The battle unfolded like a nightmare, chaotic and unrelenting. The Southrons poured over the river under a shroud of early morning mist, their cries sharp as knives cutting through the chill of dawn. The mist hung heavy and thick, clinging to the earth like a suffocating veil, swallowing shapes and shadows until the battlefield was little more than flashes of movement and the raw, brutal sounds of war. The ground churned beneath boots and hooves, a treacherous mire of mud and blood; each step dragged soldiers deeper into the earth’s greedy grasp.

The air was thick with the discordant symphony of battle: the clash of steel on steel, the sharp hiss of arrows slicing through the air, and the guttural screams of the wounded and dying. Smoke from unseen fires coiled through the fog, acrid and biting, stinging eyes and searing lungs. The noise was relentless, a tide that ebbed and surged, drowning thought and leaving only the instinct to survive.

Ungoránë moved through the chaos like a shadow, his axe a constant in his grip. The haft was rough and familiar beneath his fingers, the leather worn smooth by use. It anchored him, a steady weight in a world gone mad. The blade rose and fell with cold precision; each strike was deliberate, and each motion was honed by necessity. He didn’t fight with rage; it was too wild and reckless. Instead, he fought with focus and purpose: every swing of his axe aimed not just to kill but also to protect.

His eyes darted through the haze, searching, always searching. Gamil came into view first, shield raised high, his broad frame braced against the onslaught of two Southron spearmen. The cracks in his shield ran deep, spidering with every blow, the wood groaning under the strain. Sweat streaked through the grime on his face, and his teeth were bared in a grimace of effort. He held fast, but Ungoránë could see the toll it was taking.

Further back, Azrak stumbled, his sword heavy in hands that shook with exhaustion. His movements were slower now, his footing unsteady in the slick, clinging mud. Desperation was etched into his features, a mask of determination stretched thin over the raw terror that threatened to spill through.

And Thordur—Thordur was barely more than a shadow in the distance, his bowstring a faint flicker of motion. The soft twang of arrows being loosed cut through the cacophony like a whisper of death, precise and unerring. He moved with purpose; each step was calculated, and every arrow served as a lifeline.

They aren’t just comrades, Ungoránë thought as his axe cleaved into the shoulder of a charging Southron, the blade biting deep before wrenching free. They’re my brothers. My responsibility. My burden to bear.

The thought was a weight he carried as surely as his weapon, pressing down with a familiar, aching heaviness. He couldn’t lose another—not after the last time, not again. The faces of the fallen haunted the edges of his vision, ghosting through the mist with eyes that blamed and mouths that screamed. He clenched his jaw, forcing the memories down and burying them beneath the raw, immediate need to keep moving.

But nothing was steady for long.

It happened fast. Too fast.

The Southron surged from the melee like a storm given flesh, his scimitar raised high, its edge catching a fleeting glimmer of pale morning light. For an instant, Ungoránë’s world narrowed to that single arc of steel, the way it whistled through the air with intent, slicing through the clamor of the battlefield. His body moved on instinct, twisting to the side, and his boots skidded in the mud. The blade passed close enough to graze the edge of his cloak, but he was already bringing his axe around, the motion sharp and brutal.

The blade bit deep, carving through the Southron’s ribs with a sickening crunch that reverberated up Ungoránë’s arms. The man let out a guttural cry, wet and raw, before collapsing into the muck, his scimitar falling limply from lifeless fingers. Ungoránë planted his foot against the body, ready to wrench his weapon free, but the slickness of blood and the pull of flesh held it firm.

No time.

The next Southron barreled toward him, his curved blade a flash of motion, quick and deadly. Ungoránë’s grip tightened on the haft of his axe, and he raised it just in time to block the strike. Steel clashed with a jarring impact, the sound sharp and brutal against the symphony of war around them. The blow ripped through his arms, the sheer force driving the weapon from his hands. Ungoránë’s axe spun through the air, glinting once before disappearing into the mud, half-buried and utterly out of reach.

The Southron pressed forward, his advantage clear, his movements relentless. The spear in his hands darted toward Ungoránë’s chest, a flash of iron aimed with deadly precision. Time slowed in the way it often did in moments like this—clarity sharpening the edges of panic. Ungoránë twisted again, the motion raw and desperate, his boots digging into the treacherous ground. The spear’s blade grazed past him, close enough to slice through the edge of his mail and nick the flesh beneath.

