Valdyr looks out across the battlefield and sees the vast army of the enemy slowly advancing. He tightens his grip on the hilt of the long blade; his heart is pounding in his chest so hard that it feels like it’s sinking. He can feel that the atmosphere around him feels like he should be crying, screaming, or shaking so hard that someone can barely stand. But Valdyr isn’t doing any of these things, though. For some reason, he feels perfectly calm. It’s as if there’s a wall between him and his rising emotions, blocking out the fear and terror, and anticipation coursing through his own veins.

His palms are sweaty, and his throat is dry. The armor he wears is heavy and uncomfortable; people around him didn’t feel prepared at all. Despite this, Valdyr does not complain. What right do you have to complain, when in just a few moments, you and your subjects will be forced to fight for your lives, and your freedom? They do not complain, and neither shall he.

Energy buzzes beneath his skin,