The battlefield had not yet forgotten Sarpedon's fall when Ariston and Aeneas clashed again.
Bronze sang on bronze, sparks skittering across the wet, crimson mud. Each strike echoed across the plain, a heartbeat against the roaring storm of men fighting for the fallen king.
The battlefield was a tide of mud, blood, and iron.
The cries of men—Greek, Trojan, Lycian—rose like waves, rolling and breaking across the scarred plain.
Every footstep sank,
every shield struck sent tremors through the soaked earth.
And in the eye of it, Ariston and Aeneas clashed again.
Aeneas pushed forward, fury sharpened by grief.
Every blow carried Sarpedon's absence, a weight Ariston could feel through the vibrations in his own spear.
He parried, sidestepped, and twisted—
the movements of a mortal who had learned to anticipate death itself.
Aeneas advanced first, fury sharpened by loss.
"Do you think yourself above the gods, Greek?" he hissed between strikes, bronze clanging.
"Do you think fate bends to your hand?"
Yet even as they fought, the distant roar of Lycians, Dardanians, and Trojans surged over the battlefield like a tide.
Glaucus' voice rang above it all:
"Guard the king! For Sarpedon!"
Aeneas' eyes flicked toward the sound—
a flicker of distraction—
—and Ariston seized it.
He drove his spear low, forcing the Trojan prince to stagger, shield scraping across mud-slick stone.
But the war was not theirs alone.
From the edges of the fray, Patroclus' Myrmidons pressed forward, disciplined and cold, teeth gritted as they sought to reclaim what the Trojans clawed back inch by inch.
The cries of men fighting for Sarpedon collided with the rhythmic, unyielding shouts of Myrmidons enforcing Achilles' iron will.
Ariston felt the pulse of the battlefield as one living organism, ebbing and surging around him.
Each step toward Aeneas mirrored the Trojans' desperate drive to protect their fallen king.
Every clash of bronze seemed to beat in rhythm with the Myrmidons' advance and the cries of Lycians charging through the mud.
Aeneas struck again—
but Ariston danced aside, spinning, countering, exploiting the slightest opening.
Above them, the crimson rain had thinned to mist, but its presence lingered—ominous, eternal, divine.
Ariston glimpsed the shimmer of Aphrodite's unseen hand as a stray javelin glanced harmlessly off the ground near him, and he knew the gods were watching still.
Behind him, a wall of Trojans pressed forward, Hector at their head, shields colliding with Myrmidons in a grinding roar of desperate strength.
Glaucus, blazing with Apollo's favor, cut through the press, dragging his men toward Sarpedon's body, a living arrow of fury and grief.
Ariston's gaze flicked to the motion at the center of the storm.
Sarpedon's body, cradled by the Trojans, was a prize fought over by gods and mortals alike.
And yet, the duel in front of him could not be ignored.
Aeneas advanced again, voice low, tense:
"You cannot escape the consequences of your actions, Greek."
Ariston's lips tightened.
He did not answer—he only tightened his grip on his spear.
Every strike from Aeneas now felt heavier—
not just the weight of the bronze, but of fate itself pressing against him.
Then, as if the battlefield itself exhaled, a distant horn sounded—
a single, deliberate blast.
The Myrmidons hesitated, their momentum faltering just long enough.
Ariston sensed it.
Timing and instinct aligned.
He pivoted, driving Aeneas backward, each strike measured, precise, carrying the promise of survival.
Above them, the sky twisted.
Gray clouds coiled, low and deliberate, shadows flicking across the battlefield like fingers from Olympus.
Aeneas faltered, sensing the gaze of gods—
not just Zeus, not just Apollo—
—but something else.
Something unseen, patient, observing the mortals like chess pieces on a board too large to comprehend.
Ariston pressed forward, every step a defiance.
Not pride.
Not vengeance.
Necessity.
He struck again, driving Aeneas to the edge of the trench where Trojans and Myrmidons collided—
a living wall of bronze, blood, and fury.
Aeneas' eyes met his.
For the first time, doubt flitted there—
a flicker he did not understand.
He had faced many men, many mortals—
but none who moved as if already knowing the battlefield,
as if the world itself bent to their rhythm.
Ariston's spear whistled through the misty rain, grazing Aeneas' armor.
The Trojan staggered.