He lunged before the Southron could recover, his hand darting forward to catch the spear just below the blade. The wood was rough against his palm, the grain biting into his skin as he yanked hard. The Southron stumbled, his grip faltering as Ungoránë wrenched the weapon free with a savage snarl. Without hesitation, he spun the spear around in a single, fluid motion, the shaft cutting through the air with a faint whistle.

The point drove into the Southron’s chest with brutal efficiency, the weight of the strike slamming him backward. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth working soundlessly as he crumpled into the mud, the spear still buried in his chest.

Ungoránë stood over the body, his breath coming in hard, uneven bursts. His chest heaved with exertion, every inhalation carrying the acrid sting of blood and smoke. His arms ached, the lingering tremor of the fight vibrating through his muscles, and his heart thundered in his chest like a war drum.

The spear felt wrong in his hands—too light, too foreign. The balance was all wrong; the weight was unfamiliar, lacking the heft and solidity of his axe. It was a tool made for precision and reach, not the raw, crushing power he had wielded earlier. It felt like wearing someone else’s boots: serviceable yet alien. However, there was no time for preference or comfort. It would have to suffice.

Ungoránë adjusted his grip on the shaft, his fingers tightening as he scanned the battlefield. Shapes moved in and out of the mist, vague and indistinct, while the cacophony of war surged around him like a living thing. Somewhere nearby, another Southron screamed in challenge, the sound tearing through the fog like a hunter calling its prey.

Ungoránë exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. The weight of survival pressed against his shoulders, heavy and relentless. The spear might not feel like his, but it was enough. It had to be enough.

For now.

The spear darted and thrust through the melee, its lighter weight lending itself to quicker, more fluid motions than Ungoránë was accustomed to. It lacked the satisfying heft of his axe, the way that weapon could cleave through armor and bone alike with brutal finality. Yet, in its own way, the spear became an extension of him. He moved with it, weaving through the chaos, each thrust deliberate and sharp. For a time, it felt almost natural, a new rhythm taking shape amid the cacophony of war.

But nothing in battle ever lasts.

The spear struck the unyielding steel of a Southron’s shield. The impact rang out, sharp and jarring, sending a shock up Ungoránë’s arms. A heartbeat later, the shaft splintered with a sickening crack, fragments of wood falling away like shattered bone. He stumbled back, clutching the broken remnants, now little more than a jagged stick.

Before he could react, another Southron surged toward him, a curved blade glinting in the dim light as it arced through the air. There was no time for strategy, no space for second-guessing.

Ungoránë hurled the broken shaft with every ounce of strength he had, his arm snapping forward like a bow releasing its string. The jagged end struck the charging man in the chest—not deeply, but with enough force to stagger him. The Southron stumbled, momentarily losing his balance and delaying his attack.

Ungoránë’s eyes darted across the battlefield, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The air was thick with the iron tang of blood and the acrid scent of charred stone and ash. Shapes moved in and out of the mist, indistinct and chaotic, their cries distant and distorted—like echoes in a dream. He needed a weapon. Something. Anything.

Time seemed to stretch. The clash of steel and the thrum of arrows faded to a dull hum at the edge of his senses. His vision narrowed, and he scanned the ground as if the earth itself might surrender what he sought. And then, he saw it.

A Gondorian soldier lay crumpled a few feet away, his armor darkened with mud and blood. One arm jutted at an unnatural angle, his body half-submerged in the churned muck of the battlefield. His face was obscured by grime and the angle of his fall, but the outline of his form spoke of stillness. Finality. Beside him, barely visible beneath a coating of dirt, a sword caught the faintest glint of light. Its blade was nicked and battered but still whole. Serviceable.

The world around Ungoránë dissolved. Everything—shouts, movement, the oppressive weight of danger—faded into a singular, sharp focus. His chest tightened, his breath catching as he stared at the fallen soldier. He didn’t know the man’s name. He wasn’t from their squad; his face was unfamiliar. Yet, he was a brother nonetheless: a Gondorian, one of their own.

Something in Ungoránë hesitated, a small crack in the armor of instinct and urgency. It felt wrong, this act of taking. The sword was not his; it had belonged to someone who wielded it with purpose, someone who had fought and fallen—a life extinguished too soon. For a heartbeat, Ungoránë felt rooted to the ground, as if tethered by the weight of an unspoken promise.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, the words a breath lost to the storm of battle. His voice was raw, heavy with guilt that had no place here but lingered nonetheless, as persistent as the ache in his chest.

