The smoke that had been billowing was now blown away by the wind. Sora, still running with every panting breath, pursued the enemy commander before he could leave the battlefield. The fallen beasts, the cunning Goblins scorched by flames, and the Ogres who could no longer withstand the strength of the small, resurgent army all the clamor of the battlefield slowly faded into silence behind Sora as he ran towards the edge of the hill.

  Sora reached the top and saw before him the mastermind of this war's destruction. The enemy commander he had been targeting stood alone, waiting for him on the slope, sitting on a fire-scorched rock, his figure framed by the fading orange glow. The black armor seemed to be layered with sigils and runes that Sora did not recognize, shrouding his form like a shadow that had forged it, right up to his horned helm. But behind that helm, Sora sensed something familiar. Sora stopped a few steps away from the enemy commander, his sword gripped tightly, his chest tightening as the commander's voice, condescending, cynical, and cold as a winter wind, reached him.

  “Long time no see… Mireborn.”

  The use of the word Mireborn made Sora flinch. The voice confirmed that the figure in the black helm and armor was involved in the massacre of his village. It resonated through his very bones, coming from a memory and from a place deep in his heart he had tried to keep buried. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword even tighter as the enemy commander spoke again.

  “Still alive, are you? After all this time. What was the name of your village again? Never mind, the hell with its name. But I thought you had perished then, buried under the rubble of that hovel with your little hamlet and that mother of yours, burned to ash, weren't they?”

  There was a silence, and although Sora showed no movement, something began to burn within him. The enemy commander then said what should never have been said to Sora. “Ah… no. That wasn't your real mother, was she? What was her name again, if you’d care to tell me? Oh, sorry, I forgot you were mute, weren’t you? Oops.” The commander placed a hand on his helm and scratched it as if it itched, his voice seeking a sharper, crueler edge. Then, he remembered the name. “Aha. Eyla Varn, was it? Your stepmother’s name was she?”

  The commander’s voice, speaking her name, pierced Sora like a blade to the ribs. Unable to hold back any longer, Sora stepped forward, his mouth clamped shut to contain his explosive emotions, his eyes beginning to glow with a burning rage. Sora charged, his attack brutal and frontal, but the commander easily parried all of Sora's strikes with just one hand. His black sword deflected Sora's attacks with an effortless ease, sparks flying from their blades. They stood with their swords locked for a few moments, their faces close, until the commander laughed, mocking him. “Still carrying that burden, are you? Good. Then let’s talk in the way we know best.” He pushed Sora back and drew him into a duel, his own sword dragging a sharp, deadly line on the ground. “Come on, Mireborn. Let’s finish what we never finished before.”

  Sora stared at him, his grip on his own sword tightening as it rose to meet the commander’s. Then, something within Sora slowly awakened not a physical change, not fear, but retribution and destruction. Something inside him cracked, his breath catching, and the world seemed to dim. Sora's trauma surged forth in images, sounds, screams, and memories long buried beneath his silence. The image of Eyla Varn, turned to ash, reaching for him with wide, empty eyes, was vivid in his mind. Sora took a deep breath, pushing away the painful memories, and raised his sword again, suppressing the overwhelming desire for revenge and the fear that now raged within him. The commander gave a single, dismissive nod, his own blade, faint with dark magic, pointing at Sora. “Good. You remember now. Then bleed for her, if you must.” And without another word, they clashed again. The silence between them was shattered by the ringing of their blades, a fight bound by the events in Mireholt, and Sora was ready to bury his trauma and defeat it with the fire inside him and his sword.

  Far on the other side of the battlefield, the last undead dragon let out a final, shrieking cry before Bahamuth’s fangs tore through its rotting neck. The sky rained down black ichor and bones as the dragon met its end. The shadow of the dragon war god created a storm of silence beneath it; all five undead dragons were now gone. The sky was no longer cursed. Bahamuth, its task completed, raised its massive wings once more, creating a powerful gust of wind that kicked up a dust storm as it left the battlefield. It soared high, like a god returning to its rightful place, and then disappeared behind the clouds, fading as if it had never been summoned at all.

