1st Tale of the Universe of "The Castrater"

  Pedro Moreira

  King Magnan

  The blood flows like small streams, seeping between the stones, staining them forever. The bodies pile up, forming almost a wall of flesh and shattered armor. Summus against Mordais. The body against the brain. My warriors, tall and strong, fall one by one. As much as his strength surpasses that of his enemies, it is not enough. The battle is no longer resolved with muscle alone.

  The Mordais know this. They know that, in the open field, we would be unstoppable. So they make us play their game. They divide the army into three: a decoy, made up of the biggest names in their Green Army, and two forces hidden on the sides, ready to surround us. And we... We fell into the trap. Like dogs carried away by the smell of hunting, we run to the center of the battlefield, where spears and shields await us raised like a living wall.

  Stuck. Squeezed. A slow and torturous death. I see men who have fought by my side for years being pierced by spears, suffocated in the midst of the crowd of bodies, crushed by the very weight of defeat. So, in the chaos, a breach. One of the Mordal warriors falls, and in desperation, a handful of mine manage to escape. I follow them, with no alternative, and order them to withdraw. My men retreat to the camp, dragging the wounded, while humiliation burns me inside. On the other side, Prince Alfen watches us with a sneer, convinced that he has already beaten us.

  His mistake is to let us get away. You should never release a wounded wolf. He comes back, more dangerous, more desperate.

  Return to the camp carried by the weight of defeat. The smell of death mixes with the sweat of exhausted soldiers and the screams of the wounded. More dead than alive. More bodies to bury than warriors ready to fight. I need a plan. I need something that will give us a chance, however small it may be.

  I lock myself in the tent and wander for hours, a prisoner of my own thoughts. I look for a way out, but I only find walls. Fits of rage take me, I knock over tables, tear up maps, crush everything within my reach. Anguish consumes me. For a moment, courage arises, but soon it vanishes like smoke. In the end, I fall to my knees, defeated. The tears flow without me being able to stop them.

  I promised to protect my people. I promised that I would not let them perish. But here, alone, lost, I realize that I failed. The weight of fear is overwhelming. The fear of dying. The fear of losing those who depend on me. But if it is to die, let it be like a king.

  I stand up. I straighten up. If I can't promise victory, at least I promise a worthy fight.

  I leave the tent and walk through the camp. The soldiers look at me, some suspiciously, others hopeless. I see men without arms, without legs, covered with wounds that cut through their bodies like scars of a cruel fate. But even those who lie on the ground, weak and dying, need something to believe in.

  I climb into a box in the center of the camp and raise my voice.

  "Greetings, comrades!" I shout, for all to hear. "I call you here for a last council of war. I know that tomorrow we will go to battle. I know that our chances are slim. I know that many of us will not be returning.

  Silence weighs heavily. I see the blank looks, the slumped shoulders.

  "But let me ask you something... Those who have died so far... Did they want us to perish without a fight?

  No one answers.

  "We are Summus!" The strongest! Those who carry the legacy of our ancestors! Should we kneel? Should we back down? NO! IF WE DIE, WE DIE STANDING! WE DIE WITH SWORDS IN OUR HANDS, WITH HONOR IN OUR CHESTS, SMILING AT DEATH ITSELF!

  The echo of my voice spreads through the forest. For a moment, no one moves. But then, a cry rises among the soldiers.

  "THEY CAN'T KILL WHAT'S ALREADY DEAD!"

  Another repeats. Then another. Within seconds, the entire camp shouts the same. Even the wounded scream, even those who no longer have the strength to raise a weapon.

  "GET READY FOR GLORY!" I roar.

  I get out of the box and walk to the commanders' tent. Calling my best men, I sit down at the table.

  "The last meeting of commanders begins," I announce, looking each one in the eye. "First of all, I thank you for not giving up on me, or on the kingdom.

  "We never give up, Your Majesty," Aklhand says firmly.

  "I have followed your father to war, and I follow you, King Magnan. I won't leave him behind," says Lorgan, an army veteran.

