The ground shook long before the clash of blades began. From his place at the head of the column, King Armin could feel the rhythm of thousands of pale feet pounding against the dust-packed earth, their boots striking in unison as the vast host of Jerries advanced. Their breath came out as mist despite the heat, each exhalation a promise of violence, each heartbeat a tolling drum in the chest of an army born from vengeance. The sun had begun its slow descent, its pale light turning gold as it spread across the horizon, bathing the field in the colour of dying fire.
Armin's armour, scorched by the day's march and splattered already with the grime of travel, caught that light and threw it back in broken glints. He could hear the metallic sigh of a thousand swords being drawn, the sharp sound rolling through the air like wind cutting over steel. The enemy's banners; black and crimson, rose across the opposite ridge, their silhouettes trembling in the glare.
"Hold," Armin murmured, his two hearts beating with uneven power, one in rage, the other in something that felt like grief. He lowered his sword, feeling the hum of the metal through his fingers, the weight of history pressed into its edge. All around him, the ranks stilled. The air grew tight, dense with the smell of iron and the faint tang of sweat and oil. His soldiers waited for the word that would release the storm.
Then the horn sounded.
The roar that followed was like the world splitting open. The two armies surged forward, colliding in a thunderous wave that tore into itself. The sound of the impact was not a single noise but a thousand; the clang of blades, the shriek of metal, the heavy thud of flesh striking armour.
Armin's sight narrowed, the chaos drawing itself into lines and motion, and he charged with the vanguard, his sword cutting through the air as his first strike found the gap beneath an enemy's chin. The blade tore free in a spray of dark blood that painted his pale face.
The field became a storm of movement. The healing flesh of the Jerries knitted small wounds even as they were opened, but the greater strikes still struck true. A knight beside Armin took a blade through his ribs, stumbled, then rose again, coughing blood but fighting on, his long arms striking wide arcs that felled two foes before another blow took him down. The earth was slick beneath their boots; blood mixed with dust, creating a dark, clinging mire that slowed every step.
Armin moved through it like a spectre, his pale eyes wide and wild, his mind a blur of instinct and memory. He could feel the strength building in him, the push of twin hearts feeding his rage, the rush of air through all four lungs. Every motion felt sharper, every sound clearer. He could hear the cracking of joints, the rasp of chainmail scraping across armour, the distant screams blending with the call of his captains.
"Forward!" he bellowed, "Under the sun!"
The cry tore through the battlefield, and those who heard it answered with an earth-shaking chorus. He felt their surge behind him as he cut through another enemy line, the opposition faltering beneath the fury that drove his host. Their weapons were equal, their armour strong, yet something in Armin's army burned hotter, something primal that fed upon pain and grief and turned it into momentum.
As the fighting deepened, Armin caught sight of the enemy king. The rival ruler stood surrounded by his personal guard, his blackened blade flashing as he commanded from atop a mound of bodies.
Armin did not think; he only moved. Cutting through the melee, his sword caught one guard's shoulder, split through the chainmail, then bit into the bone. Another came from his left; he spun, catching the blade on his gauntlet before driving his knee into the other's stomach, hearing the wet crunch of ribs folding under the strike.
The enemy king turned at the sound of Armin's approach, his expression calm beneath his helm. For a moment, the noise around them dulled, replaced by the sharp inhale of wind.
Then they met. The clash of their blades was deafening. Sparks burst from every contact, brief stars against the fading light. Armin pressed forward, his every muscle screaming, his every breath drawing fire into his chest. The other king matched him, blow for blow, their speed impossible for most eyes to follow. Then the rival struck low, his sword slipping beneath Armin's guard, biting deep into the gap in his side. Pain flared like lightning.
He staggered but did not fall. The second heart beat harder, forcing blood through the wound, his healing beginning before the blade even withdrew. The enemy king's eyes widened; too slow to react before Armin's blade came down in a merciless arc that tore across his breastplate, shattering the metal and sending the rival sprawling.
The motion cost Armin more than strength; his vision dimmed at the edges, his breath caught between his lungs, his body screaming for rest.
The rival tried to rise. Armin brought his sword down again. The steel bit through flesh, and the motion ended.
For a long moment, he stood there, his chest heaving, the world around him drowned in ringing silence. The field was broken, bodies strewn across the grass, their pale forms bathed in the crimson of the dying light. His soldiers pressed onward, driving what remained of the enemy back toward the ridge, where smoke and the dust of collapse rose like spirits leaving the earth.
Armin lifted his gaze.
The sun was sinking, half-hidden now behind the far hills, casting its long rays across the battlefield. He stared at it, the burning gold reflected in his bloodstained eyes. Slowly, he raised his hand, the long pale fingers trembling as they reached toward the light that he could never truly touch.
His breath caught, the twin hearts inside his chest beating not in rage but in the deep rhythm of survival and exhaustion. Around him, the surviving knights shouted his name, voices raw but victorious, their armour gleaming with the last fire of the day.
He smiled faintly, though his lips were split and bleeding. The light touched his hand, glimmering across the ridges of his knuckles.
They had not just survived. They had endured.
Under the setting sun, amidst the ruin and the silence that followed, King Armin of the Jerries stood; bathed in the glow of victory.
He knew this victory was born of an unnecessary war, with the kingdom who might not have been related to the assassination. But he did not care. His heart which had burned with fury had finally felt satiated, and with that, he knew, so did the hearts of his men.
With this, he could now focus on the rats hiding within his own kingdom. Even if the true culprit might have been this kingdom which now only existed in the texts of history, or another he had yet to come to blows with, Armin knew the assassination would have only been possible if the rats hiding within his walls supported the enemies in their cause.
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