The Battle for the Pickette [3]

Through the swirling chaos of battle, Osiris's weary eyes locked onto a single figure—a shadow moving with surgical precision through the melee. The man was an impossibility, his six unblinking eyes glowing faintly as if some otherworldly light animated them. Every movement he made was deliberate and economical, the kind of efficiency that only came with mastery beyond human limits. His blade was an extension of his body, and with each strike, he felled another Astad soldier. There was no flourish, no waste, no hesitation.

Every step the six-eyed man took seemed to carve through Osiris's hopes. He wasn't just cutting through men—he was unraveling the fragile threads of courage that Osiris's soldiers still clung to. Each precise swing left another lifeless body crumpled on the blood-soaked ground, and the Black Baron could feel the morale of his men disintegrating with every moment this figure remained unchallenged.

This was no mere warrior.

This was an Enlightened.

Osiris had heard of their kind—men and women who had ascended beyond normal human limits, touched by powers that warped their very being. Legends claimed they could see more than the average mortal, that their senses were so attuned they could anticipate a strike before it even began. Stories whispered in hushed tones called them monsters and angels in equal measure. Standing now before one of these legends, Osiris finally understood why.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He could not afford fear. Not now. If the Black Baron faltered, so would his men. He had to fight, had to show them that no matter how bleak the odds, they could still resist. If he could kill this Enlightened—a feat few could boast of—it might give his soldiers the rallying point they so desperately needed.

But in his heart, he knew the truth. This was a burden only the Black Baron could bear.

His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade. Alden wouldn't have to face this beast. That was reason enough to summon every ounce of strength he had left. Raising the sister sword to Alden's Black Blade, Osiris strode forward, the weight of his armor heavier than ever, the world around him seeming to narrow to a single point: the man with six eyes.

Their blades met with a sound like thunder, the clash of steel reverberating in Osiris's bones. Sparks erupted from the collision, brief flashes of light illuminating the grime and sweat on Osiris's face. He swung with practiced precision, each movement honed from decades of war, but the Enlightened moved with unnatural grace, almost as if he were toying with him.

Every strike Osiris delivered was met with a parry so fluid it was almost insulting. The six-eyed man's blade seemed to bend reality itself, always where it needed to be, always one step ahead. Osiris pushed his body to its limits, every muscle straining with effort, but no matter how hard he fought, the six-eyed man was faster, sharper, and impossibly calm.

Osiris's arms ached with each exchange. Blood dripped from shallow cuts on his arms and legs, reminders of the Enlightened's precision. He was playing with him. Damn him.

Each swing of Osiris's blade became heavier, slower. His vision narrowed as exhaustion clawed at the edges of his focus. But he would not stop.

Then, through the haze of combat, Osiris saw her.

Standing just beyond the Enlightened was a woman who seemed untouched by the chaos of the battlefield. Her silver hair shimmered under the crimson sun, and her eyes—calm, sharp, and unrelenting—commanded the space around her. She carried herself with the grace of a queen and the intensity of a warrior. Her armor, a mixture of fine mooneye silk and hardened leather, bore the marks of a ruler. Every detail of her appearance spoke of her station, of her importance to Estil.

This was no ordinary soldier.

This was a Gahkar.

Osiris had fought for decades, facing the worst Estil could throw at him, but never had he come face-to-face with one of the warlords themselves. She was everything Estil was—proud, unyielding, and beautiful in a way that only something born of battle and blood could be.

For a fleeting moment, Osiris allowed himself to wonder. If things had been different, would Alden have admired her? The thought pierced him in a way no blade ever could. Would they have stood as equals, their nations united instead of divided by centuries of bloodshed? But such thoughts were futile. This was no world for dreams of peace.

Her presence radiated authority, and Osiris knew that her mere existence on the battlefield was a rallying cry for Estil's forces. She was their strength, their reason to keep fighting. Just as his family was his.

He could not afford to falter now. Not when he could still do something to help his men.

Osiris tightened his grip on his blade and scanned the Enlightened for an opening. He couldn't keep up this pace forever—his muscles screamed for relief, his lungs burned with every breath—but he had to try. If he could land one decisive blow, it might turn the tide.

And then, he saw it.

The Enlightened overextended, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Osiris lunged, his entire body propelling him forward as he aimed for the man's throat. This was it.

Time seemed to slow as his blade arced through the air, the weight of his hope and fury driving it forward.

But the six-eyed man was faster.

He sidestepped with a dancer's grace, his blade already moving in retaliation. Osiris barely registered the movement before he felt the cold steel pierce his neck. The pain was immediate and searing, his body staggering as his strength left him.

Blood poured from the wound, staining the ground beneath him. He dropped to his knees, his black blade slipping from his grasp. His guards rushed to his aid, but the Enlightened dispatched them with the same cruel efficiency he had shown throughout the battle.

Osiris clutched at the blade embedded in his neck, his vision swimming. His thoughts turned to his family—to Alden, Ralik, and his beloved wife. I'm sorry, he thought, his lips unable to form the words. I've failed you.

Through the haze of pain and fading light, Osiris's gaze drifted beyond the battlefield. And there, far in the distance, it stood.

A Sentinel.

Its unblinking eyes watched the carnage with an eerie stillness, its presence a grim reminder of how small they all were in the grand scheme of things. Osiris's lips curled into a bitter smile. Even they had come to witness his end.

Summoning what little strength he had left, Osiris forced himself to his feet. His body screamed in protest, every fiber of his being begging him to stay down, to let go. But he was the Black Baron. He would not die kneeling.

He gripped his blade with both hands, pushing it free from his neck with a guttural cry. Blood poured from the wound, but he didn't care. He had to stand, if only for a moment longer. He owed his men that much. He owed his family that much.

As the world around him faded to black, Osiris whispered a final apology to his sons and wife. He prayed they would remember him as he was—not as a broken man, but as a father, a husband, and a warrior who fought until the very end.

With a quiet sigh, the Black Baron Osiris Redwyn, the Black Blade of Astad, died on his feet.

But, the Pickette had fallen.