He dropped to one knee in the muck, his fingers curling around the hilt of the sword. The leather was slick with grime, its texture worn smooth by hands that had gripped it before him. It felt heavier than the spear had been; the balance was unfamiliar but not unwelcome. A tool of survival, yes, but more than that—a relic of someone’s life. Ungoránë’s grip tightened, testing the weight, and in that moment, something inside him settled. This wasn’t his weapon. It never would be. But for now, it was his to carry.

Rising, Ungoránë turned toward the fray, the sword held firmly in his grasp. The borrowed blade gleamed faintly, battered but unyielding. He thought of the soldier lying still in the mud, his life spent, his purpose unfulfilled. A single thought anchored Ungoránë amidst the chaos: I’ll make it count. For you. For all of us.

The battlefield surged around him again, the roar of war swallowing his thoughts as he tightened his grip and stepped forward. Ungoránë surged ahead, the sword moving in sharp, deliberate arcs. It was not a part of him—not yet—but it didn’t need to be. For now, it was enough.

The Southron came at him again, his blade slicing through the air in a wild, arcing strike. The motion was reckless, raw with desperation, but no less deadly for that. Ungoránë stepped into the attack, his boots sinking into the mud with a sickening squelch. He raised the borrowed sword just in time; the impact of steel meeting steel reverberated up his arm like a lightning strike. His grip tightened against the jarring blow, and every muscle in his body tensed to absorb the force.

The Southron pushed harder, his strength bearing down on Ungoránë like a wave. But Ungoránë held firm. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he broke the pressure and turned the blade aside, creating a fleeting opening. He moved without hesitation; the tip of his sword found the man’s gut with a swift, brutal thrust. The Southron let out a guttural cry, his body collapsing into the muck as Ungoránë wrenched the blade free; the motion was quick and efficient.

The borrowed sword felt strange in his hands, its balance foreign, almost alien. But a sword was anything but foreign to him. It still lacked the satisfying heft of his axe, the crushing finality of its cleave. This weapon was lighter and faster, but with that speed came a subtlety he needed to readjust to. At first, his movements were halting and awkward, as though the sword resisted his attempts to command it. But Ungoránë adapted quickly. He had to. The battlefield offered no hesitation and no time for trial and error. Each swing gained confidence, and each parry was a little sharper as he found the rhythm of this unfamiliar sword.

His eyes swept the battlefield, scanning through the chaos for his squad. Shapes moved in the mist, indistinct and blurred by the haze of smoke and blood. Then, he saw Gamil.

The broad-shouldered man was pinned against a crumbling wall, his shield raised high but barely holding. Two Southron attackers bore down on him with relentless ferocity, their curved blades hammering against the splintering wood. Gamil’s teeth were bared in a snarl of effort, his knees buckling under the force of each blow. His shield wouldn’t hold much longer, and his sword arm hung low, too slow to counter.

Ungoránë didn’t think; he moved.

Mud sucked at his boots as he charged, the borrowed sword trailing slightly behind him, its edge gleaming faintly in the dim light. The first Southron didn’t see him coming. Ungoránë’s blade sank deep into the man’s back, the force of the strike driving the Southron forward before he crumpled against the wall. The second attacker turned, his face twisting in shock, but it was too late. Ungoránë stepped in close, his movements swift and deliberate. He batted the man’s weapon aside with a sharp twist of the sword, the clatter of steel falling to the ground, punctuating the moment.

“Get up!” Ungoránë barked, his voice cutting through the noise like the snap of a whip.

He grabbed Gamil’s arm, hauling him to his feet with a strength that belied his exhaustion. For a moment, their eyes met. Gamil’s were bloodshot, rimmed with sweat and desperation, but they carried something else, too: gratitude.

Gamil nodded, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “I thought that was it,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

“Not yet,” Ungoránë said, his tone hard but steady. He released Gamil’s arm and turned back toward the fray, his sword already poised. “Stay close.”

The two men moved forward together, their steps quick but purposeful, cutting through the chaos side by side. Gamil’s shield still hung in pieces on his arm, but he held it high, using it to block the wild swings of the remaining attackers. Ungoránë’s blade flashed in the dull light, sharp and efficient; each strike was a precise response to the storm of violence around them.

