The battlefield was still burning when Draven's breath began to shake.
All around them, the dead lay piled over one another — men of the North and Central both. The world was quiet now, too quiet, except for the sound of steel trembling in his grasp. His sword — his pride — quivered like a frightened thing as blood dripped down its length, falling into the dirt that once held grass, now a field of ruin.
Draven's eyes, red and wild, locked on the man before him. Noah stood still, unmoving even as the smoke curled around them like ghosts. His blazer, still draped over his shoulders, fluttered faintly in the rising wind.
Something inside Draven finally broke.
His jaw clenched, the blade in his hand trembling until it slipped from his grip, striking the ground with a dull clang.
"Damn you…" he whispered, the words quaking as they escaped his throat.
