"You know," Lord Farris said as he watched the approaching army, "it's not too late to retreat. If we fall back to Icentall, they'll struggle with the terrain. Might buy us time."
Kell didn't look at him. His eyes remained locked on the distant horizon. "No. We make our stand here. No matter the odds. If the First King is truly watching, now is the time for miracles."
Farris chuckled softly. "Heh. I might be hurting our odds, then."
That drew the hint of a smile from Kell. "No. You're helping. The words of men don't define the will of gods. The Bound twist faith into chains but truth doesn't shackle. It frees."
Farris studied him for a moment, eyebrows raised. His respect grew with every word.
A servant brought over Kell's horse by the reins. He mounted it with practiced ease, then glanced back at Farris as he climbed onto his own.
"I suppose it begins," Kell said.
They rode together to the head of their formation. Seven thousand strong. Too few.
Kell reined in his horse and turned in a slow circle, letting the army see him with his face uncovered, posture steady. He could feel their unease like static in the air.
These men needed more than strategy.
They needed belief.
"Why do we live?" Kell shouted.
Heads turned. The clamor quieted.
"Why do we die?"
"Why do we suffer?"
He let the silence linger, tight, breathless.
"Some say we live for the king," he continued, voice rising. "For bloodlines. For gods long silent."
He shook his head. "But I say no."
Murmurs passed between soldiers.
"We live for the man beside us. The woman who carries water. The child who doesn't yet know what chains feel like."
A shift ran through the ranks. Spines straightened. Eyes hardened.
"We die to buy them one more day in a world that might, just might, turn out better."
He raised his sword, its blade gleaming like truth in the dawn.
"We suffer so our children won't. We bleed not for kings, not for creeds but for each other. For justice. For choice."
Kell swept his gaze across their faces, grizzled veterans, fresh recruits, terrified boys barely old enough to shave.
"This day, we stand not for what was but for what could be. And if we fall, let them say we fell free. Not bound. Not broken. Free."
He turned, voice booming.
"So I ask again, Why do we live?"
"FOR EACH OTHER!" the army thundered.
"Why do we die?"
"FOR TOMORROW!"
"Why do we suffer?"
"SO OTHERS WON'T!"
Kell faced the cresting hill and the banners of the king's army.
"Then stand with me. One last time. Let the realm remember who we were."
The roar that followed rippled like thunder. Gone were the nervous glances. In their place was steel resolve.
Farris rode up beside him. "I'd fight to my last breath after hearing that," he said, casually, but the pride behind the words was real.
Kell's expression sobered. "I only wish it were enough. Galrick is no fool and he has numbers on his side."
They marched out together to meet the enemy in the center field, the sun still low, painting gold over war's grim face.
Then came the arrows.
Galrick loved his archers.
"Shields up!" Farris bellowed as the first volley fell.
The clatter of steel echoed like distant thunder. Screams punctuated the silence, men pierced in the gaps between defense and hope.
Kell turned. A boy, too young and too thin fell to his knees with an arrow through the neck.
Then came the charge.
"He's pushing early," Kell growled, teeth gritted as an arrow glanced off his raised shield. "Smart. Strike before we're in formation."
Farris didn't flinch. "Men, prepare yourselves! Shield wall!"
He might be young, but the man had command in his bones.
"Right flank, high! Prepare to pincer!"
Then the armies collided.
The clash was a crashing wall of sound and violence. Kell swung his sword, cutting down a man in one blow, then parried another. Blood soaked his boots, but he moved like a storm held in human form. Around him, men fought and died in flashes of steel and cries of pain.
On a hill overlooking the carnage, Torik froze.
He saw the chaos. The brutality. Kell fighting in the thick of it, deflecting spears and cutting down soldiers like wheat.
Dama stood beside him. She noticed his hesitation.
"Don't worry about Kell," she said. "He's one of the greatest swordsmen of our time."
Torik shook his head. "But in a world of Bound Arts... he's just a man."
Dama grabbed his shoulders, her grip firm, her eyes fierce.
"Yes. And yet I follow him," she said. "And so does Maribel. And so do you. You know why? Because he's more than a man. He's a symbol. A line in the sand."
Torik looked back at the battle, jaw clenched.
Dama's voice softened. "I nearly died once. You saved me. And I thought maybe I was given a second chance for a reason."
She looked down at the bloodied field.
"That reason is him. I'll protect Kell with my life. No hesitation. No regrets."
Torik swallowed. The fire in her words seared through him.
He looked back at Kell. The man fought like ten, unshaken, surrounded by blades.
Torik's fingers tightened around his dagger.
He wouldn't fail this one. Not like Mox. There could only be so many people worth trusting in life, he had to protect them when he found them.