Through the chaos of battle, a commanding figure emerged from the ranks of the Arakenys forces.
Aragon's blood ran cold as he recognised Yukagrat, memories of that dark day at the castle flooding back. The enemy commander stood tall, his scarred face twisted in a mocking smile.
Time seemed to slow. Aragon's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles went white. Then, with deliberate calm that belied the rage building within him, he hurled his sword into the ground. The blade struck with such force that it sent cracks spreading through the stone, its hilt vibrating from the impact. With measured movements, he unbuckled his sword belt, letting the scabbard fall.
"Aragon..." Eliviraa's concerned voice echoed in his mind, but he was beyond hearing.
