The morning air smelled of dew, smoke, and fear.
Ilan stood near the front of the loose war band, fingers curled tight around the rough leather grip of his shield. His sword hung at his side, bronze gleaming dully beneath a pale sky. The sun was barely over the hills, but the enemy's war horns had already begun to call.
Ilan was tall for his people—around 5'11", a height that stood out among the others. His physique was that of a warrior hardened by years of battle, muscles honed from years of carrying heavy shields, swinging his sword, and dragging his body through the muck of war. His dark hair, long and tangled from sweat, fell loosely over his forehead, and his face, chiseled with the sharp angles of a man who had endured the harshness of life, carried a certain quiet intensity. His brown eyes were sharp.
The bronze armor he wore was worn, chipped, but it still gleamed when the sun hit it just right. The small shield on his arm had been battered by countless strikes, yet he trusted it with his life.
Beside him, a younger warrior adjusted the straps on his shield. "Ilan," he said, voice cracking. "Do you think the gods will favor us?"
Ilan didn't answer right away. He glanced at the boy, barely sixteen winters, hair matted with dried sweat.
"No," Ilan said finally. "The gods don't choose sides. Not ours, at least."
The boy swallowed, visibly shaken.
Another man chuckled behind them. "That's the kind of talk that gets you struck by lightning."
Ilan smirked faintly. "If thats the case, lightning should have hit me long ago."
They laughed, but not loudly. It was the brittle kind of laughter men used to chase away dread.
Far ahead, a scout whistled, sharp and quick. Enemy sighted.
A low muttering rippled through the ranks as men tightened their grips and murmured prayers. Some knelt. Others simply stared ahead, faces pale. Ilan remained standing, eyes fixed on the hill.
"You've fought more battles than any of us," the boy whispered. "What should we do?"
"Stay close. Watch the shield, not the sword," Ilan said, his voice calm. "If you run, run behind me."
Ilan rolled his shoulders. His sword felt heavier than usual.
A grizzled warrior, Karo, their tribe's elder, pushed through the line. "Hold until the signal. Then move with the center. Anyone breaks line, they'll die faster than they think."
He looked at Ilan. "You still with us, old wolf?"
Ilan nodded once. "For now."
The elder grunted. "Good. We'll need your luck."
Moments stretched like taut bowstrings. The drums grew louder. The enemy crested the hill.
Ilan's heartbeat slowed. His thoughts went quiet. This was the moment he always felt most alive, the edge between chaos and silence.
Then the horn blew.
And the field erupted into screams.
The ground trembled beneath hundreds of feet.
War cries split the air as the battle began. He felt the rush in his chest, his blood pounding through his veins. His comrades pressed forward beside him, their bodies packed tight, all moving in perfect unison, their faces grim with focus. Ilan gritted his teeth as he ran, eyes scanning the battlefield, calculating each step.
The enemy was just as ferocious, their battle cries just as loud, their resolve just as fierce.
Bronze clashed against bronze. A spear grazed his shield. Ilan shoved it aside and struck, driving his sword into the ribs of the man before him. The sound of the blade piercing flesh echoed in his ears.
To his left, the young warrior stumbled, almost tripping over his own feet. Ilan reached out, grabbing him by the arm, pulling him back just as an axe swung through the air, narrowly missing the boy's face.
"You're not dead yet," Ilan grunted, pushing him forward with a swift shove.
The battle raged on. The line shifted. Ilan fought with the steady rhythm of a man who had seen this countless times before. He moved with instinct. Parry, strike, block. But there was a growing weight to the air, a sense of impending doom. He could feel the chaos in his bones, the way it churned and twisted, something more than just bloodlust. His comrades shouted orders, but the sound was muffled by the roar of the battlefield.
Then—
A sharp, searing ache tore across his side. Ilan gasped, looking down. His chest heaved with each breath as blood dripped from the gash that had appeared, a spear lodged deep into his side. He staggered, hand clutching the wound, but his legs buckled beneath him. The world spun, the sky fading into grey as he crumpled to the ground.
A figure loomed over him, a dark shape against the hazy backdrop of clouds.
A sword raised.
"So this is it."
The blade came down.
—————————————————
The air was thick with the scent of blood, and the ground was wet beneath him. Ilan's eyes fluttered open to the dim moonlight filtering through a clouded sky.
He could feel the cold earth pressing against his back, the sharp smell of iron in the air. Groaning, he lifted his head, blinking away the fog that clung to his thoughts. He could hear the faint sounds of the wind rustling through the trees, but the battlefield, the deafening clash of bronze and the cries of men, was gone.
He was surrounded by bodies.
The stench of death was overwhelming. His comrades lay scattered around him, many still in the same position they had fallen, others twisted in unnatural ways. Some were half-buried in the dirt, their blood staining the ground.
His heart pounded in his chest. He tried to move, but a heavy pressure settled over him. He was alive.
"But how?"
He tried to remember. His thoughts were sluggish, like trying to recall a dream that had already slipped away from his grasp. A battle. He had been in the middle of it. He had fought. Then… pain. A sharp strike. The world spinning as he fell…
"The spear"
The spear had been lodged deep into his side. He could feel the cold, but the pain was gone. The blood, he reached down, there was no wound, no injury at all. His fingers brushed against the place where the spear had pierced him, and yet there was nothing but smooth, unmarred skin.
Ilan sat up slowly, his body protesting the movement as he scanned his surroundings. He was still on the battlefield, but the fight had long since ended.
"What happened?"
He looked at his hands trembling.
For a moment, he thought he must be dreaming. Or worse, dead. But this... this was something else entirely. He was aware of everything around him, the damp earth beneath him, the stillness of the night. The faint breeze against his face. And yet, he could not explain how he was still breathing.
He stood up, legs shaky as he took in his surroundings.
Ilan stepped over the bodies, his mind struggling to piece together what had happened. He could feel his heart beating loudly in his chest.
The battle had been fierce. The kind that left no room for hope. He had been certain, when the spear had struck him, that this was it. The end. That he would never see the light of day again.
For a moment, he stood there in silence, the weight of the moment sinking in.
A flicker of something, dark and cold, passed through him, but he couldn't place it. He had felt something just before he had fallen, a shadow crossing his path—a whisper of something that wasn't quite human.
Still, the thought was fleeting, and Ilan pushed it away, focusing on the silence of the night.