Patroclus' voice roared behind him, a reminder of the Myrmidons' relentless discipline.
But Ariston did not hesitate.
He twisted, struck, and pushed.
And in that instant, the battlefield's attention shifted.
Not fully away from Sarpedon's body—
but enough to open cracks in the tide of war.
Hector noticed it.
Glaucus noticed it.
The tide of Trojans and Lycians surged forward, seizing advantage even as Ariston and Aeneas danced their deadly duel.
The battlefield had begun to bend to him—
its chaos,
its fury,
its divine threads intertwined.
The duel and the war became one.
Ariston's survival mirrored the survival of Sarpedon's body.
One wrong move, and the Greek line would break—
or the Trojan defense would crumble.
Every strike.
Every parry.
Every step carried the weight of gods, kings, and men alike.
And somewhere above, in the veiled sky, unseen eyes watched—
waiting for the next choice to be made.
For the first time since Sarpedon fell, the battlefield held its breath.
And in that pause, a single truth crystallized:
No mortal would leave this day unchanged.
The ground trembled beneath the clash.
Ariston's spear met Aeneas' again—
sparks flying, mud splattering, bronze ringing like a bell tolling for the fallen.
Each strike drove them closer to exhaustion, but neither faltered.
Not now.
Not with Sarpedon's memory burning in the chaos behind them.
Aeneas' movements were disciplined, flawless—
but Ariston had learned to anticipate the impossible.
A twist here, a half-step there—
and the Trojan's spear glanced off the edge of his shield.
He struck in reply, sharp, precise—
a flash of steel aimed not to kill, but to test, to draw, to unbalance.
Behind them, the storm of men reached a fever pitch.
Trojans surged.
Lycians howled.
Myrmidons retaliated with the cold efficiency of Achilles' training.
The battlefield became a living organism—
its heartbeat measured in the clash of spears and the scream of dying men.
Glaucus, bleeding but relentless, drove a wedge through the Myrmidons, dragging Lycians behind him.
Each thrust of his spear carried the weight of a fallen king—
a god-sent purpose.
"For Sarpedon!" he roared—
the cry echoing like a hammer on iron across the battlefield.
Patroclus countered, shield and spear a wall of steel, forcing the Lycians to yield inch by bloody inch.
His voice cut above the roar:
"Hold the body! Don't let them win this!"
But the Trojans were unstoppable.
Driven by grief,
by honor,
by the weight of the gods themselves,
they surged forward, clawing, hacking, tearing through the Greek line.
The press of men was suffocating—
mud and blood coating everything.
Every inch gained was paid for in screams.
Every foot of ground was soaked in sacrifice.
Ariston felt it all—
the chaos, the fury, the divine tension in the air.
And through it, he and Aeneas danced—
a deadly ballet where one misstep meant death,
and one overreach could turn the tide of a battle already soaked in blood.
Aeneas feinted high, then thrust low.
Ariston spun, using the Myrmidon push to his advantage, letting the Trojan's momentum carry him forward.
With a grunt, he drove his spear into the mud at Aeneas' feet, tripping the prince for just a heartbeat—
—enough for Ariston to twist, strike, and force him back.
Above the fray, the sky darkened.
A subtle chill cut through the misty crimson rain.
Something more than mortal eyes watched.
A flicker of lightning—small, precise, unnatural—illuminated the battlefield.
The air hummed with anticipation.
The gods themselves were leaning in.
Aeneas' eyes flicked upward, sensing it.
His fury faltered for a heartbeat.
That brief hesitation was enough.
Ariston struck—
not to kill,
but to unbalance,
to test,
to survive.
Aeneas staggered, mud splattering across his bronze chestplate.
Behind them, Glaucus and Hector fought like men possessed.
The Trojans clawed Sarpedon's body away from the Myrmidons, forming a wall of bronze and desperation.
Patroclus' line held—
but the tide had shifted.
The Myrmidons gritted their teeth, trying to reclaim the ground,
but the Trojans would not yield.
Not this day.
Not for Sarpedon.
Ariston and Aeneas' duel mirrored the chaos around them.
Each strike.
Each parry.
Each step was echoed in the surge of warriors.
The battlefield bent to their movements—
the flow of the fight aligning with the duel,
the duel shaping the tide of men.
Then it came.
A single, fleeting silence.
The world seemed to pause.
