The night of battle

"The night has come," a soldier called out, his voice carrying over the camp, alerting the men to prepare for battle. "Draw out your swords, be ready to attack," he commanded. His fellow soldiers, hardened by years of war, immediately began to stir, each taking their weapons in hand and preparing for the impending clash.

"Your Highness, should we go ahead and attack?" the soldier turned to Andras, his voice laced with both respect and urgency. Andras, standing tall in his battle armor, gazed out at the dark horizon where the lights of Caldrith flickered in the distance. He clenched his fist, his jaw set in determination. But he wanted to wait just a little longer. The night was still young, and he needed to strategize, to let his men gather their strength for the battle ahead.

The kingdom of Caldrith, just across the wide expanse of war-torn land, was preparing for its own assault. The city was known for its magical prowess, the land of half-human, half-sprite warriors. This unique lineage gave them an edge that no ordinary human army could rival. Caldrith had built a legacy of conquest, defeating thousands in battle, and they were now poised to defend their kingdom at any cost. Over 10,000 soldiers were gathered, each one a fierce warrior, their magic powers nearly unmatched. Their presence on the battlefield would be nothing short of overwhelming.

Andras knew this would not be an easy fight. But he was prepared. He had trained for this moment his entire life. He would not falter now. He would not allow his kingdom's death to be in vain.

"Stand your ground!" Andras bellowed, his voice echoing across the camp like a war drum. "These beasts may fight with magic, but we fight with honor! We fight with our swords! We've conquered nations before, and we will conquer this one too! We've lost a king, a father, a brother, a friend. Let us honor his memory by bringing down these fools!"

The men roared in unison, their spirits lifted by Andras's words. His voice was like a fire that sparked in their hearts, and they stood taller, their resolve firm. There was no fear in their eyes. They knew what was at stake. This battle would be their last, and they would fight until they could fight no more. Victory was the only option. They could not, and would not, return home without it.

With his men rallied, Andras led the charge, his sword raised high as he set off toward the enemy lines. The enemy king, Roderic of Caldrith, would not be spared. Andras would demand his surrender, but he would not ask twice. This war had to end tonight, and Andras would make sure of it.

"I am the king now!" Andras shouted as he advanced, his voice booming across the battlefield. "You have killed my brother, and for that, you will pay. Surrender now, or die!"

But King Roderic, seated atop his warhorse, was not one to bow to threats. His eyes burned with defiance as he met Andras's challenge.

"We don't have to fight," Roderic's voice was calm but filled with venom. "I know what happened to your king, and I am not the one to blame for it." His words cut through the air, heavy with the implication that there was more to the story than Andras knew.

Andras, already brimming with rage, interrupted. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his body stiff with anger.

"The king is dead!" Andras shouted, his voice carrying the weight of his grief. "I'm here to end this madness. Surrender, or die!"

Roderic's lips curled into a cruel smile, his gaze cold and unyielding.

"I will not surrender," he replied, his voice full of contempt. "Your brother's death was only the beginning. You think you can defeat us? You have no idea what you're up against."

Without warning, Andras unsheathed his sword, his movements swift and lethal. He launched himself toward Roderic, cutting down the first wave of soldiers in his path. The army of Caldrith surged forward, clashing with Andras's men. The battle had begun, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat. Swords rang against shields, and war cries filled the night as the two armies collided with all their fury.

The ground beneath them shook as thousands of soldiers fought and died. Andras could hear the cries of his men as they fell, one by one, but he pushed forward. His focus was singular—he had to defeat Roderic. The king of Caldrith was the heart of their army. If he fell, the rest would scatter.

"You bastard!" Andras shouted, his voice hoarse with rage. "I will cut you down, no matter the cost!" He fought his way through the enemy soldiers, each strike more brutal than the last. His sword became an extension of his will, cutting down anyone who dared to stand in his way.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Andras reached the Caldrith king. But even injured, Roderic did not yield. He stood tall, his eyes filled with hatred. He was a worthy opponent, and Andras would have to bring everything he had to defeat him.

With a mighty swing, Andras struck at Roderic, but the king blocked the attack, their swords clashing with a sound that reverberated across the battlefield. Andras's strength was unmatched, but Roderic was a seasoned warrior, and the battle between them raged on.

But Andras's army had a trick up their sleeve. One of his archers, a keen-eyed man, took aim and shot an arrow into Roderic's left hand. The arrow was tipped with poison, a deadly substance that would paralyze the king for an hour. Roderic's face twisted in agony as the poison began to take effect. He dropped his sword, struggling to maintain control of his body as his arm went limp.

This was Andras's moment. He knew that if he didn't strike now, Roderic would find a way to escape. But as Andras prepared to make the fatal blow, something extraordinary happened.

Andras's eyes glowed with a blinding white light. The soldiers around him gasped in shock as they watched him rise into the air, his body enveloped in an aura of pure energy. He was floating, suspended by an unseen force. Andras had tapped into a power none of them had ever seen before.

Chanting words in an ancient language, Andras called forth the storm. The winds howled as a tornado appeared, tearing through the battlefield. Trees were uprooted, and soldiers were thrown into the air like ragdolls. The very earth seemed to shake beneath their feet. Andras was controlling the storm, the power surging through him like fire in his veins.

This was it. The power he had kept hidden for so long, the magic that had fueled his desire for the throne. Now, it was unleashed, and there was no stopping it.

As the tornado ravaged the battlefield, Andras turned his gaze back to King Roderic, whose face was now a mask of fear. The once confident king had been reduced to nothing more than a helpless figure standing before the full might of Andras's fury.

The battle had turned in Andras's favor, but the cost of victory would be greater than he had ever imagined.