  I sign. If we still have a chance, she's in this room.

  "What should we do?"

  Lorgan leans over the table.

  "They come confident. Alfen thinks he has already won. This means that they will not worry about an elaborate strategy.

  "We can use this to our advantage," Patheon suggests. "Our archers are few, but if we have a strategic point, we can turn the tide.

  I think for a moment.

  "Is their camp far away?"

  "No. It is on the other side of the plain.

  "Would a man on horseback get there before sunset?"

  They all interspersed.

  "Yes, it would," Aklhand replies. "But why?"

  I cross my arms and face him.

  "I want to send someone to their camp."

  Silence falls over the tent.

  "Your grace... Are you saying you want to infiltrate a spy? Patheon asks.

  "Exactly." I look directly at Aklhand. "And I want it to be you."

  His eyes sparkle with a mixture of surprise and excitement.

  "Do you want me to pretend that I have betrayed the kingdom?"

  "Yes. Go to them and convince them that I'm desperate. Tell us we're going into battle with a reduced army. Make them let their guard down.

  Lorgan franze o cenho.

  "And how will he come back?"

  Smile.

  "At night. When they are confident, they will sleep like children.

  Aklhand stood up, determined.

  "Permission to leave, Your Majesty?"

  "Go." I pause. "And try not to die."

  He smiles before leaving the tent.

  Silence takes over the place. We all know the risk. If Aklhand is discovered, he will die. And with him, we will all die.

  Now, we just have to wait. And pray that fate will give us one last chance at survival.

  Camp Mordal

  Prince Alfen

  I walk through the camp, with a huge smile on my face. The confidence I exude is overwhelming; I am trust itself in person. The soldiers greet me, as if I were a hero of the stories they tell at the campfires. Scream and wave, and even the place looks happy—the birds fly with contagious energy, and the trees dance to the rhythm of the wind. I feel unbeatable, as if I had already won the war. The morality and confidence of my army are so high that they seem to touch the clouds.

  I arrive at the center of the camp, where I have created a meeting point, a kind of square. There is a bonfire in the middle, this being the most important, although there are others around the camp. The smiles, screams and celebrations make my heart soften. War is horrible, but when you know you are victorious, it is an indescribable feeling. I decide that today I will relax, enjoy, listen to the songs that they compose about me and about this glorious achievement. As I sing, drink, and celebrate, a soldier approaches, calling out to me and saying that there is something I need to see. I feel a slight irritation, but I walk away from the party and follow the soldier.

  What I see sends a chill down my spine: Aklhand, a commander of the Giant Army, my enemies.

  "What brings you here?" I ask, my voice full of sarcasm. "Can't you see that we are busy?" I raise a beer, mocking.

  - Mr. Gra?a, I have information that you will want to know. Aklhand says, kneeling.

  "Well, then speak." I don't see any soldiers stopping him from speaking, right? I reply, with a cynical smile.

  "I prefer to talk to you and your commanders. Aklhand insinuates, showing that he knows he couldn't be with me for long alone.

  "All right, follow me. They are already in the strategy tent.

  As we walk through the camp, I notice that Aklhand is nervous. Even though he has participated in several battles, he is young and knows that, as commander of the Summus, he is in hostile territory. He feels the gazes of the mordal soldiers, and his brown clothes do not match our green robes. I realize, he must have countless reasons to fear for his life. The smell of anger is in the air, like an invisible cloud, and it is impossible to ignore it.

  Aklhand

  We arrived at the command tent. The organization of the green camp is impressive. The secondary tents are on the sides, and I soon realize that the main tent is in the center. Something catches my attention: the place where they keep the horses. There are dozens of them, and the others are loose around the camp. I try not to look too far to that side, but I keep moving forward.

  Alfen looks like a God as he walks among his men. The upright posture, the certainty that he won the war.