  Beneath that sky, the battle still raged. The blood-soaked and panting soldiers of Elarion continued to fight with iron and steel against the dwindling remnants of the enemy horde. The beasts and other creatures faltered without the aid of their undead dragons, but their relentless anger and thirst for human blood did not cease. However, the fire of hope now burned in the ranks of Elarion. And in the heart of the storm, Vael still fought Thelan. His armor was half-shattered, his breath came in ragged gasps, but his resolve was unbreakable as he clashed again and again with the sword and dagger that had once belonged to the man who was his brother-in-arms, now a puppet controlled by the enemy. Their duel was no longer a mere swordfight; it was a song of sorrow and rage born from a tragedy, sung in the clash of blades as Vael tried to free his brother from his bonds by putting his body to rest.

  Vael attacked with all the strength he possessed, striking Thelan with a sweeping arc from his side and several thrusts from his sword that prevented Thelan from finding an opening in his attack. Every technique they had ever trained in together was now turned against each other, with every clang of their steel blades still offering resistance, and every spatter of blood flying with their every move. But Thelan showed no signs of weakening, no grunts, no pain, and no sound came from him during the duel with Vael because Thelan was not the man Vael knew; he was now just an empty vessel moved by hatred and the dark magic of his controller. And then an unnatural shriek was heard from Thelan as his power began to surge drastically. The air around him began to turn black as he released his unusual aura, and his blade ignited with a cursed, dark green fire, his shadow blazing like a burning fire beneath him. Thelan's attacks became a horrific and brutal onslaught, his wide, sweeping slashes capable of tearing through the flesh of a dozen men at once. He attacked Vael like a storm, and when Vael tried to block his attack, he inadvertently stumbled.

  He managed to parry, but Thelan's slash hit his left shoulder, tearing a large part of Vael's arm, making the gash on his left arm clearly visible. Vael's breath began to catch, showing an exhaustion that had reached its limit, causing his vision to blur and the world to seem slightly fuzzy to him. Vael then knelt, but his hand still gripped his sword tighter, and from his lips came a barely audible whisper in the midst of the chaos:

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “I am bound by an oath…”

  Memories of Borreal surged through him the training halls, the watchful eyes of the mentors, the voices of his comrades calling his name, and Thelan, now standing beside him once again, inviting him to a sparring match, just having learned to hold a wooden replica of a sword. All his memories of that had now gone with him forever. However, the oath that was still bound within him to the ruined and desolate Borreal remained.

  “I am the last of my sword to keep my oath... and I will not surrender what has bound to me till now.”

  Vael rose from his despair and refused to give up in facing his brother who needed to be put to rest again. Vael began to walk slowly towards Thelan, who was already in his stance, then he quickened his pace until he was running, and he attacked for the last time as his final strike against Thelan. Their swords met in a thunderous clash of power, dark magic, and steel, for the war in Elarion and also for his oath to Borreal, and for those who could no longer rise from the ground.

  The silence of two men who were once bound by the same oath was now separated by death and life. Vael stood tall before Thelan as they clashed, his armor now completely shattered, his ribs feeling cracked, and blood flowing freely from his left arm and the wounds carved all over his body. Before him, Thelan, twisted by dark magic, kicked Vael to create space for him to launch another deadly attack, and now Thelan took his stance and raised his dark magic-wielding sword, with signs carved into it that glowed with a curse, keeping him alive in a false life. The steel sang between them once again as they exchanged attack for attack, slash for slash, every thrust echoing with painful memories, and every wound crying with sorrow for the opponent before them. But now, Thelan took one slow step back, raising his sword high above his head, a black flame encircling the steel blade like a snake.

  His long-dead eyes looked at Vael, not with hatred, but with the cold necessity of a man who could not resist the threads of his fate in a long-decayed body, moved by its puppeteer. Vael stood firm with his sword in his left hand and the dagger in his right. His knees trembled from the unbearable pain of his wounds, but his spirit still burned with the oath of Borreal that still pulsed in his veins. They looked at each other before attacking, to determine the outcome of their final duel. The slash of their two swords screamed louder than any war trumpet, then, a sudden silence for a few moments as both did not move to see who would fall first between them.

  Then, Vael knelt, his hand propping him up from falling, as he coughed up blood from a slash that tore across his chest, the cursed sword slicing through the remnants of his shattered armor, the pain searing and his strength beginning to waver. However, the dagger he held in his right hand was gone from his grasp because it was now lodged deep in Thelan's chest. The resurrected knight from Borreal staggered back, the light in his eyes flickering, and his sword fell from his fingers. He fell to his knees, his armor pierced by the dagger Vael had planted with a precision that hit the core of the undead being.

