They say the battlefield was drenched in dread.
A thousand hooves thundered like drums of the end.
Steel clashed, earth split, men wailed.
Then came him—the rider ablaze.
Not with fire, but with defiance.
Against the enemy's tide, he rode alone.
Not a hesitation in his breath.
Not a flinch in his hands.
He rose from the dust as if summoned by war itself.
A single man atop a nameless steed,
his eyes like twin suns,
his breath steady in the face of ruin.
“BREAK THEIR CHARGE!”
The world heard.
And the world blinked.
They say when he rode, the sky held its breath.
That the sun stood still, unwilling to miss his last ride.
And for a moment, even Death paused—
awed by the mortal who did not flinch.
He did not wear the colors of kings,
nor call banners to his name.
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But to his enemies, he was the sun itself,
bearing down, blinding, unforgiving.
His enemies didn’t see armor or banners.
They saw the sun charging them head-on.
Bright. Unyielding. Terrifying.
And in that brilliance, their lines stuttered.
Momentum broke.
Hope ignited.
The tide turned.
The infantry held.
The cavalry that once promised doom—
was shattered.
But when the dust cleared,
The bodies were many.
The blood was deep.
But his... was nowhere.
Not among the fallen.
Not among the living.
Only his memory remained—
etched into the marrow of every man who lived to tell it.
First around fires.
Then in temples.
Then in the hearts of children
who never knew war,
but spoke his name in reverence.
Some say he was no man at all.
That he was the Sun's wrath given form.
patron of hopeless stands,
worshipped by those who ride into death with open eyes.
His symbol? A lone horseman riding toward the sun, lance forward, eyes ablaze.
Whatever the truth,
when noon strikes hardest,
and the odds are at their worst,
some warriors still whisper:
“He rides with us.”
