He moved like a man already lost. Domion's sword cut through the air with a force that did not feel human anymore, each swing heavier than the last, each strike driven by something deeper than training, deeper than instinct, something raw and burning that refused to let him fall quietly.
The first man came at him fast. Domion stepped in. Their blades met once, a sharp clash that rang out, and then Domion's sword slipped past the guard and opened the man's throat in a clean, brutal line.
Blood spilled. The man dropped..Another rushed in immediately. Domion turned, his body moving without pause, his sword already in motion as it cut across the second man's chest, forcing him back before finishing him with a downward strike that split through armor and bone.
He did not stop. More came. Too many. They surrounded him, pressing in from all sides, their boots crushing the ground, their voices rising in shouts that blurred together into noise.
Steel flashed. Domion swung again. And again. Each man that stepped into his reach fell. Some with a single strike. Others with two.
A few managed to clash with him briefly, but none held him long enough to turn the fight. He moved like something possessed. Like something the thunder above had touched and refused to release.
Men's blades struck at him. Some missed. Some glanced off. Some drew blood. He did not slow. He could not. The ground around him began to fill.
Bodies fallen, broken, and still. But the circle did not thin. It tightened.
For every man he cut down, another took his place. They kept coming.
Relentless, unyielding. Domion's breath grew heavier. His chest rose and fell faster now, each inhale pulling in air that felt thicker than it should.
His muscles began to ache. First his arms. Then his legs. A slow burn that spread with every movement. Still, he fought.
His sword struck again. And again. Time stretched, then blurred.
An hour passed without him knowing. His body trembled now. Not from fear. From strain. His grip tightened around the sword, his fingers slick with sweat and blood.
His speed dropped. Not enough to stop him. But enough. Enough for them to see. Enough for them to take advantage.
One moved behind him. Quiet, and careful. The blade came fast. Straight into his back.
"Aaaaahhhh!"
The scream tore out of him, raw and violent, echoing across the field..His body jerked forward from the force.
For a moment, everything dimmed. But he did not fall. His hand tightened.
Harder.
He turned fast.
Faster than the soldier expected. His sword came around in a brutal arc and cut the man down before he could react.
Domion staggered just slightly. Then steadied.
More soldiers closed in..Over a hundred now. A full circle. Weapons raised.
Waiting, and watching. He did not look at them with fear. He did not beg. He stood tall. Blood ran down his back.
His chest heaved. But his eyes remained sharp.
Fixed, and ready. He stepped forward. And met them.
The clash resumed. Blades struck. Steel rang. Domion moved through them, cutting, turning, striking, his body slower now but still dangerous, still refusing to give in.
A blade slipped through. Into his ribs.
"Aaaahhhh!"
Another scream. Shorter, and harsher. His body bent slightly from the impact, pain exploding through his side.
He used his sword to hold himself upright.
Then pushed forward again. Another blade came. Then another.
Each one biting into him. Each one taking more. He bit his lips hard. Blood filled his mouth. But he did not stop.
He could not. One after the other, he cut them down.
Fewer now.
The circle breaking. Men hesitating. Falling back. Until, there was no one left standing.
Silence, sudden, and heavy.
Domion stood alone. Bodies surrounded him. His chest rose.
Fell, and slowly.
His sword hung at his side for a moment. Then he lifted it. Raised it toward the heavens. A smile touched his lips.
Faint, and tired.
He let out a low, cold laugh. It echoed strangely in the quiet..Above him, the sky answered.
Thunder cracked. Lightning split through the clouds. For a brief moment, it felt like the world had paused to watch him.
Then, his strength gave out. His knees buckled. The sword slipped from his hand.
And he fell. The ground met him hard..His chest rose once more. Then stilled.
Meanwhile, Drexo paddled hard. The water cut beneath the boat as he drove it forward, his arms moving with urgency, his eyes fixed ahead.
The closer he got to King's City, the clearer it became.
Something was wrong, very wrong. He slowed. Not by choice. By realization. Soldiers were everywhere.
Surrounding the city in numbers too great to mistake. Their formation was tight.
Controlled, and prepared. His eyes narrowed. He looked closer. The banners. "They are the Woodland soldiers," he muttered.
His gaze shifted. To the city itself. To the walls. To the banner flying above it. His breath caught. The banner of House Rendell.
High, proud, and unchallenged. "They took out the banner of my house," he said quietly.
Something inside him sank. Then, it clicked. A rebellion.
Clean, and effective. And finished. "My house has been destroyed."
The words sat heavy. He scanned the army again. Carefully.
Everywhere he looked, Northern soldiers. No mistake. No doubt. A small chuckle escaped him.
Dry.
Almost hollow. "A few hours ago," he said under his breath, "I was making love to a Woodland."
His eyes remained fixed on the army. "And here my family was being attacked by another Woodland." He stopped paddling. The boat drifted slightly. "I cannot cross the borders," he muttered.
His hand lifted unconsciously to his head. "They will notice my red hair." He moved quickly.
Without hesitation. He jumped. The water swallowed him instantly.
Cold, and silent.
He swam. Careful, but controlled.
Each movement measured as he pushed toward the shore, keeping low, keeping hidden. When he reached land, he did not rise immediately.
He listened. He watched. Then pulled himself out slowly and crawled into the forest. The cover of trees swallowed him.
Branches. Leaves. Shadows.
He moved through them quietly, keeping low, weaving between trunks, stepping only where the ground would not betray him.
Soldiers moved nearby. Voices passed. Close, too close. He held still when needed. Moved when he could. "I must get my dragon," he whispered to himself.
"Dreka."
His jaw tightened. "I must get to see my brothers."
He climbed. Tree to tree. Higher ground. Better cover.
His movements are careful but urgent, his body slipping between branches, using the forest as a shield.
Then, he froze. A hand.
Sudden, and firm. It clamped over his mouth before he could react.
His body went rigid. His breath caught. "Oh my God." The thought hit fast.
Sharp.
"I have been discovered."