  The war has been going on for some time, but to be honest, I don't know why. Maybe because of some unconquered land, or maybe both kingdoms wanted a war to solve their problems. I love King Magnan, I would die for him, but I can't stand the society I live in. The intrigues of the kingdoms, the unsolved problems that haunt those who did nothing to provoke them. The war... War is a senseless creature, which takes lives without giving any compensation. I've already lost the will to change something. When I was younger, I believed that I could alter the world, but now I know that this is impossible. I have adapted and I persist, I fight because, if someone wants war, I will have to face it.

  However, as I observe Alfen, I notice something strange. He is drunk, the effects of beer and wine are already noticeable. This is a detail that I can use to my advantage, plans can flow better, like the alcohol that the prince drank. The prince, little by little, perishes his inexperience, who dares to get drunk in a war camp?

  We arrived at the commanders' tent. Two guards guard the entrance. I enter and see a long, narrow table, with three men seated. A map of the Lonely Forest occupies the center. I recognize some of the commanders: Sir Greenforce, an expert archer known for winning tournaments, and Sir Just, the most important warrior in the Kingdom of the Mordais, a legendary swordsman, fast and strong, the "One-Man Army", while the other man, is unknown to me.

  "Gentlemen, sorry for the delay." Alfen drags the words, still with a smile on his face. "We have an unexpected visitor. Aklhand, one of Magnan's commanders.

  "Your Grace, tell me why." Sir Greenforce asks, his suspicion evident in his voice.

  "Yes, Your Majesty, I do not think it wise to bring such an important enemy into our camp." The unknown man, with a long beard, piercing and suspicious eyes, speaks.

  "Don't worry, Sir Greenforce and Malcolm. Let's hear what he has to say. The prince, drunk, speaks, gesturing for me to explain myself.

  Before I speak, I notice the disappointment of the commanders, hidden among the distrust they maintain before me. To see your prince like this, before the fight, must be sad.

  "Your Grace and Commanders, I have come here to join your army." " The reaction of the commanders is immediate: distrust and vigilance. However, Alfen feels excited, with an uncontrolled smile.

  "Tell me why?" Sir Just asks, with his firm authority, his gaze fixed on me.

  My answer comes quickly.

  "King Magnan has gone mad. Everyone knows that you are outnumbered, but he refuses to accept that. He wants to send our entire army into the open against you. I say, keeping my posture, despite the fear that haunts my being. The other commanders exchange glances, but I don't hesitate. "The commanders of the Giants have already tried to advise him, but he doesn't want to listen. They have only a thousand soldiers. In the open, the Summus will be defeated.

  "We have about seven thousand soldiers, and a thousand of them are knights. You are destined to lose.

  "I know, Your Grace. I myself have tried to convince King Magnan to surrender, but he is euphoric at the idea of victory. He believes that he will win, that the bards will sing songs about him.

  The prince in his confidence and drunkenness believes the story, even if the distrust still remains in the eyes of the commanders. I share false information, now, I just need to act.

  "Young commander, I met King Magnan, he didn't seem to me someone in search of glory. Why would he now seek this? Sir Just asks, and I need to be quick with the answer.

  "Sir Just, he believes that because it is a difficult battle, almost lost, he will be recognized as the greatest King of the Mordals. He tried to restore Summus, but the people did not support him. Now he seeks recognition, and war is the best way to do so.

  The lie escapes my mouth effortlessly, and I breathe a sigh of relief from the nod I've received.

  "I see, what others think changes what we feel..." Sir Just murmurs, reflecting on Aklhand's answer.

  The conversation continues, but the mistrust decreases a bit. In the end, the prince makes his decision.

  "I accept your join, but today we will have a nice conversation." I want to know everything about Summus. - Says the prince, with the decision made.

  I nod, resigned. I know that, if all goes well, I will be able to fulfill my mission and maybe even save my life.

  After a few hours, the tent empties and I put my foot out of it, relief at every step, however, I feel a presence behind me, when I stop and look, I see that it is Sir Just.

  "Aklhand, I'll tell you something." Sir Just begins, standing beside me. "If you're lying and betraying us, remember that I'll meet you on the battlefield."

