The battlefield had not yet finished breathing.
Smoke rolled low across the broken ground, thick with the scent of iron and ash. Bodies lay where they had fallen, Moretti loyalists, serpent soldiers, men who had sworn oaths to kings that no longer stood. The ruins of the old fortress loomed behind Alessandro like a crown made of bones, its shattered towers clawing at the darkening sky.
Damian stood several paces away from his father, sword lowered but not sheathed. Blood soaked through his sleeve, warm and slick against his skin, yet his grip never loosened. Across from him, Alessandro Moretti remained upright despite the wound Damian had driven into him earlier. He leaned on his blade like a scepter, his armor cracked, blood staining the serpent sigil that had ruled generations.
They looked at each other not as enemies for the first time but as truth demanded.
Alessandro straightened slowly, a cold smile carving its way across his face.
