The attack came at dawn.
We rode hard through the dense forests, our horses' hooves muffled by damp earth. The air smelled of pine and coming rain, but beneath it was something foul—the unmistakable stench of death.
The first arrow whistled past my ear before I even saw them. Hedar's forces were waiting.
"Ambush!" Varlen shouted.
The world exploded into chaos. Steel clashed, men roared, and the ground became a battlefield of blood and dirt. My heart pounded, but my hands did not tremble. My training took over.
A soldier rushed me, sword raised. I dodged left, feeling the heat of his blade slice the air beside me. Without hesitation, I drove my dagger upward—under his ribs, past his armor. He gasped, his body stiffening, then slumped against me.
The warmth of his blood spread across my hand. My first kill.
There was no time to dwell on it. Another enemy charged. I met him head-on, parrying his attack, my movements fluid, instinctive. We fought in a blur of steel and sweat, the sounds of war ringing in my ears.
Somewhere in the madness, I caught sight of Cyrus. Even in the chaos, he moved with precision, cutting through enemies like a storm.
I fought harder.
Varlen's voice rang out over the battlefield. "Hold the line!"
We did. And when the dust settled, the enemy lay broken at our feet.
I stood among the fallen, my body aching, my lungs burning. The weight of my actions settled over me—but it did not crush me.
I wiped the blood from my blade, straightened my shoulders, and turned to face my king.
Cyrus met my gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he nodded.
I had proven myself.
And I was just getting started.