The morning sun broke weakly through the canopy, casting muted light across the battered camp. A crisp breeze carried the scent of wet earth and blood, a stark reminder of the battle they'd barely survived. Around the dying fire, Ashen tightened the bindings on his cloak, casting a glance toward the small shelter where Lyra rested.
She hadn't stirred much during the night.
The healers had done what they could—binding the wound, cleaning the torn flesh—but the truth was plain: Lyra had lost her right arm below the elbow.
And yet, she had survived.
Ashen exhaled slowly, steadying the storm inside him. Guilt gnawed at him, sharpened by helplessness. He had sworn to protect her, and in the moment it mattered most, he had been too slow.
Footsteps approached—light, deliberate.
It was Riven, one of the older scouts. "She's awake," he said simply, nodding toward the tent. "Been asking for you."
Ashen didn't hesitate. He pushed into the shelter, the heavy canvas flap rustling aside.
Inside, Lyra lay propped up against a pile of cloaks, her skin pale but her eyes sharp with stubborn life. A crude splint and cloth dressing wrapped her injury. She looked up as he entered, and for a moment, neither spoke.
Then she smiled—a small, tired thing, but real.
"About time you got in here, flame-boy."
Ashen forced a smile back, crossing the room and kneeling beside her. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Good," she said, voice raspy. "Keeps you sharp."
He laughed softly, but the sound quickly faded. His gaze dropped to her bandaged arm, and he swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
"I'm sorry, Lyra," he said quietly. "I should have—"
"No," she cut him off, her tone surprisingly firm. "You saved me. If you hadn't been there..." Her voice caught, but she pushed through it. "I'm alive because of you."
Ashen shook his head, the words clenching painfully in his chest. "Not alive enough," he said. "You lost—"
"I lost a piece," Lyra interrupted again, her voice hardening. "Not the whole. I'm still here. I'm still me. And you..." She reached out with her remaining hand, lightly gripping his wrist. "You being here—fighting, surviving—that means more to me than anything I lost."
Ashen froze, feeling the heat of her touch even through his gloves. Their eyes locked, and for a heartbeat, the world outside—the trees, the ruined shrine, the wars yet to come—fell away.
It was just the two of them.
Survivors. Fighters.
Tied together by wounds deeper than any blade could leave.
"You stubborn woman," he muttered, but the words came with a grin.
"You love it," she shot back, smirking through her exhaustion.
Maybe he did.
He shifted closer without thinking, until their foreheads nearly touched. Her breath mingled with his, warm and real, grounding him in a way nothing else could. Ashen could see every tiny detail—the faint freckles across her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw, the fierce glint in her still-bright eyes.
He could kiss her right now.
The thought burned through him like a wildfire.
Lyra seemed to lean in too, her cheeks flushing faintly despite the pallor of pain. Their noses brushed—and just as Ashen tilted his head—
A howl split the air outside the camp.
Ashen jerked back instinctively, muscles coiled. Lyra's eyes sharpened immediately, survival instincts flaring to life. He helped her sit upright as shouts echoed beyond the shelter walls.
"That's not just a beast," Ashen muttered, grabbing his sword. "That's something worse."
Lyra grimaced but forced herself up, wobbling slightly. "Go," she hissed. "I'll be fine."
Ashen hesitated for half a breath, then nodded. He slipped out into the daylight, feeling the shift in the air. The atmosphere was electric with tension, thick enough to taste.
Scouts were running toward the east edge of camp, weapons drawn. Ashen caught sight of smoke curling up beyond the trees—distant but spreading fast.
A figure materialized out of the mist—dark armor, blackened steel glinting red where the sun caught it. A helm shaped like a wolf's skull hid the stranger's face, but Ashen didn't need to see it to know.
It was another of the Void's chosen.
And he wasn't alone.
Dozens of twisted figures emerged behind him—half-human, half-corruption. Chimeras. Horrors born from void-twisted mana.
Ashen's jaw tightened.
Not today.
Not after everything they had lost already.
He drew Emberfang from his back, the blade roaring to life in his grip. The others rallied around him—scouts, warriors, mages. Survivors.
The black-armored figure pointed a jagged blade at Ashen, and though no words were spoken, the challenge was clear.
Ashen took a single step forward, feeling his aura flare around him. Emberfang responded, its fire matching the rhythm of his heartbeat.
"You picked the wrong day," Ashen growled. "You picked the wrong enemy."
The first clash came hard and fast.
Ashen leapt into the fray, his blade leaving trails of searing light through the mist. His aura expanded like a second skin, boiling the air, forcing back the corrupted. Each strike was swift, brutal—no wasted movement.
Enemies fell in arcs of flame and steel.
Behind him, the warriors of their camp surged forward, emboldened by his presence, turning a desperate defense into an organized counterattack.
But the Void-chosen was different.
He met Ashen blow for blow, his own blade humming with dark energy. Sparks showered around them as steel slammed against steel.
"You are not worthy!" the Void-chosen snarled, voice distorted, wrong. "You cannot stop the tide!"
Ashen's eyes narrowed, the fire in his veins burning hotter. "I don't need to stop it," he said, voice low and lethal. "I just need to burn you down."
He pressed the assault, driving the dark knight back step by step. The ground beneath them cracked from the force of their strikes, fire and void energy splintering through the battlefield like a storm.
The enemy lunged, aiming for Ashen's heart—but he twisted aside, countering with a savage blow to the side. His aura burst outward, a wave of blistering heat that melted the very earth.
The Void-chosen stumbled.
Ashen saw his opening.
He struck with every ounce of mana he could muster, his blade a comet of searing fire. The strike carved through the enemy's armor, splitting blackened steel and biting into corrupted flesh.
The Void-chosen howled in agony, collapsing to his knees.
Ashen stood over him, Emberfang poised for the killing blow. "Go back to the void," he whispered—and drove the blade home.
The corrupted knight let out a final, shuddering gasp before disintegrating into smoke and ash.
Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Ashen lowered his sword, chest heaving.
They had won.
For now.
Behind him, Lyra limped into view, leaning heavily on a crutch fashioned from a broken spear shaft. She met his gaze—and despite everything, she smiled.
Ashen sheathed his sword and strode toward her, feeling the embers of their interrupted moment still burning hot between them.
Tomorrow, they would fight again.
Tomorrow, the war would rage anew.
But today, they had survived.
And they had each other.