Heartstone

The battles at Helos Camp raged on with relentless brutality. Smoke billowed into the dawn sky, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the clash of blades and the roar of fire. The ground was stained red, littered with the lifeless bodies of Helos ashkins, their once-glorious camp now reduced to smoldering ruins and broken weapons. Tents burned, banners were torn, and the air was thick with ash and grief.

Amid the carnage stood John, his clothes scorched, soaked in blood both his own and his enemies'. Deep gashes lined his arms, one eye swollen nearly shut, his breathing ragged and shallow. His once-pristine leather armor was trashed and broken, his crimson cloak torn and fluttering like a tattered banner in the burning wind.

His eyes scanned the battlefield, wide with disbelief, sorrow, and a rising storm of guilt. Around him lay the bodies of his fellow ashkins—warriors he had trained, men and women who had looked up to him. The air reeked of burnt flesh and iron, and distant screams echoed like cruel reminders of failure.

"They caught us off guard..." he muttered hoarsely, barely louder than a whisper, his voice nearly lost amidst the shrieks of battle and crackling flames. He dropped to one knee, pressing his hand against a searing wound on his side, and for a fleeting moment, doubt clouded his resolve. "I should have seen it coming... I should've protected them..."

But as a wave of fresh cries broke through the din, John's jaw clenched. He stood again, shakily but with renewed fury in his bloodshot eyes. Flames began to crackle along the edge of his blade as he lifted it once more.

Every breath he took was laced with rage and pain. His hand trembled as he gripped his blade tighter, its edge flickering with flames as if fueled by his fury. With a guttural yell, he surged forward, charging into the thick of battle like a blazing tempest. His blade became an extension of his grief, slicing through enemy ranks with wild, fiery swings. The Lunas ashkins scattered before him, some retreating, others desperately trying to hold their ground against the furious Helos chief.

But for every enemy he felled, another emerged from the shadows. The overwhelming numbers of the Lunas were beginning to swallow even John's formidable strength.

Nearby, Arthur clashed fiercely with Killi, the air around them alive with the sharp ring of steel. Killi fought with commendable strength and trained precision, his shield moving in tandem with each calculated sword thrust. But Arthur, a seasoned warrior shaped by countless battles, anticipated every move. He danced around Killi's attacks, parrying with effortless grace, and countered with ruthless speed and deadly accuracy.

With a sudden feint, Arthur slipped beneath Killi's guard and slammed the end of his bow into his opponent's ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Killi stumbled backward, barely raising his shield in time to deflect the following blow. Arthur pressed his advantage, spinning low and sweeping Killi's legs out from under him, but Killi rolled away and regained his footing.

"You're good," Killi grunted, breath labored, sweat trailing down his brow.

Arthur smirked. "Good doesn't win battles. Experience does."

He launched another flurry of attacks, each one more aggressive than the last. Killi, though determined, was visibly faltering. The precision in his form was slipping. His defenses weakened under Arthur's relentless pressure, every strike forcing him further back across the bloodied ground.

Then, Toby continued his duel with Killa, his body marked with slashes from her chained daggers. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with blood that traced jagged lines down his arms and sides. Every flicker he made to avoid her blades grew slower, heavier, as fatigue began to weigh him down.

Killa was relentless. She moved like a storm incarnate—fluid, fast, and devastating. Her chained daggers, now dual-wielded, spun around her like metallic wings, slicing through the air with terrifying speed. Each swing was unpredictable, her rhythm chaotic yet precise, honed by years of battlefield experience.

Toby's eyes darted, trying to predict her next move, but she was too fast, too erratic. One dagger came from above, another low to his right. He flickered left, avoiding both—but only just. A gash opened across his shoulder.

Killa laughed wickedly. "You're slowing down, brat! Soon enough, you'll be kissing the dirt, gasping for your dreams!"

Toby's breath was ragged. He planted his feet, gritted his teeth, and flickered again—this time behind her—but she whirled in anticipation, the chain slicing across his thigh. He staggered, pain shooting up his leg.

Still, he refused to fall. With trembling fists, he wiped blood from his face and met her eyes. "I may be losing ground... but I'm not backing down. I have something worth fighting for."

Killa sneered, swinging again. "Then die with purpose!"

Far from the battle, Brea had successfully evacuated the elderly and children. But as she returned to the chaos, a Lunas ashkin stepped into her path, spear drawn.

"You! You're with the Helos?" the ashkin snarled, his eyes wild with the bloodlust of battle.

Brea's heart pounded against her chest. "I'm not—please, I have nothing to do with this," she stammered, her voice quivering with fear.

"No one is spared," he growled, raising his spear with lethal intent. "Chief's orders."

Brea's eyes darted around frantically. Her gaze landed on the lifeless body of a Helos ashkin, a bloodstained sword lying just beside him. Her hands moved on instinct. She snatched up the weapon, the weight nearly too much for her trembling arms to bear.

The ashkin laughed, cruel and mocking. "So you'll fight me now? Brave little girl with a dead man's sword?"

"I—I'm not one of them," Brea pleaded, backing away, the blade wobbling in her grasp. "I don't want to fight. Just let me go."

The ashkin advanced, circling her like a predator, the tip of his spear glinting in the flickering flames. "Words won't save you now. Blood will."

He lunged. Brea screamed and ran.

