated beyond recognition, others resting as if asleep, their eyes glassy and empty. Buzzards circled overhead. Smoke from dying fires drifted on the wind, mixing with the stench of blood and burning flesh.
Alexander pulled his horse to a halt at the bottom of the gentle hill, where he looked up at the carnage they had left behind. His once-proud detachment of 300 was now a hollowed shell of 120 — tired, bloodied, and broken. He had sent them to hold the hill, to weaken Lance's forward march. And they had done so. But at what cost?
Behind him, his remaining forces limped onward — a battered snake slithering back to the main army, which now stood tall at 1,100 strong and camped some distance eastward. Alexander could see the distant shapes of tents and watchfires through the haze.
The sound of hooves brought him out of his daze.
Ai'lar rode up quickly, his black cloak billowing like wings behind him. His remaining eye gleamed with fury. His armor was splattered in blood — both his own and others — and his horse foamed at the mouth from overexertion.
Ai'lar reined in beside him. "What was th' damn point o' that?" he spat. "We earned nothin' but death. Dead men an' wasted breath, that's all."
Alexander didn't look at him. He kept his eyes forward, hands gripping the reins tight. "It bought us time," he replied flatly.
"Time?" Ai'lar barked, voice rising. "Time fer what? They ain't stopped. They ain't even slowed. All we did was get our best skirmishers killed."
Alexander turned his gaze slowly. His eyes were cold, like chipped obsidian. "You've always had a big mouth, Ai'lar. But lately it seems you've got no brain to match it."
Ai'lar stiffened in his saddle. "What'd you say?"
"I said," Alexander repeated slowly, "you've been stupid ever since you lost to Sir Gladion and let him take your eye. Since then you've let anger rule you. And now, it's clouding your judgment."
Ai'lar's good eye widened. His scarred face twisted into disbelief. "You callin' me stupid? After this? After you sent two hundred men to die like dogs?"
Alexander's jaw clenched. His nostrils flared, but he didn't raise his voice. "They followed orders. They fought well. They did their job." He paused, then added with more force, "You're the one who can't see the bigger picture anymore."
That one hit harder than a sword swing. Ai'lar bristled. His hand moved subtly toward the hilt at his side.
Alexander noticed.
And in that instant, Alexander's every instinct screamed to strike — to draw his blade and end the insolent fool. But he didn't. Not here. Not now. Not yet.
He dismounted instead. His boots thudded heavily into the dirt, crusted now with dried blood. The silence between them was sharp as a dagger's edge.
"The plan," Alexander said finally, his voice low, barely above the wind, "was never about winning that hill. It was about bleeding them. Disrupting their archers. Making them feel the weight of every step forward. We succeeded."
Ai'lar sneered. "You think Lance bleeds like the rest of us?"
Alexander glanced up at the smoke drifting in the distance — where Lance surely now rode, surrounded by fewer soldiers than ever. And yet...
"Lance," Alexander muttered. "He's not like the rest. I'll give you that."
Ai'lar grunted and turned his horse away. "Yer mad, talkin' about that man like he's some god."
"No," Alexander whispered after him. "I talk about him like he's a threat. Because he is."
Ai'lar didn't respond. He simply spurred his horse and rode off toward camp, the clatter of hooves receding into the distance. Alexander remained behind, standing alone among the fallen.
He took a slow breath, the scent of iron and ash filling his lungs.
His men passed by him in groups of four or five — tired, limping, wounded. Some looked at him with hollow eyes. Others refused to meet his gaze at all.
A young soldier — no older than sixteen — limped by with a bloodied bandage over his cheek. His sword was broken at the hilt. He stopped, saluted weakly.
Alexander nodded once. "You fought well."
The boy swallowed and kept moving.
Alexander turned his gaze to the west. Somewhere out there, Lance was regrouping. Always moving. Always commanding. The bastard had heart. That was his strength — his foolish optimism, his belief in people, his sense of justice.
And yet, Alexander couldn't help but admire it. Even envy it.
That's why he had tried to kill him first. He knew from the beginning — Lance was never going to be just another king to destroy. No, he was the only man alive who might actually change something. The only one who could make the people believe in something more than just survival.
Alexander clenched his fists at his sides, his face tightening.
"Just wait," he muttered aloud. "You think this was the worst of it? You think this was the game?"
A bitter smirk crept onto his face.
"I haven't even begun to play."
He turned from the battlefield, mounting his horse once more, and began his slow return to camp.
But in the back of his mind, that image of Lance remained — not as an enemy to kill, but as the one man he had to defeat completely.
Because if he didn't, Lance wouldn't just win a war.
He'd win the world.
And Alexander could never allow that.