The King's army shattered, caught between the hammer of the Vexin cavalry and the anvil of the Galen defiance. What had once been a disciplined force was now a panicked mob. Swords were thrown down, shields abandoned, and the cries of men begging for mercy replaced the furious roar of battle.
In the midst of the maelstrom, Arion, a whirlwind of steel and vengeance, fought his way through the King's men, his eyes fixed on a single target: the King's general. He saw the general, a man of cold fury, in the thick of the fighting, trying to rally his broken men. Arion cut a path to his rival, his sword a blur of motion, his rage a cold, precise instrument.
The general, seeing Arion coming for him, met his charge with a furious roar. The two men clashed, their blades a dance of rage and steel. The general fought with a wild, unrestrained fury, but Arion's rage was different. It was a cold, precise instrument. He dodged a wild strike and, with a single, fluid motion, severed the general's sword hand at the wrist. The hand, still clutching the sword, fell to the blood-soaked grass. Arion, with a cold, calculated fury, had aimed for the hand that was unscarred, a symbol of the general's pride.
The general's scream was a high, terrified sound that cut through the noise of battle. He stared at his severed hand in shock, his face a mask of disbelief and pain. He turned and fled, his screams echoing as he mounted a nearby horse and galloped away from the battlefield. Arion, his sword dripping with blood, started to give chase, but his men, seeing that the battle was won, moved to stop him.
"The general is broken!" Arion's second-in-command yelled. "Let him go! We must secure the castle!"
Arion, his chest heaving with a cold, exhausted rage, stood over the general's severed hand. The King's army, now leaderless and surrounded, began to break completely. The Vexin infantry moved in to secure the victory, taking prisoners and ending the scattered resistance.
He then rode to the castle gate, his heart a mix of relief and solemn sorrow. He dismounted and walked to Ren, who, despite his exhaustion, stood tall and proud. Arion knelt, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You held the line, nephew," Arion said, his voice raw with emotion. "You have the heart of a true lord."
Ren, for the first time, let the weight of the last few days show on his face. Tears welled in his eyes, but he held them back. "I did it for them," he said, gesturing to his battered men and the fallen bodies of his family's soldiers. "I did it for House Galen."
Arion stood, a grim look on his face. He saw the wounded, the dead, and the devastation. He knew the victory came at a terrible price. He was about to give his first orders when he saw her.
Lysa, her face a mask of terror and relief, was running toward him. She had ridden with the Vexin army's rear, but the sounds of battle had kept her in a state of high anxiety. She saw him, bruised and covered in the blood of battle, and she didn't stop to ask questions. She simply ran to him.
He met her in the middle of the courtyard, and she jumped into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck, her tears now a stream of relief against his blood-stained armor. He held her tight, burying his face in her hair, and for a moment, the war and the death and the chaos faded away.
"You're here," she sobbed into his shoulder. "You're safe."
"I am," he whispered back, his voice thick with emotion. "I am."
Arion, his voice now carrying the authority of a victorious commander, gave his first orders. "Tend to the wounded. Secure the prisoners. Send riders to Damon with news of our victory. We have saved the castle, but we have not won the war."