[First Era – Year 5 of the Divinity War; Quelth, south of Okorn]

  The chaos erupted from every angle. Fire rained down from the sky, strange soul venoms popped and sizzled in the air as the Severed hurled vials that burst, twisting soldiers in pain, and turning their bodies against them. But for most, their armor protected them.

  Moraithe could do nothing more for his comrades now, except press on and put an end to this. He was halfway to the Severed Lord, but many obstacles still blocked his path.

  Ahead of him, one of the Severed drank a vial of soul venom. And suddenly his body burst outward, snatching upon the bodies of the dead and the detritus of fallen weapons and armor. His body turned into a living wall of thorns—where the barbs of swords, arrows, and shattered bones formed the spiked wall amid pulsating flesh. It was a living wall, a sentient creation designed to slow Moraithe’s advance.

  The air around him grew tense with its presence. Thorns lashed out from the ground, coiling like serpents ready to tear Moraithe apart.

  Moraithe clenched his fists. His gratitude could protect him from the violence of that spiky wall of death. But it would not get him past it.

  But he had left a runic key within a pool of mithsyrium when he’d been in the Faint. He’d never tested this, not on himself, but Break and Shore had done it countless times. He entangled himself with the mithsyrium. And dove right into the living wall of death, melding with it, becoming a part of it. With frantic movements, he fell out of it on the other side. Stifling his gagging reflex, he shook himself off to get rid of any matter he might have taken from the wall of death, before letting go of the entanglement.

  Moraithe was close now. The Severed Lord stood at the far end of the battlefield, his twisted form crackling with dark energy. There was nothing else between them now. But just as he took his first step toward the commander, he felt a sharp, unnatural pressure in the air—the gathering energy of a massive bolt of anger multiplied by the incredible self-assurance of a lord.

  The blast exploded from the commander’s hands—a force that seemed it would tear through the very fabric of reality itself.

  Moraithe gritted his teeth. This was it. There was no retreat. He pushed out his shield of gratitude.

  The two forces collided in mid-air, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Moraithe’s gratitude swelled outward, neutralizing the destructive force. The Severed commander faltered as his attack crumbled in the face of Moraithe’s unbreakable gratitude shield.

  And now, with the path cleared, Moraithe began his final sprint, his heart racing, his soul burning with determination. He was ready to face the Severed commander, to finish what had been started.

  The air crackled with tension as Moraithe and the Severed Lord faced off, the battlefield around them a blur of chaos. The clash of steel, the screams of dying men, the thundering march of armies—everything else faded into a distant hum as Moraithe locked eyes with his enemy.

  The Severed Lord towered over him, his presence a storm of power and rage, his body a dark mass of death. His eyes, cold and calculating, flickered with amusement. “A speck of dust has come to taunt me.” He laughed.

  Moraithe knew the odds. The commander was three ranks of power above him, and yet here they stood, just the two of them locked in this furious duel, while the world around them raged.

  Moraithe’s hands gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, but he didn’t swing it yet. Instead, he called on his power. Gratitude. The shield of shimmering light ran through his veins like a warm comfort, extended from his soul, wrapping around him in a radiant glow. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, filling him with assurance, the power to shield and heal.

  The Severed Lord’s first strike came like a blur—a slash of blade too fast for most to even see, bolts of anger flashing across the blade. Enough power to cut down even a general, let alone a piddly master like Moraithe, but he was prepared. He extended his gratitude shield just beyond his skin, the light shimmering into an impenetrable barrier. The blow struck with the force of an explosion, but Moraithe felt only a ripple against the edge of his shield, the light absorbing the impact.

  The lord growled in frustration, and before Moraithe could even think to move, another strike came—this time from his left, then from his right, then another above him. Moraithe’s heart raced, but the gratitude shield held, blocking every strike. Still, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. His opponent was too fast. Too skilled. And sheer defense wouldn’t win this battle.

