Blade of the Fallen Kingdom

Chapter 25 – A Kingdom on Fire

The night sky blazed with the glow of torches and fire. The battlefield, once filled with the clash of steel, had turned into a sea of chaos. The warlord’s army pressed forward with merciless rhythm, each step like a drumbeat of doom, each strike carving deeper into Aric’s line.

Aric’s blade was heavy in his hands, but his spirit refused to falter. His men looked to him with desperate eyes—eyes that screamed for hope, for strength, for anything to believe in. He clenched his jaw, wiped the blood from his face, and raised his sword high.

“Stand fast!” he shouted, his voice raw. “This ground will not fall!”

The soldiers rallied, though their bodies trembled. They struck back with every ounce of strength left in them, but still the tide pushed forward.

Kael roared, swinging his greatsword in an arc that split the enemy’s shield wall. For a moment, the line bent back. His presence was like a storm, his fury contagious. Aric felt the surge in his chest—fury, envy, admiration all tangled together.

But then, the warlord advanced again.

Each swing of his blackened axe tore through steel and bone alike. Aric met him blow for blow, his sword sparks against the monstrous weight. His arms shook, but he held. The ground beneath them cracked under the clash, as though even the earth could not bear their fury.

The warlord chuckled behind his helm. “Your resistance is admirable. Futile… but admirable.”

Aric spat blood to the dirt. “Then choke on our defiance.”

The warlord pressed harder, his axe glowing brighter with each strike. The red runes pulsed like a heartbeat, a rhythm that echoed in Aric’s skull, threatening to drown him in despair.

Isolde, watching from the rear, clutched her dagger tighter. She wanted to run forward, to stand beside Aric, to scream at fate itself. But her heart trembled. She was no warrior, only a flame caught in the storm.

And yet… that flame burned.

She lifted her voice. “For the kingdom! For the fallen!”

The cry cut through the night, piercing the despair like lightning. The soldiers roared with her, striking back with renewed fury. Aric glanced back only for a heartbeat, but in that instant, the sight of her—the determination in her trembling form—fueled him like no armor ever could.

With a cry, he surged forward, striking the warlord’s axe aside. The force rattled his bones, but he pressed, his blade scraping across the warlord’s chestplate. Sparks flew, though the armor held.

The warlord tilted his head, amused. “Interesting. You bite harder when she watches.”

Aric’s blood ran cold at the taunt. His mind screamed to ignore it, but the thought clawed at him: was Isolde truly his, or would fate pull her away, perhaps toward Kael, perhaps toward ruin?

The warlord shoved him back again, his laughter booming. “Love makes men weak. I’ll carve it out of you.”

Before the next strike could fall, Kael barreled in, his greatsword colliding with the warlord’s axe. The ground shook under the impact, sending dust flying into the air.

“Then you’ll have to carve through both of us,” Kael snarled.

For a moment, Aric and Kael stood side by side, blades raised. Rivals in love, but brothers in survival. The warlord paused, tilting his helm as though considering them, then swung his axe with both hands.

The clash that followed was cataclysmic.

Metal screamed. Sparks lit the night. Soldiers and enemies alike backed away, unable to stand too close to the storm.

Aric’s breath came ragged, his muscles trembling. He could not keep this up forever. Kael was strong, but even his strength waned with each brutal exchange. The warlord fought as though untouchable, a force of nature cloaked in steel.

Then—the warlord’s eyes burned red within his helm, and his next swing knocked Kael to his knees. The greatsword clattered to the ground, dirt spraying as Kael gasped.

Aric moved instinctively, shoving Kael aside just as the warlord’s axe came crashing down. The blade bit into the earth where Kael’s head had been, leaving a jagged scar in the ground.

Aric staggered back, panting, his sword raised again. His body screamed for rest, but his spirit roared louder.

“Get up, Kael!” he shouted.

Kael groaned, dragging himself back to his feet, blood streaming down his temple. “I’m not done yet.”

The warlord stepped back, lifting his axe to rest across his shoulder. “Good. I’d hate for this kingdom to end too quickly.”

Then, with a wave of his gauntlet, the warlord’s soldiers surged again.

The battlefield erupted.

Aric and Kael were swallowed by the tide, their blades flashing in the chaos. Men fell, screams tore the night, and fire licked the sky. Aric fought until his vision blurred, until every heartbeat felt like his last.

Through the haze, he saw Isolde dragged backward by enemy soldiers, her dagger clattering from her hand.

“Isolde!” he bellowed, shoving through the horde. His sword tore through armor and flesh alike, his fury boundless. But the distance between them grew, the tide pushing harder, until he could barely see her struggling form through the smoke.

The warlord’s laughter echoed over the flames. “Let her scream, boy. It will be the song of your failure.”

Aric’s chest burned—not with fear, but with fury. His vision sharpened, his grip unbreakable. For her, for the kingdom, for everything that had been stolen, he swore he would not break.

Not here. Not tonight.

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