  His face turned to Vael with no malice and no more resistance from him, only... a peace that had been released. A glimpse of something human was seen in Thelan as an undead before death claimed him for the second time, and then, for the first time since they were reunited in Thelan's resurrection, Thelan smiled faintly and emptily, but it was so warm to Vael when he saw it. Vael's vision began to blur, but he refused to fall before completing his final task. He rose with his remaining strength, his hand trembling as he walked towards Thelan, carrying his sword. When he reached Thelan, who had positioned himself for an honorable execution, Vael raised his sword high and paused for a moment to look at Thelan's face, who was looking up at him, waiting for his brother to execute him. Vael screamed with a sound torn from the deepest part of his soul and brought his sword down on the back of Thelan's neck as his final blow. Thelan's head was severed from his body and rolled away. The undead was silenced. Thelan, who was once a commander and a sworn brother of Vael and also a human before that... now lay peacefully as he had wished.

  Vael stood there for a moment, his blade planted in the ground, his shoulders beginning to shake, and unconsciously, Vael began to cry over what he had done, which truly broke his heart. Then, with legs that could no longer stand, he fell to his knees beside Thelan's headless corpse , reluctant to cry out loud, but sobs were heard from Vael, and his pain was deeper than just the tears that fell. He just bowed his head, one hand retrieving the dagger from Thelan's chest, then he gripped the hilt of the dagger that once belonged to his brother tightly. "Sleep now... my brother," Vael said with a sob, as a final word after his brother-in-arms, unbound by blood, Thelan, had rested in peace. The war still raged in the open, but here, for a moment, the storm had passed for Vael. And one oath was finally fulfilled for him.

  In the middle of the collapsing edge of the battlefield, where the scorched earth from the fire of Bahamuth and the undead dragons met shattered stone and a dark grey sky, Sora clashed with the enemy commander, who was a manifestation of his past's shadow, a ghost from his past returned with steel and poison for him. Their swords had collided a dozen times, and the sparks from their steel danced like screaming metal. Sora attacked with pure rage in his eyes, the fire of his past beginning to burn his soul. However, the commander only laughed bluntly, mocking every one of Sora's attacks as if he were a child whose food had just been stolen, parrying every blow with ease.

  “You are too emotional and too childish for the redemption you seek. Do you really think swinging your sword with anger will allow you to defeat me? Hahahaha… don't expect that to happen, Mireborn boy,” he jeered, his voice calm but so cruel. Sora let out a silent roar, his voice locked forever in an endless silence, and rushed to attack again with a heavier slash aimed at the commander’s throat. The enemy commander dodged with an easy movement and launched a counter-attack, slamming his boot into Sora’s chest, which sent Sora flying backward, dragging him across the surrounding ground. Sora hit a rock behind him hard, sending dust billowing around him.

  “Oh, come on… this isn’t what I expected from you. I thought you grew from that moment in the ashes, but this? This is just pathetic,” the commander said with a disappointed sigh as he slowly began to approach him. Sora gritted his teeth, his hands trembling as he pushed himself back to his feet. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, not from a scream, but from the brutal silence he had endured all this time. The commander stopped and spoke again, his tone once again demeaning Sora. “Just give up, Mireborn. Put down your sword, and I will forgive your actions, but on the condition that once I take that castle you're defending on it for my superior, I might let you live in peace with your party after all.”

  He said it with a crooked grin that made Sora's eyes blaze and his fingers wrap around the hilt of his sword again; then, his rune began to pulse and ignite. A faint light began to spread throughout his body, radiating from the scars all over him and pulsing like a heartbeat older than his voice and older than his sorrow. A red fire blazed on his sword's blade, not just fire, but his soul and his memory, his vengeance now fully ignited, which he had held back, having no other choice. The commander stopped with curiosity. "Oh... you're getting serious now. Very well then..." he said, his tone almost joyful.

  He raised his own hand to the sky, and from behind his armor, black fire began to encircle his entire body, swirling into an aura of death around him. His rune was active not from life, but from the decay and malice he possessed. A thick, blazing darkness flowed around his body, ticking like a smoke-filled fire, and the blade of his sword was reshaped by the flow of corruption from the rune that also enveloped it. "Let's finish this fight, Mireborn. And let's see whose pain has made them stronger between us now," he said with a cynical smile.

  The earth trembled beneath their feet, and the clash of their fight began.