  The threat is simple, but it makes me tremble with fear. I wonder if it will be worth continuing with this plan. I could run away, take my family and leave for some distant place, but you know that's not an option. I can't run away. I am a commander, and I must fight to the end.

  As I walk through the camp, my hands sweat and my heart races. I need to find a way to save my people. The shadows of war are getting closer and closer.

  By the time the moon reaches its peak, most soldiers are either asleep or completely intoxicated. I take the opportunity and head to the horse area, where I had the idea earlier. I know that if the horses are destroyed, the green army will have a great loss. I grab a bow and arrow, light the end of a nearby fire, and run to the stable area.

  The fire spread quickly, burning horses and tents. The tension is palpable, and the battle never ends.

  Summus Camp

  King Magnan

  I walk from one side to the other inside the tent. Aklhand has not yet appeared, he has not given any sign. The sun is almost rising, and anxiety grips my chest like an iron chain. I cannot bear the thought of having sent the young commander to his death. That would consume me. I gave him my trust. I gave him my faith. And now, I may have given your life too.

  The soldiers believe me. Like me, they are fools, but at least they are not cowards. I try to find some light in the midst of the darkness, but there is only the weight of waiting.

  "YOUR GRACE, COME OUTSIDE!" The voice of the keeper of my tent pierces the silence.

  I don't think so. I run outside.

  "Follow me, Your Grace. It seems that something happened in the Mordais camp.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  My heart beats faster. What? Something good? Something bad? Anything could have happened.

  I run after the soldier. Patheon and Lorgan appear next to me, their expressions charged with uncertainty.

  We reach the edge of the camp, and my gaze is fixed on the horizon. There is a light in the distance. Smoke rises in black spirals. My mouth opens, but not a word comes out.

  "What happened?" a soldier mutters next to me.

  The question is on everyone's mind. What is that? Have they burned Aklhand at the stake? Has a fire engulfed the camp? Or... Is it a ritual of theirs?

  The answer appears before our eyes.

  A silhouette stands out against the bright light of the flames. A horse advances through the field, and on it, a figure I know only too well. A bow on the back. An impassive look.

  Aklhand.

  My feet move before I can think. I run up to him, grab his arm, pull him off his horse, and hug him tightly.

  "Aklhand, what's wrong?" I ask, my voice full of urgency.

  "Your Grace, the job is done." He points to the flames on the horizon. "The Mordais camp is in ashes.

  "How?" Patheon asks, astonished.

  "Bow." Arrows with a burning tip.

  For a moment, I am silent. Then a laugh rises from my chest, strong, insane, as if it had been forcibly torn from my soul. A wild laugh. Euphoria runs through my veins like a sweet poison.

  Everyone looks at me, confused.

  "You, Aklhand... He is a hero!

  He nods with a smile.

  "I thank you for the compliment, Your Grace. But there's something else they need to know.

  My eyes meet his. And

  "Let's go to the command tent," I order.

  Patheon, Lorgan, Aklhand and I hurried on. As soon as we enter, each one sits around the table where the old war map is still extended.

  Aklhand leans over it and begins:

  "I got important information. They have about seven thousand soldiers. A thousand are cavalry, four thousand are archers, and the rest are infantry. They bet on archers because they think we are a much smaller army than we really are. Their plan is simple: attack the infantry head-on and, while keeping us busy, massacre us with arrows.

  Silence weighs on the tent. He pauses, as if trying to remember every detail.

  "The fire caused casualties. They lost some men, especially among the cavalry and infantry. However, now they are going to attack us with blind rage.

  He gets up and approaches the map.

  "They will use the infantry to put pressure on our troops first. Then the cavalry will surround us and crush us while the archers will reduce us to ashes.

  I cross my arms and face the map.

  "Interesting," I murmur. "That sounds like Green Commanders. Alfen would never waste time planning such a strategy.

  "I agree," Aklhand nods. "His condition doesn't help him either.

  "How?" Lorgan asks.

  "Drunk."

  We were all surprised, how foolish the prince is.