The rhythm of the sword came easier now, its foreign weight no longer a hindrance but a tool. It wasn’t his axe, and it never would be, but in this moment, it didn’t need to be. It was enough. Together, they carved a path through the melee, the battlefield narrowing to the space they claimed with each step, each strike.

For a moment, Ungoránë allowed himself the faintest glimmer of hope. Not for victory, but for survival. For his brothers.

The battlefield grew quiet, though the silence was not peace but an aftermath, heavy and oppressive. The Southrons had retreated into the shadowed trees, their war cries fading into the distance like a storm moving on. What they left behind was grim—a twisted tapestry of mud and blood, littered with the bodies of the fallen. Some lay crumpled where they had fallen mid-charge, their weapons still clutched in death’s grip. Others sprawled awkwardly, their faces turned to the sky in frozen expressions of surprise or terror. The air hung thick with the coppery tang of blood and the acrid bite of smoke, the stench clinging to everything like a second skin.

The squad gathered near the shattered remains of a statue, its once-proud figure now little more than a pile of rubble rising from the muck. Their faces were pale, streaked with dirt and exhaustion, and their movements were sluggish as though the weight of the battle clung to them as much as the mud on their boots. No one spoke at first; the silence was broken only by the rasp of labored breathing and the distant cries of the wounded.

Ungoránë stood apart, his shoulders hunched against the fading light. In his hand, the borrowed sword hung loosely. Its blade was dull and chipped, streaked with the remnants of its brutal work. He turned it over slowly, his fingers brushing against the nicked edges. The hilt felt worn smooth where another man’s hands had held it. Its weight felt strange, neither unwelcome nor familiar; it was a tool that had done what it needed to do, but nothing more.

The sound of approaching boots drew his attention, and he looked up to see Thordur making his way over, his bow slung casually over one shoulder. The man’s steps were deliberate yet unhurried, and his sharp eyes flicked over Ungoránë before settling on the sword. A faint grin tugged at his lips—the kind that always seemed to hold a trace of mischief, even in moments like this.

“That’s new,” Thordur said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken.

“The axe is gone,” Ungoránë replied simply, his voice low and rough. He didn’t meet Thordur’s gaze; his attention dropped back to the sword.

“And the spear?”

“Broken,” Ungoránë said, his tone flat and unembellished.

Thordur chuckled softly, shaking his head as though Ungoránë’s plight were somehow both predictable and endlessly amusing. “So now you’re a swordsman. Again.”

Ungoránë didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tightened on the hilt of the sword, his eyes lingering on its blade. It still felt foreign in his hands, the balance off and the weight different from the tools he knew. And yet, it had worked. It had served. That, at least, was something.

“You fought well today,” Thordur said after a moment, his voice quieter and carrying none of the teasing edge it had before. “The squad noticed.”

“They did?” Ungoránë’s voice was skeptical, but the faint lift of his brow betrayed a flicker of surprise.

Thordur nodded. “Gamil said you saved his life. Azrak, too. Even Hadron looked impressed—and you know how rare that is.”

A faint huff escaped Ungoránë, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “It’s not about that,” he said, shaking his head.

Thordur tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady. “Then what’s it about?” he asked, his voice softer now, his usual levity replaced by something closer to curiosity—or perhaps understanding.

Ungoránë hesitated; the question cut deeper than he’d expected. His thoughts turned unbidden to the boy’s face, the fear etched there, and to the soldier whose sword he now held—the lifeless weight of his sacrifice hanging over the battlefield. He glanced toward the squad, their weary forms silhouetted against the pale remnants of the day’s light. His brothers were still alive. Still here.

“It’s about keeping them alive,” he said finally, his words low, almost a whisper, yet steady. “For as long as I can.”

Thordur’s grin softened into something genuine, free of his usual playfulness. There was warmth in it and a flicker of something close to pride. “You’ve come a long way, little brother,” he said, his tone carrying an easy familiarity that felt like an anchor in the shifting tide of the moment.

Ungoránë met his gaze; his own expression was unreadable, except for the faint furrow of his brow. The borrowed sword hung heavily at his side, a reminder of the weight still to carry. The faint glow of the firelight caught in both their eyes, providing a fragile warmth against the encroaching cold.

“Not far enough,” Ungoránë said at last, his voice quiet but firm. “Not yet.”