Fight for Her

Ash scorches my face and hands. Each breath is a struggle, the acrid smoke clawing at my lungs as it blankets the valley. Sweat runs in rivers down my face and spine, the heat of the inferno boiling the air around me.

My heartbeat thumps in my chest as the ashen warrior closes in.

The ground trembles beneath my feet as his pace quickens.

I raise the falchion, bracing for the clash of steel. My hands shake as the weapon hums with restrained fury in my grip.

As the warrior approaches, I see its form more clearly. Twisted, charred, and utterly inhuman. I see no eyes peering back at me, only two black pits devoid of life.

His armour doesn’t sit upon him; it protrudes from his flesh, as if forged from his very being. Man and metal, indistinguishable. A human imitation, sculpted of ash and fire.

On the front of his cuirass, he bears an unfamiliar sigil, a hand clutching a flame in its palm.

As he enters striking range, his eyes erupt into blazing embers, locking onto mine. Unyielding. Inescapable.

They burn with single-minded fury.

Kill.

The intensity of its burning eyes draws me in. The dancing blaze forms a hypnotic trance, seizing both mind and body. Panic strikes like a hammer, freezing me under its crushing weight. I try to wrench my gaze away, but the fire swirls and spins like a lantern’s dance in the breeze, luring me deeper.

At the edge of my vision, beyond the inferno in its eyes, I see its arm rise above me, dagger in hand. Then comes the swift downward stroke. Molten steel plunging toward my chest.

Fear grips me, and my muscles tense, bracing for the incoming strike.

But it does not come.

Time seems to stretch thin. A single moment becomes a lifetime. As if Death himself grants me one final heartbeat to reflect — before he pulls me into the embers.

And in that heartbeat, reality begins to twist.

The burning gaze loses its grip. The malice that once threatened to consume me falters, its hold weakening.

Then, I see a flash of light. A vision.

Just for a moment, the flames change. In place of the warrior’s searing eyes, I see hers, green, wavering to blue in the glow of the inferno. The image burns into my mind.

She is watching.

She is waiting.

Energy starts to crackle beneath my skin like lightning. Her image flashes in my mind once more. My heart thumps like thunder at the sight.

And somehow, beneath her gaze, I find the strength to break free.

Time crashes back into me.

No longer shackled by the warrior’s gaze, I tear my eyes away and lock onto the blade descending toward me.

There’s no time to dodge.

No time to block.

But then, the Blade of Mimic pulses in my grip. A warmth rushes up my arm, and before thought can intervene, my body moves.

The falchion rises with the swiftness of wind, turning aside the strike. The warrior doesn’t hesitate. He opens into a flurry of attacks, relentless and precise, but the falchion answers each one, stroke for stroke, as if possessed. It mimics the warrior’s movements, his technique, even the strange rhythm of his fighting style.

For a heartbeat, I become him.

The blade shudders and flashes tear through my mind, memories not my own. A towering city of obsidian and glass, engulfed in chaos. Screams echo as fire rains from above. I see the invaders, immortals clad in spiralling silver, descending from the skies like wraiths. The mountain trembles. A surge of power detonates, obliterating an entire wing of the fortress city.

Then it’s gone.

I stagger back into myself. The falchion still burns in my grip. The warrior presses forward. But now, I understand him. Just enough.

The Blade of Mimic pulses again. A surge of energy rushes through my extremities. Rivers of red flame run up my arms, the inferno’s power now part of me. No pain, only power. The blade hums and ignites the air, causing an explosion of sparks. The surging energy falls to rest on my mind.

The warrior’s strength, abilities, and experience are now mine. I see it all clearly.

The ashen warrior moves to strike again. But now, I know him. His next move. His last. He launches into a predictable thrust. Absetzen: counter with parry. The warrior stumbles, unbalanced from the deflection.

With unshakeable resolve, it comes again, a left-right slash combination. Moulinet: a quick circular flourish of the blade blocks both attacks.

He lunges in desperation with an extended thrust, a quick attack. But it’s too late, I saw it coming before he did. Volte: spinning sidestep to avoid the attack, then pommel strike.

The warrior screeches as its head snaps back. It staggers, catching itself before it falls.

His left cheek is now caved in and cracked like stone. Ash slowly crumbles from his charred wound.

In the lull of battle, I steady myself and refocus. I take a deep breath, ignoring the burning smoke in my lungs. I keep a watchful eye on the warrior’s movements; one opening is all I need.

There. This is for Her.

I rush in, sensing the end. I grip the falchion in both hands and, with every ounce of strength, unleash an overhead strike. I hear it cut through the air like lightning, burning brighter than all the fire and fury surrounding us, like the hidden sun above.

The ashen warrior crosses both daggers, bracing to block.

Perfect, this is it.

The falchion collides with the molten blades with such force that a shock wave erupts between us, flames cascading over the warrior’s form, returning him to the inferno that birthed him.

Our blades lock.

We struggle for ascendancy as the flames consume him.

I press down harder, the falchion’s edge carving into his shoulder. He screeches in pain, and for the first time, I see it.

Fear.

I lock eyes with him once more. The burning malice that once held me frozen now devours him. I stare past the fire in his gaze, and into his soul.

I see him. A father. Chasing his two daughters through daisy fields, laughing, playing.

He kisses his wife, his great love.

He dons his kingdom’s armour. A loyal knight, respected and beloved.

Sadness seeps into me. My blood lust wanes.

You are not my enemy. Just another victim.

I retreat from his memories, leaving only a whisper.

“I saw what you were before the fire.”

Reality snaps back into existence. But this time, the warrior’s eyes go dark. Their flame extinguished.

He releases his daggers and puts up no resistance.

The falchion finishes the strike it started, cutting clean through his shoulder, severing him at the opposite hip.

Molten rock oozes from his mangled torso… then cools, crumbling into ash.

The ashes swirl at my feet, caught in the wind, rising like memories into the smoke-stained sky.

I watch until nothing remains. Not even flame. Only silence.

I lower the falchion. Its fire fades, but my heart still burns.

Then I hear her voice, soft as moonlight on ash.

“Do you remember me?”

My grip tightens. My breath catches.

I say nothing.

For a guardian must never develop a kinship with those he is charged to protect.