the Rising flame

It was a gory, boundless tapestry of blood and steel on the battlefield. Corpses littered the ground, and dead eyes stared into nothingness as anguished groans pierced from the wounded. The earth redressed itself with the crimson of lifeblood, footing drenched in lives spilled to their deaths.

In the middle of all this bloodshed, there stood a lone figure with a splattered face, clenching his grip onto the Holy Sword. Such were the ruins in the face of Zephyr, the Hero of Valoira, seeing all these wars and battles, and yet this one weighed heavier upon him.

Just as that portentous silence was broken by a sudden roar, an enemy soldier came charging. Zephyr parried quickly with his sword; another attacker's blade struck into his side. The agony burned through him, and he gritted his teeth and delivered a swift kick that sent the enemy sprawling. He stumbled back, directing all his attention at the dark figure coming toward him from far out in the distance.

The mage of the Arcanan Kingdom, cumbersome, stepped forward from the alley shadows as an unnatural aura hovered around him. He turned, including hearing a weak voice calling to him from behind.

"Zephyr…"

As he turned, he saw something he hadn't expected-one of the bodies, Valoiran, flayed and smashed. He knelt beside him, wary, yet compassionate.

"Take this sword. and give it to my son," the soldier croaked, a faint smile playing across cracked lips. "And Zephyr. promise me. Live your life. Get married. You can't fight forever."

His chest rose one last time and then stopped. Zephyr bowed his head, his hands gripping the man's sword. He raised himself to his feet, his heart heavy, and began to walk back towards the camp, his steps slow, burdened by grief and by a resolve.

The Camp

At the Valoiran camp, soldiers were once again celebrating their hard-earned victory over tons of parched earth. Laughter and songs filled the air; a great contrast to the sombre battlefield they had left but yet remained separated from one man.

Zephyr leaned on a tree near the edge of camp; his thoughts had already strayed to the battles ahead. He hardly noticed Admiral Elira Darwin's arrival.

"Zephyr," she said soft, "you should sleep."

A faint smile, and not a word came he to her.

Inside the tent of the orders, electricity crackled through the air. Senior officers crowded around a table cluttered with maps and papers; at its head sat Nyx, mysterious Sage of Valoira.

"The Arcanan forces are in disarray, but they'll return fire," Nyx said calmly but assertively. "I'll lead from the front tomorrow."

The officers exchanged nervous glances, but no one voiced opposition. The meeting closed, and the commanders retired to their rooms to prepare for the next day.

A Moment of Silence

Later that night, Zephyr sat on the limb of a tall tree, listlessly munching an apple and staring up at the stars. His body ached, but something in the night air cooled him slightly. A small voice called down from the underbrush:.

Stepping down graciously, he passed over the half-eaten apple to a little child nearby, and then walked toward the open fields. Elira was waiting for him under the moonlight.

She motioned him to sit down, all soft and cuddly; he sat down, and she lay back on the grass, her head on his shoulder.

"You can't go on like this," she whispered. "You are strong, Zephyr, but you're only one person. It's perfectly all right to lean on someone else."

A tear ran down Zephyr's face. He fell into her hand. Elira turned toward him, letting him into a softly embracing hold.

"You're not alone," she whispered. "I'm always here for you."

For a moment, he is his vulnerable self.

The Last Duel

Dawn's rays set two armies facing each other. The Valoiran legionnaires stood tall with their lord Zephyr at their head, and faint alight in his hand he bore the Holy Sword. The Arcanan host was ordered rank and file across the field against them; Nyx led her command, floating high above her troops in deadly elegance.

And the two warriors locked eyes, and suddenly the chaos of battle became still.

Then chaos broke out. Steel hoops clashed with screams as soldier fought soldier. Magic filled the air above as Arcanan mages cast their spells to unleash their wrath, and Valoiran defenders counter-attacked. But amidst all of this, at the heart of the fight, were all eyes on Zephyr and Nyx.

Nyx opened, calling up a fireball the size of an island-this one hurled itself at Zephyr. He leapt into the air, Holy Sword flaring as it cleaved through the blaze. The explosion scattered harmlessly around him, and he settled on the spot, unruffled expression focused.

"Impressive," Nyx curled her lips up to smirk. "Let's see how long you can keep it up."

Zephyr clasped his sword tighter. "Long enough to end this war."

Two clashed their strikes, sending waves throughout the battlefield. Calling fire lances, their scorching heat skimmed Zephyr as he managed to deflect most of them. Throwing himself at her, his blade hilt bites into her defence, and she counter attacks with a flurry of strikes as magic followed.

The fight continued, but neither side showed intentions to back down. However, after a little while, it could be easily noticed that the fight was exhausting Nyx. Blood trickled down the edge of her mouth as she fell backward, all her magic dying out.

"You are strong," she admitted, her voice strained. "Stronger than I expected. But it is not over yet."

Nyx created a massive magic circle and summoned forth a colossal fireball that illuminated the battlefield. The energy spent her out, and her body convulsed as she discharged it.

He screwed up his eyes. He hurled his Holy Sword at Nyx, forcing her to catch that; then he launched himself, punching his fist into her stomach with a fat thud. She gasped, doubling over as the fireball caromed toward him.

Summoning the last embers, Zephyr caught the flame upon his blade and rent it asunder with a boom. Silence ensued as the smoke cleared over the battle field.

Nyx lay there, motionless on the ground, unconscious. Exhausted but triumphant, Zephyr knelt down on one knee, breathlessly.

The battle is won, but the war's not over.