  Patheon stands up, grabs everyone's attention, and points to the map.

  "We have an advantage. The Lonely Forest surrounds the battlefield. We can divide the army. We leave a small contingent on the field to pretend that we are few, while we hide two divisions on the flanks and one in the rear, ready to attack the archers.

  Aklhand crosses his arms.

  "I told them that we have only a thousand soldiers and that we would face them in the open.

  Smile.

  "Perfect." We have four thousand. A thousand on the battlefield, a thousand on each flank, and a thousand in the rear. They won't realize what hit them.

  "Yes, your grace. We can send infantry to the field and flanks, while archers cover the front line. The cavalry attacks the archers," Lorgan suggests.

  Seat with the head.

  The strategy begins to take shape. We spent the next hour adjusting the details. Outside, the sky begins to tint a pale blue. The sun is about to rise.

  I stand up.

  "Prepare the troops. Let's end this war.

  The strategy is defined. The divisions are organized. The soldiers take a stand.

  And I, King Magnan, will be in the front line.

  You can try to stop me. You can call me crazy. But the blood of this war will be shed before my eyes.

  And when the day is over, victory will be ours.

  The Battle of Legend

  Nothing is heard but our footsteps crushing the earth and the trotting of horses. Silence weighs heavily. Nobody speaks. Everyone is focused, attentive, waiting for any movement on the horizon, looking for a tracker hidden in the shadows.

  The army is divided. I stand behind, at the beginning of the battlefield, along with a thousand soldiers, the flanks are already in position. Only the cavalry is missing. In each division, there is an archer with an arrow soaked in oil and a torch. As soon as they take a position, they shoot. The flaming trail streaks the sky, signaling where the shot came from.

  A few minutes later, I see the cavalry arrow. My chest tightens. Everything is ready.

  Anxiety grows inside me. The chill down my spine, the euphoria of being on the verge of the decisive moment. There is no turning back.

  Something catches my eye. A soldier kneeling, trembling. I approach.

  "What's wrong, young soldier?"

  He looks up and widens his eyes when he sees me.

  "Your grace... I'm afraid.

  I grab his shoulder, firm.

  "Thankfully." That means you know where you are. But now you only have to do one thing: ignore it. Fight for your life. They will have no mercy on you, so have no mercy on them. Remember what's important. From your family. Of what you love. Fight for it.

  The young man takes a deep breath, waves and stands up. Hesitation is still in his eyes, but now there's something more. Determination.

  I smile at him and turn my gaze to the field.

  The sun breaks over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the tall grass. The air becomes heavy. The silence evaporates. The breaths quicken. Sweat runs down his foreheads. Some pray. Others smile, savoring the anticipation of battle.

  So, I see them.

  The Mordal army appears in the distance. The formations are not as rigid as in the last battle. They are misaligned. The flags, instead of being raised in the wind, hang loosely. The green spreads over the field like a sickly cloak.

  The sun burns in the sky. Heat vibrates in the armor. I raise my fist and give the signal. My division moves forward. The creaking of the metal of the armor fills the air. Tension hovers between the armies.

  I see it.

  Prince Alfen.

  He is ahead, mounted on his brown horse. Secure in his position, with the arrogance of someone who has never known the bitter taste of defeat. I advance on foot, alongside my men.

  Armies stop.

  We take a step forward. We are in the center of the field.

  Alfen smiles.

  "Magnan, it saddens me that this is the last time we see each other. I have always respected him. His tournament wins, his strategic mind, the way he governs Summus...

  "Yes, Alfen. It's a shame that your father can't say goodbye to you.

  The Prince's expression closes. The jaw tightens.

  "Our swords will sing, Magnan.

  We turn our backs on each other and return to our positions.

  Respect dies there, among the tall, trodden grasses of the battlefield.

  On the horizon, I see Patheon and Lorgan, each on his own flank. Behind them, the troops are waiting. Just one command and everything falls apart in chaos.

  So, it happens.

  The ground shakes under thousands of steps. The screams echo, mingling with the hiss of the wind. Swords rise. The grass is crushed under the weight of war.

