Blood, blank faces, agonized screams. The sound of war echoed through the wind on the battlefield. Hundreds. No, thousands of battle-worn men fought, drenched in sweat and thick red blood, trampling the dead that lay on the ground. Thousands of men, and yet... it all came down to the fight happening in the center. The valiant king of Razium was in a sword-to-sword clash with the opposing tyrant of a king from Silier. The two kings faced each other with utter hatred and spite. The king that came out alive would win the war. It all came down to them; and Lord Wymond. He had a trick up his sleeve, or rather, in his hand.
The king of Demere was already exhausted, having refused to rest while his army fought on. He was smeared and spattered with the red of the men he had taken the lives of. Lord Wymond’s pure white blood was on his clothing and skin, crested over his wounds, though he didn’t care.
His thought drowned out as he heard his king thud on the ground, his sword clattering to the side as the tyrant stood over him kicking at the exhausted man at his mercy. Christopher could hear the taunt that spewed from the tyrant's mouth. "You useless king. Razium is damn lucky they haven't murdered themselves already with the useless wretch of a man you are!" He punctuated his sentence with a kick to the chest of King Demere. His king winced and spat, the blood mixed with his saliva.
In a furious roar of anger, Christopher charged the tyrant, his sword thirsting for the tyrant's fresh red blood. But, he never got to them, as a searing white light burst from his sword, causing confusion amongst the fighting armies.
The roar crescendoed as the light crackled with a fury known only to Lord Wymond. A fury meant for the man standing over his king, and that is where it went. The burning light engulfed the man for many a second. The only sound heard was the screech of agony and pain.
The body of the tyrant was becoming more and more unrecognizable by the second, burning away with the fierce anger that pulsed through the young lord. The light stopped and seemed to absorb back into the sword which was held in Lord Wymond’s glove.
The tyrant was only bones and dried, burnt organs now. Not even his blood remained as his pained eyes melted away into a vapor. The had-been king’s lungs and intestines were still flaming as his young slayer dropped to his knees gasping for any breath he could. His eyes never left the empty sockets left behind on the burnt bones.
His vision darkened as he made his descent to the earth. For Razium. For King Demere.
Christopher lay, now at peace as the tyrant’s army retreated. Blood-covered and now exhausted, he slept, his duty accomplished.70Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJZuU7VrLsg