Torik tumbled to the ground, rolling hard against the churned soil as he carved through two more men. His muscles ached like coiled steel too long drawn. His vision swam. Blood dripped from his nose in thick droplets, joining the sweat that soaked his collar. He wiped it with a sleeve and staggered upright.
Keep going.
He gritted his teeth. You've done harder things than bleed.
Around him, the battlefield screamed. The clang of steel, the wet impact of flesh, the shouts of dying men, each sound a verse in a song Torik was never meant to hear. He'd been a thief, not a soldier. A liar, not a symbol.
He looked down at his hands, one still gripping the dagger slick with blood, the other trembling with strain. Musclebinding and veilbinding together had his body was screaming at him to stop. But he wouldn't.
Because they still needed him.
Because he still needed to be the man Kell believed he could become.
From the rear of the camp, a tent flap burst open as Kell stormed out, brushing past the doctors chasing him. His tunic clung to his chest with blood, left sleeve empty where an arm had once been.
"Highlord, please, you must rest! You've lost too much-"
"I need to be seen," Kell snapped, voice steel. "They don't need a corpse laid on a bed. They need to see I'm still fighting."
He limped forward, unsheathing his blade with his one remaining hand. The soldiers around the tent stopped. Some bowed their heads. Others watched with tear-streaked faces as their commander, arm gone, body weakened, blood-soaked, walked into the heart of the battle.
Kell of Valebast.
The man who wouldn't kneel.
Even to death.
Dama's sword met the knight's in a shower of sparks. The impact sent her skidding backward, but she spun, feet finding purchase as she drew her second blade from her belt. Her body burned with exhaustion, but she refused to slow.
A second knight lunged. She ducked low and swept one leg behind her, slashing through his thigh. He fell, groaning, and she plunged the tip of her sword through the gap at his collarbone.
Steel found armor. Steel found flesh.
She didn't care which.
"Come on then!" she shouted, voice hoarse.
Another came for her, but she caught the blade on her bracer and countered with an upward strike through the throat. The knight gurgled, staggered, and fell at her feet.
They were fewer now.
She turned and saw him.
Kell.
Walking through the carnage.
Blood streaked his side. His empty sleeve fluttered like a torn banner in the wind.
And yet he walked.
Soldiers, both theirs and the king's, paused. The clash around him softened as the sight of the maimed man forced something primal in them to stop. To watch.
Kell raised his sword. "If you all die, I'll die by your side!" he bellowed. "If we win, I win only because of your courage!"
It wasn't a king's speech. It was a soldier's vow. And it struck like thunder.
The men shouted and surged but it was not enough.
Dama looked around. Their numbers were dwindling. The push was slowing. The press of Galrick's men was overwhelming.
"It's not enough," she muttered.
Then she shouted: "It's not enough!"
Torik blinked through sweat-stung eyes. He heard her. Heard the hopelessness.
He turned, just as a blade caught his shoulder, spinning him. He landed hard and grunted, rolling to avoid the finishing blow. His body screamed for him to stop. But the words echoed in his mind.
It's not enough.
Kell's blood.
Dama's loyalty.
All of this, not enough.
He looked up at the sky. Clouds rolled past like spectators. Cold and indifferent.
"So it ends here," he said softly. He touched the chain beneath his collar. Mox's old chain.
"You were worthy, Kell. I'd do it all over again."
He shut his eyes and let the wind speak to him one last time.
Then-
A sound.
A deep, thundering horn.
It shattered the silence like lightning through glass. Followed by a second. Then a third. Long. Echoing. Defiant.
Torik's eyes snapped open.
He pushed himself to his feet and turned west.
From the hills, there they were.
Banners. Horses. Marching boots and glinting armor. Waves upon waves of them.
A second army.
And at its head,
Lord Trellion.
Kell grunted as he wrenched his sword free from a corpse. He barely heard the horn at first. His hearing had grown muffled, like the world was pulling away from him.
But then he saw it.
The glint.
The banners.
The shape of horses descending the hill.
Trellion's banners.
Kell laughed. A rasping, gasping sound that turned into a roar.
"They came!" he shouted, voice cracking.
They came!
Galrick blinked. He dropped his wine-skin and took a step forward.
"Well," he muttered, "that's unfortunate."
One of his officers pointed, pale-faced. "Highlord! That's-"
"I see it," Galrick snapped. "Trellion… I expected better. Thought I could tame him. Guess he wasn't as mercenary as I'd hoped."
He looked back to his men, now flanked from the west and pressured from the front.
"Reposition! Form ranks! Prepare for-"
But it was already too late.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!" Farris roared from his horse, sword high. "Once for your king! Once for your loved ones! And once for yourself!"
The army bellowed in response, a cry so raw it made the ground tremble.
"Lord Trellion's come!" someone shouted.
"Hold the line!"
"Push them back!"
The enemy lines broke like a dam under too much strain. Trellion's men smashed into their rear. Galrick's troops, caught between hammer and anvil, faltered.
Kell's forces rallied. Their hopelessness turned to vengeance. Their desperation into fury.
Dama leapt into the fray with renewed strength.
Torik, bleeding and battered, found himself smiling. Even now. Even when the odds had been impossible.
He spotted Maribel riding beside Trellion. She was dressed in armor now, her eyes set forward.
Torik grinned, lips bloodstained.
"Should've never doubted you."
He raised his blade and sprinted back into the storm.