  The shock is brutal.

  The impact of bodies. The metallic sound of the blades hitting each other. Blood jumps from the open wounds. Screams of anger and pain cut through the air.

  I run. Instinctively.

  My sword tears flesh and bone. The blows are heavy, accurate. There is no mercy. There is no hesitation. At the moment, there is only the battle.

  My armor no longer shines. It is red, splattered with the blood of enemies that fall at my feet.

  My division is losing. We are fewer. We are being crushed.

  I give the signal.

  I raise my sword and scream.

  Two arrows whistling through the air. They land on the sides of the field.

  Patheon and Lorgan move forward.

  The mordais look to the sides, and I see the instant when fear creeps in. The battle seems to freeze for a moment.

  Then, I hear Alfen's voice.

  He is in the middle of his army, shouting.

  Words of encouragement.

  Words of strength.

  The jaws roar and rush again at us.

  But now we have the advantage.

  The Summus attack from three fronts. Patheon on the right. Lorgan on the left. Me and my men in front.

  The battle is not yet won.

  But I can already feel the victory approaching.

  Aklhand

  We trotted down the hillside, the muffled sound of hooves mingling with the distant screams of battle. The smell of upturned earth and sweat fills the air. A soldier rides beside me, holding a map of the zone. With a low voice, he dictates the best paths, and I follow. There is no room for hesitation.

  Minutes later, the dry sound of arrows cutting through the wind reaches us. The whistle of the arrows echoes among the trees. I glance at my men and signal to a boy.

  "Go see where the archers are."

  He leaves, moving with the agility of those who need it. Time drags on. Every heartbeat feels like a drum in war.

  Ten minutes later, he returns.

  "Fifty yards ahead, Commander.

  I make a gesture and we move forward. The tall bush brushes against the horses' legs. The irregular trunks make it difficult to pass. Then I see them: arrows tearing through the sky, shot out of the gaps between the trees of the Lonely Forest.

  I raise the hilt of the sword.

  "Now!"

  They listen to me without hesitation. We ride in a ferocious charge. The hooves snap against the ground, the screams of my men merge with the rumble of the charge.

  When we come out of the protection of the trees, the archers turn to us, eyes wide.

  The surprise on their faces makes us scream even louder.

  The shock is brutal.

  Swords make their way, tear flesh and bone. The archers try to react, but it's too late. Some manage to shoot before they topple over. I lose men. I feel each loss as a direct blow to the chest, but there is no time for regrets.

  The last archer falls.

  The momentary silence weighs down, muffled only by the panting of the survivors.

  The taste of victory burns on my tongue. It tastes blood, sweat, conquest.

  But there is no time to celebrate.

  I look up at the battlefield. Down below, my King's army is battling.

  I swallow hard. I hold the reins tightly.

  "We move forward!"

  I spur the horse and we ride into battle.

  King Magnan

  I struggle with everything I still have left. Blood covers me from head to toe, shoulders and arms burn, legs beg for rest. But I can't give in. My men are exhausted, they fall among the bodies scattered on the battlefield. Except for some, I see others die pierced by arrows, their wounds dripping blood. Some defecate on themselves, others cry, beg for mercy, even though they know they are already defeated.

  Then, something changes.

  The arrows stopped falling.

  Was Aklhand successful? Or is he himself being shot down and the archers have turned against his cavalry?

  The answer comes in a bang.

  The thunder of hooves shakes the ground. I look up and see them. Aklhand in front, sword raised, pointed at me. His knights follow him, war cries tearing through the air.

  The impact is brutal.

  Horses crush enemy infantry, bodies thrown like rag dolls. In the midst of the chaos, I see Alfen fighting, cutting everything and everyone who approaches him. There is no longer a strategy, only the hunger to survive.

  Then, a horn echoes across the battlefield.

  The sound chills my blood.

  I turn my head to the source of the sound.

  And then I see him.

  Sir Just.

