Then, the crowd parted. Standing before him was the young warrior the scout had mentioned. She was clad in silver armor that glowed with a pure, brilliant light, holding a sword that seemed to be forged from a fallen star.
He was not born a tyrant. Once, he was just a man with a desperate dream to unite the warring clans of the North. But power has a way of twisting noble intentions. To save his people, he had made a pact with an ancient, nameless entity. It gave him immortality and unstoppable might, but it stripped away his humanity. Now, he felt neither joy nor sorrow—only an endless, driving urge to conquer. Arkhan
A scout approached, kneeling in the dirt. "My Lord Arkhan, the enemy forces have gathered at the river pass. They are led by a young warrior who wields the Light of the Sun." Then, the crowd parted
Arkhan paused, looking at the young hero. He saw in her the same burning passion he had possessed centuries ago. For a fleeting second, he felt a pang of something he hadn't felt in ages: regret. He raised his heavy blade. He was not born a tyrant
The girl screamed and charged, her blade leaving a streak of gold in the darkness. Arkhan met her strike. The collision of light and dark created a shockwave that sent soldiers on both sides stumbling backward.
They traded blows that illuminated the night. The girl was fast and driven by a desperate courage, but Arkhan was a master of a thousand wars. He deflected her strikes with brutal efficiency, slowly wearing her down.