Battle Drums
In the stillness of the world, before gods wake and monsters stir, men like Andravion move like shadows.
Not because they fear the dark—
but because they were made from it.
The stars hung above them like ancient witnesses—cold, quiet, judgmental.
Andravion's soldiers crawled forward through soil and silence, breath hitching in their throats like it might betray them. No war cry. No whisper. Just heartbeats in the dirt and blades in their hands.
They had reached their vantage. A high ridge—a wound in the earth with a perfect view of their enemy.
Below them, the camp stirred. Fires crackled. Soldiers laughed. Somewhere, someone strummed a tune. It was… normal. Innocent.
Andravion almost pitied them.
They didn't know.
They didn't know they were already ghosts.
---
The wind brushed past, shifting the trees. The men crouched low, every muscle drawn tight, knuckles white where they gripped their weapons.
Andravion stood at the edge. Not moving. Not blinking. The ghost of war in a prince's body.
He turned to his warriors—his family. Six hundred souls weathered by fire and frost.
"Here," he said, voice low and edged with something ancient, "we stand not only for our empire."
"But for our families. For the homes we were ripped from. For the voices we still hear when the world goes quiet."
A hush fell, heavier than silence.
"Think of them," he said, louder now. "Your children. Your wives. Your fathers who held your shoulders. Your mothers who lit candles for your safe return. They are still waiting."
"They are still hoping. They are still praying."
The wind groaned. A branch creaked. Somewhere in the forest, something shifted. Even the night leaned closer to listen.
"Let that longing be your blade," he said, gaze burning. "Let it carve your fear into focus. When your body fails, let it be your soul that carries you."
And then, just for a breath, he allowed the fire in his chest to flicker. The memory hit hard—his father's hand on his shoulder, his mother's laugh echoing in the halls of memory, and the tiny fist of his sister curled around one of his fingers.
Father.
Mother.
Ylfa.
I'm coming home.
His next breath was steel.
He raised his sword to the sky—and his voice broke the world.
"ATTACK!"
---
The ridge erupted.
Shadows became men. Men became monsters. The forest trembled as Andravion and his army surged into the enemy camp like a tide sent by the gods themselves.
Steel flashed. Boots thundered. The night exploded into color and screams.
The enemy never stood a chance.
Or so they thought.
Even with the guards that were on l
ookout They stumbled from sleep, from warmth, into a nightmare of iron and blood. Andravion's warriors were already there—silent no more, blades dancing with brutal grace.
The first clash of metal rang out—sharp, bright, deadly. Sparks flew. Blood followed.
Andravion led the charge.
His sword tearing through flesh.
One man fell with a choked gasp. Another tried to lunge, and Andravion met him with fury—a swift sidestep, a brutal thrust up through the ribs. The man buckled, eyes wide with betrayal, then collapsed.
No time to think. Only survive.
---
The battlefield was a storm.
Screams fractured the air. The soil turned to mud and blood. The scent of iron soaked everything.
Andravion moved like purpose incarnate. Every swing precise. Every motion deliberate. A beast carved of grief and duty.
A soldier beside him cried out, falling. Andravion caught him—then shoved him toward the rear line.
"You're not dying here," he growled.
Unfortunately, victory did not come as swiftly as they had hoped.
What was meant to be a slaughter—a swift, brutal ambush—soon became something else.
Andravion's momentum faltered as he cut down another enemy. He caught the glint of organized movement beyond the firelight. A horn sounded—not in panic, but coordination. That sound didn't belong to the hunted.
It belonged to an army prepared.
"They're regrouping," he muttered.
The camp was too structured. Too quick to recover.
Then he saw it: torch signals from the western ridge. A second wave. Reinforcements.
A trap.
Andravion's eyes snapped wide.
They knew we were coming.
How?
The realization hit like a blade in the ribs. His men were surrounded on three sides, the enemy adapting faster than expected. A few warriors broke formation. One screamed. Another fell, and the scream turned into a gurgle.
Not here. Not like this.
Think, Andravion.
A blade slashed across his shoulder. He staggered back, parried wildly, then rammed his sword through his attacker's throat.
"Fall back!" he shouted, voice hoarse. "Everyone to the fallback point!"
Plan B.
---
They began to retreat—not a rout, but a controlled descent into the valley. The enemy pressed hard, scenting weakness, but Andravion led them like a flame in the dark.
The ground narrowed beneath their feet. The cliffs loomed.
This is where we make them bleed.
Ramona's voice cut through the noise.
"This is why you must always keep a second blade, boy."
"Then let's make it sharp." He grunted.
Andravion raised his sword to signal the second formation. Hidden archers—their backup squad—rose from the cliff shadows, taking position on the rocks.
"Loose!"
The sky erupted. Arrows rained like blackened stars. The enemy charge faltered, screaming as sharpened death fell from above.
"Flank them!" Andravion barked, his voice reborn in fire. "Now!"
Silphon's squad emerged from the east ridge, blades flashing. Byron's team pushed from behind, cutting off their retreat.
The trap had reset itself.
---
Chaos became a chorus.
Blades clanged in the narrow valley. Blood painted the cliffs. Men slipped on the wet stones. Screams echoed against stone walls that gave no mercy, only reflection.
Andravion fought like prophecy incarnate.
His shoulder bled. His fingers ached. But his mind was clearer than ever. Every order barked was followed without hesitation. Every misstep was corrected by instinct alone.
A soldier came at him—too fast, too strong. Andravion ducked, drove his sword through the man's stomach, then let him fall with a thud.
Another attacked. Ramona warned him a heartbeat before the strike landed. He turned, caught the blade on his pauldron, and answered with steel.
His foot slipped on blood. He used the momentum to roll, then rise again, eyes burning.
---
By now, the valley had become a furnace.
Steel melted into skin. Fire roared in the distance. The earth shook with fury.
"Now," Andravion growled. "Block the openings"
A signal flare—bright, red, fierce—shot into the sky.
Boulders dislodged from the canyon walls. Ropes pulled. Traps sprung. The entry paths into the valley collapsed inward, sealing off the escape routes. The enemy was caught—boxed, cornered, caged.
They tried to climb. Arrows pinned them down.
They tried to run. Blades found them first.
What began as a faltering battle had become a massacre by design.
------
Amidst the scramble to retreat, Andravion's eyes swept the field—counting, scanning, commanding.
But one face was missing.
Elpenor.
He'd been at the western flank. Right at the start.
But now?
Gone. Not fallen. Not dead. Just… not there.
"No time," Andravion told himself, swallowing the twist in his gut.
"He's smart. He'll find his way back to the line."
"You're too slow, boy."
What?
"Your thoughts are bleeding out through your mouth. It would be wiser to use your feet."
"I can't help it, Mona. They're mine. I'm responsible for every single life present on this field."
"Then lead them. Not with guilt. With your blade."
"You wish to save them? Then stop thinking about saving them and fight like a man who already has."
The words cut him sharper than the enemy steel.
He blinked blood from his eyes. Gritted his teeth.
"Forgive me."
"Don't apologize. Move."
Ramona didn't need to say more. He felt her disapproval like thunder behind his ribs.
With a sharp breath, he hardened his grip, pushed forward, and carved a relentless path through the enemy line. This wasn't a place for hesitation. He raised his sword and surged forward like a raging storm . This time, he didn't think-he simply moved. There was only the end of this battle. And it would end in their favour.