  He rides ahead of hundreds of Mordais. The smile on Alfen's lips confirms what I fear. Sir Just looks at us with utter contempt, as if he had already condemned us.

  The Mordais crash against us like a raging wave.

  Pain and blood spread across the field. Screams of agony tear through the air. The smell of iron, shit, and death poison the lungs. Steel sings. Death smiles.

  Path among the dead. I fight without a plan, without direction, only with the strength I still have left. I kill a man. Then another. But the body can no longer take it. My legs fail, I fall to my knees.

  "It's over, Magnan!" Alfen's voice cuts through the carnage. "It's impossible for them to win!"

  I raise my head.

  He is before me.

  The swords covered in blood. His filthy hair, glued to his sweaty face.

  Anger. In his eyes, in mine.

  "The battle ends here, with us," I say, standing up. "Whoever wins... Survives.

  Alfen laughs.

  "Great." I already know who will fall on their backs, with their entrails scattered.

  We began to circulate each other. Measuring us.

  Alfen strikes first.

  The blade tears through the air, pointed at my abdomen. I retreat, turn away and counterattack, try to remove his head. He laughs, moves forward again, quick and consecutive blows. I'm older. More tired. I try to parry the attacks, but I am forced to retreat.

  I stumble over a body.

  I look down.

  Patheon.

  An arrow stuck in the eye.

  The shock threatens to crush me. But there is no time to think.

  Alfen advances to the final blow.

  I close my eyes, prepared for death.

  "Running away, little king?" he shouts, laughing.

  "Prepare for the moré..."

  The coup never comes.

  I open my eyes.

  Alfen disappeared.

  I lean on my sword and stand up. The battlefield is hell. Hundreds of men kill each other mercilessly. I see my brothers in war dying. The Mordais falling.

  And I understand.

  War is the worst plague any kingdom has ever seen.

  I'm losing.

  Even if my men fight to the last breath, the Mordais are more. Stronger. More renewed.

  I kneel.

  There is nothing more I can do.

  A warm tear runs down her cheek.

  Confidence, planning... all crumbled into blood and ashes.

  Patheon is dead.

  I don't know if the other commanders are still alive. I don't know if the men I fought with for years survived.

  Is this my punishment?

  Was it I who brought them to their deaths?

  The sky, gray and heavy, seems to reflect on my thoughts. The wind howls, the trees protest against the war.

  Then, the sky opens.

  A bright light illuminates everything.

  The horns echo again, but this time the sound seems to come from the heavens themselves.

  In the distance, a silhouette emerges.

  Gigantic.

  Six arms. White eyes, like divine light. Red hair and beard, gold and white armor.

  The Knight Archer.

  His horse, an albino colossus with a golden mane, observes everything with an intelligence impossible for an animal.

  The being draws two bows from his back.

  Raise them.

  And it advances.

  The ground shakes with each step of the mount.

  Armies hesitate, frozen by the vision.

  And then, he shoots.

  The arrows cut through the air like blades of light.

  With each volley, a dozen Mordais fall.

  Fear dissolves in my chest.

  My army sees it.

  Screams.

  Fight with a new fury.

  The massacre of the Mordais begins.

  Aklhand

  I am stuck looking at the being, unable to look away from its grandeur, when a familiar voice echoes behind me.

  "Aklhand, do you remember the warning I gave you yesterday?"

  Sir Just. The man I least wanted to see at this moment.

  I turn to face him. The veteran mordal is there, sword in hand, look full of contempt.

  "Sir, you know we don't need to do this." "Your army lost. Surrender, you can be forgiven by King Magnan.

  "I'd rather suffer the worst pain in the world than kneel before a Summus.

  And then he moves forward.

  The dance of death begins. Sir Just attacks with fury, quick and accurate blows that almost take my life more times than I can count. I don't attack, I just dodge, dodging as I can, feeling the weight of your anger in each attack.

  "You ate with us, you sat down at the table of our tent!" he roars between blows. "You pretended to be our friend, you betrayed us... and killed our comrades!

