The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, iron, and the distant crackle of burning fires. Dawn had not yet broken fully, but the battlefield before Aaron stretched like a canvas of chaos. The clashing of swords, the shouts of men, the creaking of armor—it all fused into an overwhelming symphony of violence.
Aaron stood at the front lines, his heart pounding in his chest. Beside him were Leo and their commander, their eyes fixed on the enemy soldiers ahead, a sea of men and women prepared to take their lives if it meant victory for their cause. The tension hung thick in the air, like the charged moment before a storm.
"Aaron," Leo's voice cut through the din, full of mischief as always, but beneath it, Aaron could hear the slight quiver of fear. "This is a bit more than what I signed up for."
Aaron didn't answer right away. He tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the familiar weight of the blade in his hand. He'd been through training, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of war, not like this.
His gaze flicked to their commander, who stood tall in his armor, his face grim but resolute. The commander's presence steadied Aaron. It was clear that despite the chaos surrounding them, the man's confidence in their mission was unwavering.
The battle horn sounded. A shrill blast that shattered the stillness and ignited the charge.
The soldiers around them surged forward, rushing into the fray with all the fury and desperation of those fighting for their lives. The clash of metal on metal rang out, drowning out all other sounds. Aaron's instincts kicked in, his training taking over as he swung his sword in a wide arc, cutting through an enemy soldier's defenses.
Leo, ever the optimist, parried a blow from an opponent and quipped, "Not bad, eh? Looks like we might actually make it out of here!"
Aaron didn't answer. His focus was sharp, his mind blank except for the rhythm of the fight. His sword was an extension of his arm, every movement deliberate, each strike designed to either kill or incapacitate. There was no room for hesitation.
A young recruit, barely a boy in his teens, fought beside Aaron. His eyes were wide with terror, his sword shaking in his hands as he faced a more experienced soldier. The boy's fear was evident, and in the chaos of the battle, Aaron's heart clenched for him. They were all here, thrust into a world they were barely prepared for. But it wasn't just the battle that took lives—sometimes, it was the fear and hesitation that made them easy targets.
"Stay focused!" Aaron shouted at the recruit, blocking a blow aimed at him before returning his attention to the enemy soldier in front of him.
As the battle raged on, the air grew thick with the scent of blood and sweat. Hours passed, and Aaron's muscles ached with exhaustion. The young recruits, many of them still untested in combat, were starting to show their strain. Aaron had seen too many fall already—boys who had barely stepped into manhood, their eyes wide with fear just moments before their last breath.
The commander's voice rang out across the field, booming over the noise of battle. "Push forward, men! Do not falter! We hold the line or we lose everything!"
Aaron could see that the commander, though grim, was determined. His face was smeared with dirt, his armor dented and scratched, but there was a fire in his eyes. He wasn't just leading them—he was fighting with them, every step of the way.
But the truth of the situation was undeniable. The battle had gone on for hours, and there were still no signs of victory. The enemy was relentless, their forces just as determined, just as desperate. The soldiers in Aaron's ranks were growing weary. And the worst part was, they couldn't retreat. There was nowhere to go but forward.
In the evening, as the first light of the day began to fade and the battle stretched on for hours into night, the air was filled with the constant clash of steel. The battlefield had become a brutal blur. The soldiers' exhaustion weighed heavily on them, but they could not afford to stop.
Leo, covered in grime, wiped the sweat from his brow, his face creased in exhaustion. "I'm not sure how much longer we can keep this up, Aaron."
Aaron didn't answer. His breath was heavy, his legs aching, but there was no choice. The fight was far from over. The commander had made it clear—they couldn't give up. Not now.
The battle had raged for three relentless days.
Steel had clashed with steel, cries of pain had pierced the sky, and blood had soaked the earth until it ran like wine through the trenches. The sun had scorched down on their armor by day, and the cold winds had chilled their bones by night. Every hour blurred into the next in a symphony of screams, galloping hooves, and the thunder of cannons.
By the evening of the third day, the battlefield was quiet. Not silent—never silent—but quiet enough for the sobs and groans to be heard clearly through the broken ranks. The enemy had finally retreated. A narrow, hard-earned victory. But it hadn't come without a cost.
Too many of the fresh recruits—boys like Aaron—had fallen. Aaron himself lay on the edge of a field tent, his tunic stained deep red. A crude bandage had been wrapped around his stomach, where a sword had caught him during the final push. He winced as the healer pressed against the wound, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Keep still," the healer muttered. "You're lucky it didn't pierce deeper."
Across from him, Leo sat upright, shirtless, a long gash across his back being stitched by another soldier with trembling hands. Leo gritted his teeth, but when his eyes met Aaron's, he gave him a crooked grin.
"Well," Leo said, voice rough, "at least we didn't die boring deaths, eh?"
Aaron gave a weak chuckle. "Speak for yourself. I'd have preferred boring."
Their commander, now a bloodied silhouette of his former self, walked through the rows of injured soldiers, shouting over the din. "You fought well, all of you! Rest now—we move again soon!"
He didn't spare individual words for any of them. No praise, no names. But Aaron didn't expect it. He knew the commander had seen the losses too—and the weight of them was heavy.
As night fell, fires were lit, and the remnants of the company sat huddled in the cold. Some cried silently. Others simply stared at the flames. The scent of blood, sweat, and smoke clung to everything.
Aaron leaned back, groaning, and looked at the night sky.
He thought of Aldric.
He thought of Evelyn.
Had she felt it too—that cold pull in the chest? That strange silence before the final clash?
He remembered her eyes, wide with worry the night before he left. Her voice, soft and trembling, asking if he'd come back.
He had promised. And now, with the wound in his side burning and the weight of the fallen pressing into his thoughts, that promise felt like the only thing keeping him breathing.
Leo shuffled closer, blanket thrown over his shoulders. "When this is over," he muttered, "I'm taking a week-long bath and eating five loaves of bread in one sitting."
Aaron snorted. "That's your plan?"
Leo nodded solemnly. "You can keep your oaths and revenge arcs. I just want carbs."
Despite the pain, Aaron smiled.
Tomorrow, they would march again. They had orders to press forward into enemy territory.
But tonight, they rested. Bruised, bloodied, and haunted by the shadows of those who hadn't made it.
And in the silence of the night, Aaron whispered into the darkness, "Princesa... I'm still fighting."
Only the stars heard him.