A heartbeat stretched—
heavy, deliberate.
Ariston felt it in his bones.
Aeneas in his chest.
The gods leaned closer.
The wind stilled.
The cries of men dimmed to an eerie echo.
And in that pause…
a new shadow fell across the battlefield.
Not a man.
Not a god.
Something unseen. Patient. Calculating.
The air itself seemed to tighten—
a tension that made every warrior freeze mid-strike, every shield shiver in hand.
Ariston's eyes narrowed.
Every instinct screamed danger, every muscle tensed.
Aeneas sensed it too, stepping back slightly, eyes wide—
fury giving way to caution.
Hector tightened his grip on his spear.
Glaucus braced, blood running down his arms, heart hammering.
And somewhere in the war-torn plain,
the next move of destiny waited—
silent, inevitable, unstoppable.
The duel stretched on—
a storm within the storm.
Every clash of bronze, every grunt of exertion, echoed across the plain, drawing the attention of both mortals and gods.
Aeneas lunged again, spear flashing with lethal intent.
Ariston twisted just in time, mud spattering, sparks flying as bronze rang against his shield.
His breath was ragged, his body trembling—
but his eyes burned with a defiance no god could extinguish.
"You should fear the gods!" Aeneas hissed.
"I fear no god," Ariston spat, muscles coiled, spear ready.
"Not today. Not any of them."
For a heartbeat, time faltered.
The crimson mist swirled.
The battlefield dimmed under a silent, unnatural stillness.
Then—
Ariston's spear struck true, but would not kill.
A warmth washed over him—
a subtle, invisible hand.
Aphrodite appeared, a shimmer in the dust-choked air, her face etched with divine fury and maternal desperation.
She moved toward Aeneas, whispering warnings, bending his limbs and thoughts, guiding him, trying to keep her son alive.
Beside her, Apollo swept through the field—
unseen but felt—
steadying the young prince, redirecting blows that should have shattered flesh and bone.
Ariston felt the interference—
the shifts, the near-misses that should have ended him—
—but he did not falter.
If anything, the intervention sharpened his resolve.
Every dodge, every parry, every counterstrike became a statement:
I will not yield.
Aeneas faltered once, confusion clouding his eyes.
Ariston seized the opening—
driving him back, forcing the Trojan to retreat step by step.
Sparks flew with every clash.
Bronze screamed against bronze.
Dust clung to their sweat-slicked bodies.
"I will keep fighting," Ariston said, chest heaving,
"until I choose to stop."
Aphrodite's hand shook the prince ever so slightly, Apollo redirecting—
—and with a final, desperate surge, Aeneas was forced back, shield clanging against broken stone.
The duel ended—
not in death,
but in divine reprieve.
Ariston stood victorious—
breathing hard,
spear raised,
unbowed,
unbroken.
Behind him, the Greeks felt it.
His defiance ignited a fire in their hearts.
The Myrmidons, battered and bloodied, roared anew.
Spears leveled.
Shields locked.
They surged forward, driving the Trojans and Lycians back from Sarpedon's body.
No one could have known the great king beneath the tumult—
his form buried under mud, blood, the crush of bodies—
—but still the Greek line pressed, relentless.
Inch by inch.
Foot by bloody foot.
At last, the Trojans yielded.
The Myrmidons stripped the body of its armor—
the spoils of war claimed—
—but no harm came to Sarpedon himself.
His flesh remained inviolate, sacred.
Then Zeus acted.
A silent decree from the heavens—
and the golden hands of Apollo descended.
The god swept across the battlefield,
a calm wind amid chaos.
He lifted Sarpedon's body from the throng.
Mortal hands fell back in awe.
With grace beyond mortal comprehension, Apollo handed the fallen king to Sleep and Death.
Together, they carried him away—
beyond cries, beyond blood, toward the land of Lycia.
The king's passage was silent.
Mourned by gods.
Honored above the clamor of men.
Ariston lowered his spear.
Chest heaving.
Eyes sweeping the scarred earth.
The Greeks roared—
alive again with purpose.
They had avenged.
They had defended.
They had survived.
Yet even in victory, a hush lingered—
—a respect for the fallen,
for the divine,
for the fragile breath of men and heroes alike.
And in the dust,
the blood,
the crimson mist,
the shadow of Sarpedon's honor remained.