  Moraithe's frustration mounted with every strike he made, each one deflected with effortless precision by the Severed Lord. His sword came down, aiming for the Lord's exposed flank, but in the blink of an eye, the Lord had parried it aside, the movement so swift it seemed like a blur. Moraithe lunged again, but the Lord sidestepped, his blade flashing in a counterattack before Moraithe could even adjust his stance.

  Again and again, Moraithe struck, his sword quickly parried or cutting through air rather than flesh, the Severed Lord anticipating every movement, his reflexes a perfect counter to Moraithe’s every attempt. Each failed strike chipped away at his confidence, the gap between their speeds widening with every heartbeat. No matter how he adjusted his timing or tried to outmaneuver the Lord, he couldn’t land a single blow. There within the reign of steal that bit at his shield, frustration built pressure inside him, threatening to burst.

  He tried the secret move Elithir had taught him, a sidestep while blocking the opponent’s sword with the hand guard and swinging through. It was supposed to be an unblockable cut, and on a single sword wielder, or a slower opponent it would have worked. But the Severed Lord brought up his second sword to block the technique.

  The Severed Lord did not stand alone. Moraithe was surrounded. Bolts of anger and dark blades struck at his back, his arms, and his head, but his shield simply caught every strike, and most of them gave up and focused on the battle. Even their fear attacks wilted in the face of his self-assurance.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Ever since he’d learned of it, Moraithe had trained to control his gratitude, to mold it to his will, to use it as a shield. But there was more to it, so much more. He could shape it. He could bend it.

  With a sharp breath, Moraithe focused, and his gratitude shield extended outward in a tendril as if his soul had sprouted limbs. That tendril of shield parried the Severed’s blade as he made a quick slash under his guard. The Severed’s eyes widened, but he still danced back, just out of range.

  Why use just one shield? One … two … three. Tentacles of glowing light shot from his body, curling into the air like serpents. They were extensions of his will, of his soul. They weren’t merely shields—they were tools, appendages that could respond to the Severed Lord’s attacks as fast as the eyes could track.

  The first slash from the Lord came, and Moraithe’s gratitude blocked it, but he wasn’t finished. One of the tentacles whipped out, meeting the Lord’s other blade, deflecting it with an audible crack. Another tentacle surged forward, intercepting a strike aimed at his side.

  The Lord snarled in frustration, his strikes faster, more vicious, but Moraithe was learning. The gratitude shield, now in multiple forms, surrounded him in a cocoon of light, absorbing and redirecting the blows. His mind raced. He had to be quick. He couldn’t just defend forever—he had to make an opening.

  As the Severed Lord took another wild strike, Moraithe lunged forward, his sword flashing. The tentacles gave him the space he needed—just enough to reach. The Lord’s blade caught the edge of his sword with a crash, but Moraithe’s strike still landed, cutting across the Lord’s chest. It didn’t pierce deep, just a superficial cut, but it drew blood. Moraithe gave the Severed Lord a mystic grin.

  The commander stepped back, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. The battle raged on around them, but here, in this brutal dance, it felt like the world had paused. Moraithe’s chest heaved with exhaustion, sweat dripping down his face. His strength was flagging. His body was growing weary, but his soul—the gratitude that fueled him—was still burning, warm and comforting.

  For every hit Moraithe landed, the Lord barely flinched. The difference in their power was too great. Moraithe couldn’t take him down—he was holding his own, but the commander may as well be invincible, just like him.

  Moraithe couldn’t beat a lord, not as a mere master, but he could keep him occupied, monopolize his focus. It just might be enough of an advantage.

  The sun set and grew dark as they dueled. Moonlight and the light of campfires were all the illumination that remained to see the flash of his opponent's blades as the battle wore on.

  The Severed Lord, realizing the tide of the battle was turning, took a step back, his eyes flicking toward his overwhelmed forces. In a sharp motion, he tried to disengage, his body shifting to turn and leave, but Moraithe was relentless. With a sudden burst of movement, he closed the distance, forcing the Lord to face him again.

  Each time the Lord attempted to break away, Moraithe was there—his sword flashing, harrying his escape. The Severed Lord spun to parry one strike, only to find Moraithe already in position for the next. The Lord’s frustration turned to fury as he was forced to stay engaged, unable to turn his back or seek distance.