  The last cry is accompanied by a brutal blow. I feel the steel tearing at my skin, my sword flying from my hands. I stand there, without a weapon, staring at the approaching man, eyes burning with hatred.

  "Why?" he murmurs, angrily coming out of his mouth.

  Sir Just raises the blade.

  "We are at war, but what did you do... It was the greatest dishonor I have ever seen.

  The blade pierces my chest. The world trembles.

  "Now your dishonor ends here...

  He stakes. He looks down, confused. I see a blade coming out of his belly. Sir Just's gaze meets mine, and then turns back.

  Magnan.

  "You, Summus, are as honorable as you are stupid..." he spits out the words before falling, falling with me.

  The king runs to me, kneels beside me, holds me tightly. Despair floods his eyes.

  "Aklhand, don't close your eyes!" His voice trembles. "Stay with us, please... I've already lost Patheon, I don't know where Lorgan is... I can't miss it either!

  I smile, despite the pain that devours me inside.

  "I... I did my role... Thank you for being my king...

  The world becomes lighter. I let out one last breath. And I let myself go.

  King Magnan

  The war is over.

  I look around and only see bodies scattered around the field. The smell of blood and iron fills my lungs, while the dust still dances in the air, mixed with the smoke of the fires that die slowly. The ground is soaked in red.

  I see Alfen. Trampled, crushed, his face disfigured to the point that it was no longer a face. I see Patheon, lying on his back, an arrow stuck in his eye, a last scream stuck in his open mouth. I see Aklhand, still under the weight of my own body, as if I don't want to let him go.

  I feel someone behind me. Lorgan. When I wrap myself in a hug, I let myself sink into the warmth of his touch. Cry.

  Won. But at what cost?

  How many lives were taken? How many friends, how many comrades will not return home? How many parents and children have been waiting for someone who will never arrive? In the end, it wasn't just soldiers. They were people.

  Lorgan walks away first and wipes his face.

  "Where is that being?"

  I look around, but I don't see anything. Only death.

  "I don't know, Lorgan." My voice rings hollow. "But he has to be remembered until the end of our lives.

  Sigh, fixed on the burnt horizon.

  "I don't know his name, or what he was... I only know that it was a "Knight Archer". The savior of Summus. The hero in the midst of ruin. The legend we must tell our children, and they our children.

  We stood there, motionless, staring at the devastated countryside. The end is always the ugliest.

  I take a deep breath and compose myself. There is work to be done.

  "Lorgan, rally the soldiers. We need to count the dead, save the wounded, and capture the Mordais who survived. " I aim for the battlefield. "Call the healers, the scouts. I want to know how many we have lost, how many are still breathing... and who was lucky to survive.

  Lorgan nods and leaves. I'm alone for a moment. Just me and the dead.

  Later years

  "And so ends the legend of the Knight Archer, my dear," says my grandfather, his voice tired but full of warmth.

  It's old. He walks with a crooked branch that he himself picked up in the woods, as if it were part of it. When I asked him why, he replied with a sly smile: "It's my new leg, boy."

  "Do you think the Knight Archer existed?" I ask, curious.

  My grandfather lets out a light, almost nostalgic laugh.

  "I don't know. But I like to believe that it is. He pauses, staring into the void. "So there's a little more happiness in our world.

  Smile.

  "I believe it too!" I bet he was very strong... and good.

  My grandfather's gaze is lost for a moment, as if looking for something in the past.

  "Yes... he must have been. He murmurs, thoughtful.

  We were silent for a moment. Then he sighs and rests his heavy hand on my shoulder.

  "Now it's time to sleep. Tomorrow we have to leave early for Primigenia. Your mother is already resting, and we should do the same, did you hear, Logan?

  I nod and lie down, letting sleep take me.

  And tonight, I dream of legends and knights.

  END

  This is the first tale in a series of them. All based on the universe of a developing story called "The Castrater", four more short stories will be published, all made about the realms of the universe. The next one will be released soon.

  Any constructive criticism will be appreciated and welcome.

  Thank you,Ph