death has won

The Red Battlefield screamed, yet no one answered. The sounds of soldiers' cries, the neighing of horses, and the clash of swords echoed louder and fiercer. The knight chose his prey, a soldier wielding a massive sword, swinging it left and right, halted only by severed necks or shattered shields, leaving behind bleeding wounded or lifeless bodies. The knight tightened his grip on his sword, pressed his feet against his steed, and pulled the reins, unleashing a thunderous neigh as they charged forward, moving with a speed that would unseat any other knight, but not this one. His balance on the horse seemed unparalleled, as if he saw what she saw, felt what she felt, and ran with her.

With each passing second, the horse's speed increased, and the distance between the knight and his prey diminished. As they drew closer, the knight readied his sword with his right hand and held the reins with his left, maintaining his balance. The soldier engaged in combat with fighters, unfazed, accustomed to i nis sword of polished black iron, with its golden hiltand ornate scabbard resembling his sturdy shield, the weight of a lifeless body. He parried their strikes with mesmerizing fluidity, as if the sword, which was as heavy as a sack and a bit more, were a brush in the hand of a painter. Yet, the only color that painter used was a deep red.

The painter finished his canvas with two bodies, blood still warm, but before it could dry, he saw from afar a chestnut horse, its mane flowing like flames, a white blaze on its forehead, galloping fiercely, carrying a rider with an ironclad shield adorned with simple motifs, draped in a crimson cloak, wielding a gleaming slender sword, advancing towards him. The soldier gripped his sword with both hands, anchoring his feet to the ground like a sturdy palm tree trunk, while the knight retracted his sword, calling out to his horse with a loud command, 'Come on, Mawj!' The horse neighed, a warning of fierce determination.

As the fighters drew closer, their breaths quickened, their heartbeats raced, none knowing if they would ascend or perish, yet each prepared for the outcome, whatever it may be.

The horse continued its stride, to be mounted by another knight, and the ornate black sword fell, to be wielded by another soldier, and the lives of the fighters ended, leaving behind a memory to be adopted by another.