Threats of Fate

The mist hung heavily over the trampled ground of the battlefield, dense and impenetrable like a gray veil. Only the motionless silhouette of a young man stood out from the murky darkness, his silver armor glimmering faintly in the diffuse light. Breathing heavily, he knelt on the ground, his hand still clutching the sword that had pierced something deeper, softer.

The rain began to fall—hesitantly at first, then relentlessly. Drops ran down his cheeks, blending with tears he could no longer hide. With a cry full of despair and fear, he raised his gaze to the heavens. "Why... why this war? Why did all this have to happen?" he whispered, as if the answer were hidden in the wind. But there was only the murmur of the rain and the echo of endless silence.

Around him lay the remnants of battle, soaked in blood, a grim carpet bearing witness to the suffering of defeated peoples. Slowly, the soldier lowered his gaze, only to see his own sword buried deep in the lifeless body of a Elf Child—the dead child's eyes seemed to stare at him, empty and yet full of unspoken reproach. Its small hand clutched a blunt butter knife, one that could never have pierced the soldier's armor.