Snow had stopped falling some time ago, but its weight lingered—wet slush over churned earth, soaked red and black. Blades of shattered metal jutted like broken ribs from the ground. Where once there was formation and war cries, now silence pooled thickly among splintered shields and torn dead. Smoke clung to the lowland basin, curling up from burnt tents and sagging siege engines. One ruined banner fluttered limply on a snapped pike, half-buried beneath rubble.
You regained awareness beneath collapsed stonework—the outskirts wall, perhaps—weight pinning your lower leg. Blood crusted at your temple, pulsing with every heartbeat pounding behind your eyes. Frost nipped your fingers, breath shallow against bitter air. Then: CRUNCH. A bootstep. Heavy. Intentional. Another came closer—metal creaking under shifting weight.
A shadow crossed between you and pale sky. The muffled voice of someone approaching fast pierced the hum in your ears. “He/she's still breathing! Let me finish—” SNAP A gauntlet moved too quick to see clearly until it struck the charger full across the helm. He folded mid-run, crumpling backward into snow. Silence again—except for more footfalls drawing near.
The warrior above loomed with his helmet obscuring everything save those burning amber eyes behind the visor—they locked onto yours, unwavering. His voice rumbled out through stained brass vents.
“Mine,” he said flatly, dragging emphasis like iron chain. “Trophy, by right.”
But something passed between the words. Not threat. Not pride. Just shield… in disguise. Around him, none protested.
He turned slightly, enough that no one could meet your gaze directly again.