  With a savage snarl, he redoubled his efforts, his focus now entirely on Moraithe, knowing there was no escape—only the fight to the bitter end.

  On and on they fought, as Moraithe’s fatigue built, but he couldn’t give up now. He couldn’t unleash a lord on his comrades.

  Behind him, he could sense a shift in the battle. His allies were turning the tide. The Severed forces were beginning to break, their ranks thinning, their morale faltering. Moraithe pushed harder, pressing the attack when he could, forcing the Severed Lord to defend.

  The Lord’s frustration was palpable now. He began to grow more erratic, his strikes more desperate, the fluid grace of his earlier movements slipping into jagged, uncoordinated attacks. Moraithe’s gratitude shield met each one, tentacles of light rebounding his anger, deflecting his rage. The Lord’s strikes grew sloppier, weaker, his focus now split between the fight with Moraithe and the failure of his army.

  Finally, with a sharp, furious roar, the Severed Lord stepped back, looking over his shoulder at the chaos of the battlefield. His eyes narrowed, calculating.

  Moraithe’s breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to press forward. He wanted to strike, to land a decisive blow, but his body was reaching its limit. His gratitude shield flickered around him, his willpower waning with the intensity of the battle.

  The Severed Lord’s gaze shifted back to him, the realization dawning. He was being held. Here, in this duel, Moraithe had kept him away from the fight. And now, it was too late.

  “Enough!” the Lord bellowed, his voice thick with frustration. “This battle is lost!”

  With a final glare, the Severed Lord turned and called a retreat. The remaining forces of the Severed began to flee, their formation breaking apart in a chaotic, disorganized rush.

  Moraithe stood panting, sword in hand, watching as the Lord vanished into the chaos. His gratitude shield flickered weakly one last time before he collapsed to his knees, his body giving out from exhaustion. He had done his part. He had kept the Lord distracted. And now, it was over.

  The cheers of his comrades echoed in his ears, a roaring tide of celebration that felt distant, almost hollow in contrast to the weight settling heavily on Moraithe's chest.

  His back was slapped and his name called with honor. His general, standing at the head of the gathered men, awarded him a silver pin for his heroics. But the praise felt strange, almost undeserved. He had been a barrier, a distraction in a much larger conflict.

  He had held the Severed Lord at bay, yes, but in the end, what had it amounted to? His strike had barely left a mark, and the Lord had escaped with barely a second thought, retreating when it became clear he was not going to break through Moraithe’s defense.

  He wasn’t strong enough. That was the truth that gnawed at him. He had fought bravely, but it had not been enough.

  He looked up at the stars and wondered. How many battles like this had already occurred today, elsewhere in the universe? How many other forces had bled in skirmishes just like this one, only to find themselves pushed back? Too many.

  The Severed were relentless, sweeping through worlds at a pace that even Elithir could not match. One man, even one as powerful as he, could not win a war alone. Moraithe had realized that long ago. No matter how many victories they claimed, no matter how many Severed they cut down, it would never be enough. The Severed kept taking worlds as fast as Elithir could free them.

  His mind turned inward, his thoughts drifting to Elithir, their bulwark.

  He was no Elithir, and he doubted he ever would be. But one thing was clear: this war wasn’t going to be won by the sword. The Severed cared nothing for others and little for their losses. The only thing that would stop them was to make them all feel what that Severed Lord had felt there at the end—the futility of their struggle.

  He considered Elithir’s elite unit, the drackmoor.

  It was time, Moraithe realized, to begin working on something greater. Not just more training, not just the bow or sword. No, he needed something else—a new body, a new form, one that could stand as more than just a soldier. Something that could take him to the next level.

  He could feel the power of gratitude stirring deep within him, but he also knew it was not enough. Not enough for this war. It would take more. And now, he had a direction. A purpose that reached beyond the battlefields, beyond the simple victories and defeats.

  He would begin working on his new body. One that could bear the weight of this war—one that could change the course of everything.