""Run, little coward! People like you are the reason others die!" the ashkin bellowed, his voice dripping with venom, each word stabbing deeper than the last.

The insult cut through Brea like a blade. It wasn't just a taunt—it was a mirror reflecting every guilt and shame she buried inside. Her mind flashed to the image of her father, broken and bleeding, his body draped across their small home's threshold, and her—frozen, paralyzed by fear, unable to help.

Her legs trembled, not from fear now, but from rising defiance. She stopped in her tracks.

Slowly, purposefully, she turned around. Her chest heaved with breath, eyes burning not with tears but with resolve. Gone was the frightened girl who fled—what remained was someone reborn in fire and shame.

With steel in her gaze and a storm in her voice, she growled,

"I'm not running anymore!."

"I'm not running anymore!!."

She charged, swinging wildly. The ashkin knocked the blade from her hands and leveled his spear at her throat.

"This is the end."

But before he could strike, a loud clang echoed as the ashkin collapsed, struck from behind.

Gunbert stood behind him, holding a bloodied smithing hammer.

"Gunbert leaned heavily on his hammer, his eyes filled with concern. "Young lady, are you alright? I saw you with that lad, Reu. Figured you're friends. Thought you might need a hand when I spotted you sprinting like that."

Still trembling from the encounter, Brea gasped for breath. Her hands were still shaking, and she looked at the unconscious ashkin before her, then up at Gunbert. "You... you're just in time... gramps," she murmured, her voice fragile but laced with growing gratitude.

Gunbert chuckled warmly, wiping the blood from his hammer with a scrap of cloth. "Looks like you held your ground better than you thought. That fire in your eyes... reminded me of your friend Reu when I first met him."

Brea took a deep breath and steadied herself. "I wasn't going to run this time. Not again."

Gunbert nodded approvingly. "Good. That's how warriors are born—not by strength, but by choice. Come now, we're not out of the chaos yet."

Back at the battlefield, Toby's wounds slowed him. Killa laughed as she advanced.

"You won't survive long in the real world, boy."

Toby growled. "I'm not trying to survive. I'm living. And chasing my dream."

"Then you'll die chasing it."

Killa swung both chain daggers. Toby flickered in with a wooden post, catching the chains mid-swing. He stomped the post, locking the chains. He pulled his fist back, ready to strike—

But Killa twisted and kicked him in the neck. Toby choked, vision fading, then collapsed.

"Thought you had me? I had you."

His vision dimmed as he watched her walk away.

John, still lost in fury, was suddenly stabbed in the leg. He staggered, then another dagger hit him.

Killa approached slowly. "If only you accepted my offer, John... it didn't have to be this way."

She thought he was finished—just another body to be forgotten among the ruins. But John, bloodied and burned, summoned a final roar from the depths of his being. He surged forward and swung his sword in a wide, desperate arc, the flames still flickering faintly along its edge. Killa sidestepped swiftly, her reflexes sharp, and the blade missed her by inches.

But John was not done. With one last defiant growl, he twisted his body and hurled the sword like a spear, putting every ounce of his fading strength behind the throw. The weapon spun through the air, glinting in the firelight, and struck true—piercing Killa's left shoulder with a brutal, bone-cracking impact.

Killa screamed as the force of the strike threw her backward, her body slamming into the dirt. Her hands scrambled for the hilt of the embedded blade, blood seeping quickly from the wound. For a moment, she sat there stunned, gasping, pain clouding her vision as she looked up at the man she had presumed defeated.

John stood, swaying on his feet, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He stared her down—not with triumph, but with grim satisfaction.

"Not... yet," he growled through bloodied teeth, before the world around him dissolved in a frenzy of enemy steel.

"Attack him!" she screamed.

Lunas ashkins swarmed. Spears and swords stabbed John from all sides. But even as blood poured from his wounds, he kept smirking, his eyes locked on Killa.

And then, John, Chief of the Helos Knights, fell.

Dawn broke.

The sun rose over the ashes. The Helos camp was no more.

Reu sat on a broken cart beside Arthur.

"Well," Reu muttered, "this is not a good morning."

Arthur looked to the horizon. "With my chief gone, maybe it's time to retire from being an ashkin."

Toby, lying unconscious nearby, suddenly bolted upright.

"Why don't you join our group?"

Reu tensed with Toby's sudden burst.

Arthur blinked. "Your group?"

Toby nodded. "I'm chief of the Vesper Knights. Reu's my second-in-command."

Arthur chuckled. "Tempting, but no. I was already thinking of settling down. I visited my wife—she lives near the outskirts of Gresia. That's why I was late returning."

"Too bad," Toby said. "You just missed your chance."

Brea arrived, carrying Reu's sword.

"Here," she said, tossing it to him.

Reu caught it, unsheathing it with reverence. The blade shimmered, flawless.

"Gunbert told me to be careful with it. He finished quickly so you could have it."

"Where is he?" Reu asked.

"He left. Said he's finding a new place to start his smithy."

Arthur stood. "Well, kids, I'm leaving too. I hope your dreams come true."

"See ya!" Toby waved.

Arthur disappeared into the smoky distance.

The three looked at one another.

"Now what?" Brea asked.

"Toby?" Reu prompted.

Toby clenched a fist.

"We're not leaving until the war in Gresia is over."

Reu smiled. "That's the chief I follow."

The dawn shone on the three warriors as they looked toward the future—and the battle still to come.